14: My Darling Asleep
The wind whispered through the trees, ruffling the surface of the swimming pool, rising and falling like a soft melody. Eric touched the cool metal of the flute to his lips, smiling to himself. It is like a song, a little dancing air. Very Irish, come to think of it . . .
But although he waited, fingers poised, no melody came to him; only a vague yearning and a sense of indefinable loss. He took the flute away from his lips, and moved his fingers restlessly and soundlessly over the flute keys as he looked out over the garden and the crystalline water of the pool.
He sat down on a marble bench near the water's edge, with the leafy fronds of a palm tree shading him from the bright Southern California sun. To his side was the sprawling expanse of Ria's house—No, her mansion, definitely a mansion. I've never seen a place like this before. It just proves what Ria says is true, that we can accomplish so much with our magic, working together—nothing we can't do—
But the silent flute mocked that bold statement.
So why can't I think of any new tunes? It's like there's an emptiness inside me where all the melodies used to be. I haven't been able to write a new song in days.
Eric sat up suddenly.
Days?
How long have I been here, anyhow?
He set the flute down in his lap, trying to figure it out. I arrived here last night—no, it was two nights ago, last night we went to Maxwell's for dinner. Or was it three nights ago? It's hard to remember.
The more he tried to remember the signposts of the passing days, the more they eluded him. I haven't really been doing much of anything, just listening to her CD collection on that fantastic stereo upstairs, exploring the library, and—and sleeping. I don't think we've gone to, uh, sleep, anytime before 5:00 AM. for the last few nights. He blushed, just thinking about it. Ria, she's—she's really—quite amazing that way. I wonder how she manages to get through the day without falling asleep at her office? I know I couldn't live on the amount of sleep she's getting. Two hours a night? Three? Forget it. I usually need at least seven—
An inexplicable chill crept down the back of his neck. That's funny; now that I think about it, I seem to be sleeping more than I usually do. And still feeling tired all the time. Shit, you'd think with all the napping I've been doing, I wouldn't be feeling anything but wired.
Hell, that doesn't matter. What matters is that tune I wanted to play, the one that keeps slipping away from me. Maybe if I just play something I know, rather than something of my own, it'll come to me by itself.
He brought the flute to his lips again, took a breath, and began to play the old Irish air, "Come to the Hills." He stopped after several bars, and looked down at the flute in consternation.
What in the hell is going on here? I sound awful It's just . . . notes. Nothing special. Like there's no life to it, no magic. Dead.
I've never sounded like this before in my life . . . Something more subtle than a recognizable sound distracted him. Eric glanced up, to see the sliding glass door open quietly. Ria stepped out into the garden, wearing a dark blue dress and carrying her high-heeled shoes in her hand.
She glided towards him. "Hi, handsome," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "I couldn't bear the thought of you here all by yourself, so I decided to come home for an hour or so. Want to do something interesting for lunch?"
"What did you have in mind?" he asked, standing up.
She gave him a wicked look. Eric laughed, and pulled her into his arms for a lingering kiss, flute and music totally forgotten.
Ria touched her fingertip to his lips. "Now, now. Behave yourself, love, I have to be back at the office for a one o'clock meeting. Otherwise, I know exactly how I'd like to spend the afternoon."
"Better be careful, beautiful," he murmured against her faintly-scented blond hair, kissing her beneath her right ear. "Or you'll wear me out.''
She pulled away from him suddenly. "Don't say that, Eric."
Say what? Why is she looking at me like that?
Ria took his hand in hers, her expression changing so quickly he couldn't be sure he'd seen what he thought he'd seen. "I was thinking of something else. My father is inside the house. I wanted to know if you'll join us for lunch or not."
"Hey, why not?" He picked up the flute lying on the marble bench. "Let's do lunch with Daddy."
Ria watched her father with veiled suspicion, as Perenor speared a piece of pineapple with his fork, and slowly raised it to his lips. His eyes never left Eric, who was busily sawing the last of the meat off a chicken thigh.
"Delicious, Ria," the older man said, coolly. "I always knew you were talented—a brilliant businesswoman, a gifted Adept; it seems you make an excellent pineapple chicken as well. What more could a man ask for in a daughter?"
I'm sure you could think of something, Father dear. Like a daughter who wouldn't prefer to see her pet Bard carving out your tripes instead of a piece of chicken? "I'm glad you approve, Father. You know how much I enjoy having you visit here."
Eric glanced up, as if hearing something other than the spoken conversation, then smiled hesitantly. "I like the chicken too, Ria. I didn't know you could cook this well." She smiled back at him, the adoring look in his dark eyes warming her even from across the table. "Thank you, love."
He bit hungrily into a piece of chicken. "Though I can't figure out when you had the time to cook this. I mean, you've been at the office all day, and I know you didn't do this last night—"
"Don't worry about that, Eric." Ria refilled the wine glasses, then sipped hers thoughtfully. I still haven't spotted the reason why Father wanted to come over today. He said he was curious about Eric, but it has to be something more than that. If he wants something from me, I'm sure he'll tip his hand soon enough—
Her eyes narrowed, as she noted the intent way Perenor scrutinized Eric. I know what he's thinking. But if he so much as touches Eric, I'll Challenge him, right here on the spot. And in my home, I hold the distinct advantage, especially now . . .
Perenor pushed his plate away from him. "Truly excellent, Ria. I should come by here for meals more often."
"That would be nice, Father," she replied lightly. Next time, maybe I'll serve some steak with amanita mushroom sauce—or roast beef with aconite instead of horseradish.
Eric rose and began gathering several dishes in his hands. "I'll just run these into the kitchen—"
She gestured for him to sit down again. "Oh, Eric, leave it be. The servants will take care of it."
"No, it's all right, I don't mind." He balanced several glasses precariously on a plate, then carefully moved toward the kitchen.
Perenor glanced at her speculatively as Eric disappeared through the doorway. "You're doing quite well with him, Ria. I'm impressed."
She leaned back in her chair, giving him a patently false smile. "Why, thank you, Father. I'm rather pleased with how things are going, myself."
He chuckled. "I am, too. What are your plans now?"
"Now, as in the rest of the afternoon, or the indefinite future?" She drained the last of her wine glass, watching him over the edge of the crystal.
"You know what I mean."
She shrugged. "Business as usual, I suppose. Why do you ask?"
What exactly do you want from me, Father?
"It's just—I was thinking of taking a little vacation, now that everything else is . . . taken care of. A visit to the High Court at Misthold. I was wondering if you and your . . . consort might want to join me."
Curiouser and curiouser. Just what are you planning, Father? "Sounds like it might be fun. We haven't been to Court in years. Is there any particular reason why you want to go now?"
Perenor's eyes were distant, as if looking at something only he could see. "Now that everything is under control here, I thought I might—"
So that's the game you're playing this time, Father! I should've guessed—
"No." Her voice was sharp and icy. "Absolutely not. If you want to do a power play in the High Court, you're doing it without my help, or Eric's. I'm not risking everything I have just so you can amuse yourself."
He stood up angrily. "You don't understand, Ria. It's the only thing that matters to me. You have influence and power over the mortals—that's all very well, but it's meaningless. They're nothing but pawns. It's only winning over those with power that matters."
She firmed her chin stubbornly. "I told you no, Father. I mean it. I helped you with the Faire purchase because there was something for me to gain. I have no interest in the High Court, or my full-blooded elven cousins. You can pursue this on your own, if you're determined to do it. I won't risk myself or Eric."
"It's not your help that I need," Perenor said quietly, but with implicit threat. "Just your pet Bard. I don't need your help, or your permission . . ."
Oh, really?
She called a small amount of Power, and raised a careful shield; not quite a Challenge, but something to let him know she wasn't to be trifled with. "I won't let you use Eric. Not for this, or anything. He's mine." She calmly met his furious gaze, the first hot tendrils of Power writhing around her hands, clenched beneath the table. Push me any further, Father, and we'll see what happens next—
"I found some cookies—" Eric stopped dead in the doorway, a plate of cookies forgotten in his hands, staring at Perenor and his daughter. She registered his presence, then dismissed him, ignoring the Bard for the moment, keeping her senses trained on her father.
There was a moment of tense expectation. Ria's eyes held Perenor's, unwavering, waiting. The instant I sense him drawing Power, I'll strike. He must know that. If he does—
Perenor's lips curved slightly, a tiny smile, and he bowed ironically to his daughter. "Not now, daughter," he said lightly, then walked to Eric and took a cookie from the plate. "We'll have to continue this discussion at a later date, Ria," he added. "I need to take care of some business. May I borrow some tapes from your video library, my dear?"
"Of course, Father," she said. Her eyes never left him as he walked to the stairway. Every day, it seems, we come closer and closer to a final confrontation. But, somehow, we avoid it each time. What is going to happen when we can't avoid it any longer?
I wish I knew what was going on here. Eric set the dirty plates down on the counter and wiped his hands on a nearby dish towel. For father and daughter, those two argue a lot. Not that I blame Ria, her dad is kinda opinionated. I've never felt quite comfortable around him, either. Something just makes me feel—oh, I don't know—like I don't want to be near him any more than I have to—
Something nagged at the edge of his memory. Something . . . important. Something he couldn't quite recapture. Green eyes, like Perenor's—looking up at me with such pain—and blood on my hands, blood on silvery blond hair, on the carpeting—
He dismissed the image. That's ridiculous. Must be from one of Ria's videos. I don't know anybody with, silver-blond hair.
He spent several minutes trying to figure out how to start the dishwasher, then gave it up as hopeless. The servants will take care of it, like Ria said.
Servants? That was odd. There wasn't anyone here in the kitchen. And—I've never see any of them. Not a single person in this house other than Ria and me. But the house is always immaculate, spotless; the gardens well-tended, everything in terrific shape. I wonder if they work late at night or something? Maybe when we're already in bed.
That's just one of so many things that I don't understand—
He wiped the counter clean with a sponge, then turned, hearing a sound behind him.
Perenor stood watching him from the kitchen doorway, several videocassettes held negligently in one hand. The older man smiled. "And how are you doing these days, boy?"
"Just fine," Eric said, his throat strangely dry. "Where's Ria?"
"Oh, she's already on her way back to the office," Perenor replied. "I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes before I leave, too."
"Uh, sure," Eric nodded. What is it about this man that makes me feel like I want to run away, as fast and as far as I can?
Perenor walked several steps closer. "We've never really had a chance to talk, you and I. That's a pity—I'd like to get to know you better."
"Ria—Ria's told me a lot about you." A lot that I wouldn't repeat in polite company. She sure doesn't like you very much, even if you are her father.
"I'm sure she has," Perenor said, his voice sounding amused. His eyes met Eric's, brilliant green. "Now, let's—"
—green eyes, like ice, deep pools of emerald nothingness. Everything fading, disappearing into that void; falling in, consumed, ashes and dying flames.
He was having trouble breathing—seeing—hearing—
And music, a strange warped polyphonic sound, rising up around him. It set claws into him, dragging him in, touching where no one should touch. He could feel it dismembering him, pulling away pieces in its claws, pieces of himself. He was losing himself, falling; feeling everything whirling away into nothingness—
No! Let me go!
Everything being wrenched out of him, everything he cared about, everything he loved—
Eric reacted instinctively, drawing upon a half-forgotten memory.
A clear burst of chord, a strident A major thrown up like a shieldwall, shoving the hungry void away from him; a flash of light and sound, illuminating the shadows.
The warped music shattered into a thousand notes, fatting away into silence.
He leaned against the counter, panting, his heart pounding.
Oh God—oh God, what was that?
He blinked several times, completely disoriented; the room was blurring around him, everything hazy, things melting into each other.
When he could see again, Perenor was standing very close to him, but the elf-lord's eyes were wide with astonishment and disbelief. His hand, with its elegantly manicured fingernails, still rested intimately on Eric's shoulder.
He took a deep breath, then another. "Don't—don't touch me," Eric said unsteadily, shoving Perenor's hand away from him. "Don't touch me."
Perenor stared at him, not speaking. Then he turned, and strode away. A moment later Eric heard the front door slamming shut behind him.
Eric collapsed against the counter, trying not to shake. God, what's happening to me? I feel like everything is falling to pieces around me. Nothing to hold on to, nothing I can understand.
He staggered into the living room, and sank down onto the plush couch. I'm losing it. I'm really losing it. I'm so tired, it's all so crazy. Nothing makes sense anymore.
Eric stretched out, closing his eyes, the velvet of the couch soft against his cheek. It's easier not to try to think, not to worry about anything. Just let everything drift—just fall asleep, and it'll all be gone when I wake up—
—busking in a New York subway, trying to ignore the rancid reek of stale urine from the restroom across the tunnel, looking down at the handful of coins in his flute case. Sag of despair.
No, that s not even enough to pay for another night at the Y, much less a meal and a bunk.
Out of the echoing tunnel, that hateful, unforgettable voice, loud above the dull roar of the crowd.
"Well, if it isn't Loony Banyon—"
Looking up. That face. Those greedy eyes. Chuck Marquand, the second-best flautist at Juilliard. Looking at him, and smiling; a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
"It's been a while, Eric." A laugh; a braying, triumphant laugh. '"You know, you look like hell."
Eyes that raked over his clothing: the dirty jeans, layers of plaid flannel shirts against the cold.
"Poor old Loony. Here. Let me help you out" He reaches into the pocket of his thigh-length leather jacket, fishes out a bill. Drops it in the case. "For old time's sake, Banyon."
I should take that money and stuff it down his arrogant throat.
But it's a twenty, lying there among the dimes and quarters.
He can't reach down to pick it up. He can't move. Instead, he starts playing again, a fast version of a Mozart sonata.
Chuck laughs and walks away.
The notes fly faster and faster, until the music and the subway are one blur, invisible behind the veil of tears, inaudible over the clanging noise of the trains and the laughter of the pedestrians.
Twenty dollars means a place to stay for the night. A hot dinner. A bus ticket that'll get me out of this miserable city.
I should've rammed it past his teeth.
Oh God, what have I turned into?
Choking on sobs, gasping, the flute sliding from his hands, that damned twenty burning a hole in his flute case.
Crying . . .
"Eric? Are you all right?"
He opened his eyes. Ria was standing over him, a concerned frown on her beautiful face. Eric sat up slowly, his head aching.
From clenching my teeth in my sleep, yeah.
"I'm—I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You were having a nightmare, weren't you?"
He nodded hesitantly.
She sat beside him, and touched his shoulder gently. "Talk to me, Eric. Tell me about it."
No. No, you wouldn't understand—
"Yes, I would," she said, very softly, and moved over closer on couch next to him. "Eric, I care about you, a lot. If something or someone has hurt you, I want to know."
She does. She cares, I know that. It's just—I can't talk about that, not to her, not to anybody—
:Eric. Please. Talk to me.:
Okay. Okay. I will.
"It was years ago, Ria." He buried his face in his hands. "Not long after I quit Juilliard. I was busking from city to city, barely making enough to live. I was busking the subway. It was November, and cold. I looked up, and there he was. Chuck Marquand, who was second chair back in the orchestra—standing there in his fancy suit, his leather coat, laughing at me. And then—shit, he'd always hated me, I don't know why—he . . . he gave me—" He felt the tears beginning to trickle through his clenched fingers. "He gave me money, and—God, I've never hated myself so much in all my life—I took it, I needed the money so badly—"
He rubbed his eyes fiercely with his knuckles, looked up at her, and managed a wan smile. "Hell, I can't believe a dream is affecting me like this."
She didn't answer; she only looked at him with those wide blue eyes, bright with tears.
"It was one of the most awful times of my life," he continued, after a long silence. "I was starving, but I wouldn't go back to my parents, and I couldn't get even a McDonald's job. And then Chuck, humiliating me like that—I wanted to die, I just wanted to crawl away and die—"
"I—I know how that feels," Ria said, very quietly. "All those times when I was a child, when we would go to the High Court and my father would talk about me like I wasn't even there. His half-blooded daughter, not a real elf. The little mongrel. How useful I would be, when I grew into my Power. That was all he cared about, that he'd have a half-human sorceress to use in his little games."
"Ria—"
She's crying. I've never seen her cry before.
As if hearing his thoughts, she dashed away her tears angrily with one hand. "It's all in the past, Eric. You're never going to have to busk on a streetcorner again, ever. And my father—he knows he can't use me now. I won't let him."
"It's not in the past, if it still bothers you," Eric said slowly. "Like that rat, Chuck Marquand. I can't forget him. You can't forget what your father did to you."
When Ria spoke again, her voice was remote, distant. "You know, I used to be scared, when I was a kid, that I'd grow up and be just like him. That I'd enjoy hurting people—" She glanced at him, tears trickling unnoticed down her face. "I don't. I don't like hurting people. But sometimes you don't have any choice—"
"Hey, you've never hurt me," Eric said, carefully brushing the tears from her cheeks, his own tears forgotten. "You've never been anything but wonderful to me, more than I could ever imagine. Even if you do look like a raccoon right now, with all of your makeup dripping down your face."
She hugged him tightly. "Oh Eric. I don't know how I lived before I met you." She smiled, despite the tears. "I'll never hurt you, Eric. I promise, whatever happens, I won't hurt you. I just—I just hope you'll understand someday—why I do what I do. And—and that you'll never leave me."
"I'll won't leave you Ria," he whispered. "I love you."
Eric turned the page; trying to read his novel, but unable to concentrate. It's like I've forgotten something,, and it's nagging at the back of my mind. Something, can't remember what it is—
:Bard! Bard, can you hear me? Eric?:
He looked across the room to where Ria was seated at her desk, poring over a set of contracts, a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses delicately perched on her nose.
"Ria?"
She glanced up and smiled. "Yes, love?"
Eric shook his head, slightly bewildered. "—Uh, it's nothing. Sorry I disturbed you." I could've sworn somebody was talking to me, calling my name—
He opened the book again, and took another slow sip of Scotch from his glass.
Then an image came to his mind: the moon shining clearly down on the lonely hills, the chitter of crickets, the night air cold and crisp in his lungs, with the faintest scent of the ocean. A perfect night for a walk—
A walk—yeah, that would be nice. I love walking through this neighborhood, all the huge houses, fancy cars in the driveways. That's a terrific idea. I should've thought of it earlier.
He set the book down, finishing the last of the Scotch. "Ria, would you like to go for a walk outside?"
"Not tonight. I have to finish these contracts for tomorrow. But you should go out, if you want to."
"Okay." He stood up, stretching slowly. "I'll be back in a bit."
He left the library, and detoured to the bedroom for his jacket before heading downstairs. It'll be nice to get outside. I've been spending too much time indoors, the last couple days.
Eric unlocked the front door, then stopped, just as he was about to step outside.
There's someone out there. I can't see them, but I know it—somebody hiding in the shadows.
Then a figure moved into the pool of light beneath the driveway lights. A smallish young woman with black hair cut very short and punk. She just stood there for a long moment, looking at him.
Like she knows me—
He blinked, then smiled, remembering. Oh, right, that's Beth Kentraine. We used to play gigs together, do shows at Faire, that kind of stuff. I wonder what she's doing here in Bel Air?
And then he saw someone standing next to her, a haggard young man with wild blond hair that curled over his shoulders. That's funny. He looks familiar, too. That cloak he's wearing—I've seen that before, too. Kinda like my boots, in a way.
"Eric—" Beth said. Her voice cracked, "Eric, what's happened to you?"
He just looked at her, unable to understand her. "I don't know what—"
"You don't know?" She walked closer, and he could see the tear-tracks down her cheeks. "We didn't know what happened to you, whether you were alive or dead. You abandoned us, Eric. Why didn't you come back?"
Abandoned her? Say what?
"We were worried about you, Eric," the man said, stepping closer. Eric could see the tips of pointed ears showing through that mop of hair. So he's an elf, like Perenor. Jeez, that's weird—why is Beth Kentraine hanging out with an elf?
"Look," he said, trying to be patient. "Beth, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't even seen you since that last Faire show. And I'm sorry that I missed the gig at the Dive, but I never promised you I'd show up—"
She stared at him, her hands curling into fists.
Whatever shit she's on, I hope I never get talked into trying it!
"Beth, take it easy," he said soothingly. "It's okay. I'm alive, obviously, and I'm doing fine. If that's all you came here to find out, then I think—"
"No Bard—you do not think. You are not thinking at all," the young man said quietly. "You are caught in your own kind of Dreaming, and you went into it willingly."
He glared at the interloper.
Just who in the hell do these two think they are?
"Listen, Beth, it's nice to see you and all, but I'm a busy guy, y'know?" He turned, and glared aggressively at the strange elf. "And you, mister, I don't even know who you are, where do you get off talking to me like that?"
They just stared at him. Like they're seeing a ghost. Or something that isn't real. What's going on here? Who is this guy, anyhow?
"Eric?"
He looked back to see Ria standing in the hallway directly behind him. 'Yeah, Ria?"
"Who're you talking to?" She walked closer, resting her hand on his shoulder.
Then she glanced past him, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
And he heard something—something deep inside his mind. In Ria's voice. :Well, well. Uninvited visitors. I should've guessed—Korendil and the little witch, both here to take Eric away from me. Or did he call you here? Well, that doesn't matter right now—:
Ria raised one clenched fist, her mouth set in a furious line, eyes burning with anger.
Music, a minor descant, starting from absolute silence and building to a thunderous roar in the space of a single heartbeat . . .
The blond elf reacted instantly, grabbing Beth by the wrist. Before Eric could blink, they vanished, both of them, as though they had never been there at all.
What in the—
Eric turned back to Ria, and was startled by the venomous look in her eyes. He fumbled for something to say. "Ria, I don't know what you're thinking, but . . ."
Her voice was icy. "I know exactly what you were doing, Eric. Don't bother lying to me. I should never have trusted you."
"But I didn't—"
"The first time I turn my back, there you are, consorting with my enemies! I should have guessed you would do something like this, you traitorous bastard! Damn you, Eric Banyon!"
She stalked away from him. After a moment, he hurried after her. In the hallway he caught up to her, taking her by the shoulder and turning her towards him. "But Ria, I didn't do anything!"
The look in her eyes stopped him in his tracks.
:Traitor. Deceiver. Snake. I bring you into my life, give you everything you could ever want, and this is how you repay me? I want to throw you to the sharks, drop you out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet, use your guts for clothesline. Nobody plays me for a fool, Eric.:
He backed away from her, into the dining room.
You know, I think she's really mad at me—I'd better do something quick to calm her down—
Before he could speak, the porcelain vase on the table exploded into shards, right before his eyes; closely followed by the table itself, which splintered and burst into silver and red flames.
Maybe it's too late for that—
He backed towards the kitchen, unable to look away from the fury in her eyes, even as the house fire alarm began to wail shrilly.
"Now, Ria, don't do anything hasty . . ."
"Oh, don't worry about that, Eric." She gave him a smile that chilled his blood. "I intend to take my time with this."
Amidst the roar of flames and the noise of the fire alarm, Eric heard a faint melody, gathering strength and speed with every split second—
Oh SHIT!
He dived to the floor, just as the entire contents of the china cabinet assaulted him from above. Dozens of dishes shattered around him, jagged shards drawing blood from his face and hands. Eric rolled to his feet, sliding through the doorway onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen—
—where every appliance was whirring at high speed. Eric didn't stop to look; he continued his home-run slide toward the living room, bouncing down the three steps and landing in a heap on the ornate Persian rug.
Oh God—she's trying to kill me!
He had time for a brief thought—this can't be happening to me—before the rug attacked him.
Erie screamed hoarsely as it wrapped around him. He struggled to free himself, feeling the thick rug pressing tighter and tighter against his face, choking him; then he pulled free and kicked the rug away from him, gasping for breath.
Eric glanced back to see Ria, standing in the doorway. "Was this what you were planning all along?" she hissed. "To worm your way into my confidence, then use everything against me?"
"Ria," he gasped, "I don't—you don't—"
"I'll teach you what happens to people who double-cross me, you bastard!" She slammed her hand down, the sound barely audible above the raging cacophony in the house.
Pain hit Eric like a fist, doubling him over, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to do anything.
Music, disharmonic chords, tearing at me—have to stop it, stop her, break free, get away—
HELP ME!
He reached— and touched something. Something dark. Something deadly. It wanted to come to him—and he opened a door to it.
The pain vanished instantly, as a darkness moved into the shadows of the room, itself a shadow, gliding from nightmare into reality. He took it all in instantly: the sudden stillness, as though the entire world had stopped moving for a moment; the creature, gaining substance and strength with every moment that passed. The ghost-hands reaching toward Ria, and the look of absolute terror in her eyes.
And he realized that he had called this thing—and it wanted Ria.
It's going to—No! Not—not her! Leave her alone!
The creature turned sightless eyes toward Eric, and suddenly he could feel its not-thoughts, inside him, one with his pulse. Hunger and need, hunger and need, and aching emptiness—
No. Not her, and not me. Go away!
He pushed at it, at the thin fabric of chords that was the creature, and felt it unraveling beneath his touch, dissolving into nothingness. When it was gone, he looked up at Ria.
She was still standing in the doorway, clutching onto the door jamb, visibly trembling.
"Ria? Ria, are you okay?"
She shook her head once, not looking at him.
She—she doesn't look like she wants to kill me anymore. That's something, at least.
Eric stood up painfully. His flute case was still on the living room table; he picked it up slowly. He walked past Ria standing silently in the doorway, and out the front door. Outside, the cold air seemed to slap him in the face, a sober awakening.
What now?
I don't have money for a taxi, and I'm sure the buses don't run in this neighborhood.
Eric looked back at the house, wondering if Ria would try to stop him. Plead with him not to leave, maybe. He waited a moment, then sighed.
Not likely, Eric, not after that last bit of fireworks. I think I really scared her.
I sure know that I scared me.
Damn. Helluva way to break up with a lady.
He glanced at the lightless hills around him, and began trudging down the long driveway.
I guess I'm walking home tonight.