You Slay Me

by Katie MacAlister

  "Think they'll come back?" I whispered into Jim's furry ear.

  "Don't do that, it tickles," Jim complained, butting its head against me to rub its ear. I rubbed it, scratching be­hind the ears the way I knew it liked.

  "We have to leave," I said softly, aware from the echoes of other tourists talking and calling to one another that sound in the nonwater tunnels traveled very well.

  "No! 1 figured we'd stay here until they started calling you the' Phantom of the Sewers."

  I socked Jim on the shoulder and hoisted myself out of the well with an audible grunt. "I'm too old for this. I want to go home. Let Drake have the Eye. Screw the world. I just want a hot bath and a nice comfy bed."

  "Selfish, selfish, selfish," Jim said, jumping nimbly out of the well. "This way."

  I turned around. "Oh, now you're an expert on the sewers? What makes you think you know the way out?"

  Jim walked over to a corner and nodded toward a small blue sign that read avenue bosquet. A painted red arrow pointing up was nestled up against a line of metal grips set into the wall. "Oh. I suppose that leads to an exit?"

  "That's the idea."

  A couple of tourists wandered in as I was in the process of dragging Jim up the grips. It couldn't make it on its own, and after I summarily refused its request to carry it up, I ended up more or less giving it a piggyback ride as I dragged us up the vertical path. What the tourists thought, I can only imagine, but I sure hope the little girl with the camera sends me a copy of the picture she took just before I shoved the manhole cover aside and exhaustedly crawled onto the still sun-warmed pavement of Avenue Bosquet.

  "Remind me," I said as I heaved my body out of the path of an oncoming car. I kicked the manhole cover back into place and collapsed on the ground between two parked cars, Jim sitting on the sidewalk watching me as I doubled over, gasping for air, completely mindless of the stares I was receiving from people walking by. "Remind me about this evening if I ever again get the bright idea to go visit a wyvern in his den."

  "Do you think you're likely to be that stupid?" Jim asked, sotto voce.

  I slumped back against the bumper of the car behind me, my eyes closed, too wiped out to move. "You never know, Jim. You just never know."

  15

  The unsettling realization that I had no idea how much of my thoughts Fiat had read before I erected mind barri­ers kept me on tenterhooks until the taxi I'd hailed dropped us off at Ophelia and Perdita's apartment. I wasn't sure if Fiat had been able to tell who was offering me shelter, but I hadn't thought he had—at least, I hoped he hadn't. And since no one was waiting for me outside the door or inside the apartment, I tucked the keys Ophe­lia had given me into my bag and slunk off to the tiled bathroom to wash off the stench of the sewers.

  It was shortly after nine when I emerged from the bathroom in a plume of jasmine-scented steam, sore and scraped from crawling in the well, not to mention drag­ging a huge demon-in-a-Newfoundland-suit up the side of a wall. But at least I was clean.

  I left Ophelia and Perdita a note explaining that I was too tired to make an appearance at G & T that night, and after taking Jim for his evening walkies in a nearby park, crawled into bed and slipped almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  At least it started out dreamless.

  "I am so not doing this," I said as I walked into a pool of light. I had no idea where I was other than there was the faintest sense of a tall, arched ceiling above me and a long narrow space that resembled the inside of a Gothic cathedral, but I knew Drake was somewhere in the shad­ows. I spun around, suddenly aware that I wasn't in the cream-and-lace nightie he had dreamed me into for the last two dreams. This time I was wearing a very tight red-and-black flamenco dress, complete with ruffled sleeves, low-cut bodice exposing a fair portion of my bosom and all of my back, and a slinky, hip-hugging skirt that clung to my thighs before flaring out to open into black and red ruffles. It was a very sexy dress, much more daring and seductive than anything I'd ever worn.

  The tango music seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as Drake sauntered out into the circle of light, clad almost completely in black. The light source above us shown down on his black satin shirt, turning it to liquid ebony as it rippled across his chest and arms. He stopped and held out his hand for me. Without thinking, I did a twirl toward him, clasping his hand and continu­ing to turn until I was flush against him, our hands locked together in the small of my back, the bloodred sash at his waist matching my dress exactly.

  "I don't tango," I said, breathless as I always was in his presence.

  "Now you do." His voice, deep and rich and filled with all sorts of erotic unspoken promises, stroked down my spine with a touch that left me shivering . .. but whether it was with fear or arousal, I was unwilling to admit.

  I twirled away, Drake following me, our bodies com­ing together in a sensual dance that had no choreography other than the need to be near each another. The tango music demanded, we danced; his body asked, mine answered, my legs moving in and out and around his, my foot sliding slowly up his calf in a caress that almost did me in. We moved together, sweeping a sultry, sensual line down the pool of light, my skirt caressing his legs as we danced without words, without even touching, just a breath apart and yet bound tighter by our mutual passion than mere contact alone could promise. I swung around him to the left, he spun to the right, our bodies meeting again, moving off in another direction as the pulse of the music drove us harder. My eyes never left his guttering green gaze as his hands slid around my waist, holding me suspended in a moment so filled with tangled emotions that I couldn't speak; then it passed and we swayed into another sweeping pass through the pool of light, our hearts beating an identical rhythm.

  "Why did you leave me?" Drake asked as he bent me backwards over his arm, his face shadowed. "Why did you run from me?"

  I slid down his thigh, swung my leg through his, and did an amazing little turn that rubbed most of my back against his. He caught my arm, spinning me until my vi­sion blurred, slowing me to stop with my back pressed against his chest, his fingers digging into my hips as he directed us in another pass through the light. "You know the answer to that, Drake. I don't have to defend my ac­tions to you."

  His breath was hot on my neck. Oddly enough, during the whole of our dance, I hadn't felt even a wisp of his fire, but suddenly it consumed me, raging through me until I realized that what I felt wasn't his desire, but his anger. I spun to face him, rubbing my breasts against his satin chest as we danced a line of intricate footwork that would have, had it been real, probably left me with at least one broken ankle.

  "I don't understand you. I've tried, but it's impossible. I don't know what you want from me."

  He spun me outward. I twirled back to him, wrapping his arm around my waist as I turned. "Would the safety of the mortal world be too much to ask?"

  His fire raged through me, setting my soul ablaze. I embraced it, opening my arms to let the fire flow back to him.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Aisling, but whatever game you're playing is a dangerous one. Who is protecting you?"

  I smiled as I did a provocative step around his body, the fingers of one hand trailing just above the slash of red at his waist as I circled him. "I don't have to tell you any­thing. We may have some strange metaphysical tie, and we might have had indulged ourselves in the last dream, but that doesn't mean we are meant to be together, nor do I have to listen to anything you say."

  "You will answer my question," Drake growled, the deep sound thrumming in my blood for a moment before merging with the fire within me, growing hotter until it burned with a white flame.

  I laughed and arched my back when his body got all bossy with mine in time to the music. "This may be your dream, but it doesn't mean I will do anything I don't want to do."

  "We have mated. You want me even now."

  "That doesn't mean we're going to do anything."

  Outrage stiffened him against me. "Are y
ou refusing me?"

  I did a slow shimmy that left us both breathless. "Not refusing outright, just delaying. In fact, I need to be going back to sleep. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow, one that involves making sure that you pay for the crimes you've committed, so you might want to get some rest, too. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

  "Is that a threat?" His eyes were filled with so much emotion, they almost glowed green.

  "A promise," I whispered against his lips.

  The music came to a reluctant stop as I twirled one last twirl around the leg he forced through mine; then I backed away. I wasn't entirely sure that I could break off a dream that he had initiated, but I wasn't about to stay in his little nocturnal fantasy while he conducted an erotic third degree.

  "Good night, Drake. Thank you for the dance. And the slinky dress. Maybe another time we can do the rumba?"

  'This isn't over, Aisling. You're a fool if you think it is."

  You're crazy if you think I didn't notice that not once did he deny doing anything wrong. Part of me wanted to stay and argue it out with him, to try to reason with him, to make him admit what he'd done, and wring a promise from him that he'd turn himself in to the police; the other part was sounding warning bells and counseling me to run like crazy from him.

  Instead I drifted backwards into the shadows, leaving him standing by himself in the light, a mysterious figure in black, his face haunted, his eyes dark with shadows.

  I would not fall in love with a murderer. No matter how much he wrung my heart.

  I woke with that resolution echoing in my head. The clock at the side of the bed showed it was only two in the morning. I beat up the pillow until it was somewhat com­fortable, and I lay awake for a long time thinking over what I had to do. An hour into my contemplation, Perdita crept into the room with a cone of cedar-scented incense and conducted the ritual cleansing by the light of the moon. It was a strangely unsettling experience, one that left me wondering just how right things were in my head that I suspected the two women who were risking their own safety by protecting me.

  "All right, you and I are going to have a talk."

  "Goody gumdrops. I'm slobbering at the thought."

  I pulled out a fresh drool bib that Ophelia had kindly purchased for me the day before, and tied it around Jim's thick neck. We had done a quick walkies—quick because I was nervous about being on the streets where someone might recognize me, and yet hesitant to have either Ophe­lia or Perdita take the demon out for me since they might find out it was a demon—and had our breakfast with the sisters. Ophelia offered to run any of my errands as she was out doing her own, but I couldn't think of anything I needed until after she'd left.

  She also asked that I wait to conduct my demon-summoning ritual until after she returned, so she could watch. I gnashed my teeth a bit at the delay, wanting to get the demon's interrogation done so I could turn the in­formation over to the police as soon as possible, but there wasn't much I could do. She and Perdita were taking a big risk by putting me up; delaying the summoning of Bafamal for a few hours was the least I could do in return.

  "I was being sarcastic rather than literal," Jim said snappishly as I tied on the drool bib.

  I wiped up its moist flews with the dirty bib. "You don't have something caught in your teeth, do you? I heard that tooth problems can make a dog drool exces­sively. Maybe I should take you to a vet?"

  "You could brush my teeth instead. A good owner brushes her dog's teeth. Cecile says Amelie brushes her teeth for her every night. She has a special dog tooth­brush and everything. Some people care for their pets."

  I sat in the puddle of sunlight that was warming the edge of the bed. "Stop trying to distract me. You are a demon, not a pet. I want to talk to you, and I command you to answer my questions. Honestly."

  Jim muttered something under its breath and looked away.

  "What powers does a Guardian have other than taking care of portals and summoning and releasing demons?"

  "Whatever powers she needs."

  "That's no answer," I said with a frown.

  Jim pouted. "It's the truth, and that's what you asked for."

  Why couldn't anyone in this city except Amelie offer information when I asked questions? I sighed and tried again. "Give me a specific list of powers a Guardian has other than the portal and demon stuff."

  "She can draw wards and curses, can conduct mind pushes on mortals, depending on the level of her training, and can recognize Otherworld entities no matter what their disguises."

  'That didn't hurt to much, did it?" I asked as I thought over Jim's list. It muttered that it hurt a lot. "Let's start at the top, ward and curses, what are those?"

  "Wards are magic in symbol form. Most, but not all, are used for protection. Curses are anti-wards, drawn the same, but with the intention of doing an action to some­one else rather than the drawer. Happy now?"

  "Nigh on ecstatic. What's a mind push?"

  Jim sighed a throaty sigh. "Remind me to make my next demon lord someone who knows his job. A mind push is just what it sounds like—you want someone to do something, you give them a little mind push to make them do it."

  "Oh. Something psychiclike? ESP and all that?"

  ''Not the spoon-bending kind. It's just you reaching out with your mind and convincing the other person they really want to do what it is you want them to do. Mind push, get it?"

  "Got it. Kind of. Now this recognizing beasties and such, you mean like demons?"

  Jim nodded and started licking its shoulder.

  I frowned, going back over everyone I'd met since I summoned up Jim. "If that's so common, why is it that both wyverns recognized that you were a demon, and yet Amelie didn't until I told her? And for that matter, Ophe­lia and Perdita don't know what you really are, either."

  "Who said it was common? Only those mortals who have the ability to control the dark powers can recognize beings who originate in the Otherworld. Same goes with those beings themselves, like the dragons."

  "Ah. So Amelie as a healer and O and P as Wiccans can't see you as you really are?"

  "Yes. Are you done with the questions? Because it's past time for my spit bath, and it's going to take me at least half an hour to take care of my package."

  I "Ew, ew, ew!"ed my way out of the room and left him to his grooming. I spent a few minutes making up a list of things I'd need for the demon summoning in be­tween watching Perdita as she puttered around on a good-size balcony. Most of the space was taken up by flower boxes and containers filled with various plants—herbs, she'd told me earlier as she walked by with a watering can.

  "Finished already?" she asked as she came in with a handful of something green and leafy.

  I nodded. "I think I'm going to have to go out. I need a couple of books that I know Amelie has, as well as dead man's ash."

  "You're welcome to check our library," Perdita said as she rubbed a stalk of plant between her hands. "I'm sure I saw some dead man's ash in the workroom."

  "Really?" That was a surprise. I'd thought I read somewhere that dead man's ash was only used in sum­moning ghosts and demons. "Thanks, I'll go look... er... in a few minutes." After Jim was done with its groin washing.

  Perdita set her bruised leaves in a wooden bowl. "Dill," she explained as I watched her crush them with a pestle.

  "Something for lunch?" I asked.

  She frowned. "No, dill is a great protector against demons. I thought that as you were bringing one into the house, I would use it to protect every room but the work­room, just in case."

  "Er..." Dill was demon's bane? I thought briefly of Jim. How on earth was I going to explain my dog's sud­den inability to leave my bedroom? "How exactly does the dill protect you from a demon?"

  "Demons hate it," she answered, still grinding away with the pestle. "They can't stand to be in the same room with it."

  The door to my bedroom, which I'd left cracked so Jim wouldn't have to get the doorknob all slobbery, opened and my
demon on four legs strolled into the room, making a beeline to me as it dropped its leash at my feet.

  I watched closely for a moment, but Jim didn't seem to be disturbed by the dill Perdita was setting around the apartment in little pots. In fact, I doubt if it even noticed. So much for protection.

  "I'll just go see if you have any dead man's ash, then be out of your hair for a little bit."

  Perdita made polite noises about not minding me un­derfoot. I shot Jim a warning look to behave himself, and went back into my sunny bedroom, stopping in front of a glass-fronted bookcase. There were a lot of Wiccan books, a couple of Herbal s, books on magick, books on the origins of witchcraft, and the like. "Nothing I can use," I said to Jim as it followed me back into the room. "Which doesn't surprise me because ... Hmmm."

  "It doesn't surprise you why?" Jim asked, sharking the bed to rub itself along the edge of the mattress. Jim, I had discovered, loved to have its back scratched.

  "Because they don't have anything to do with the dark arts. Is this what I think it is?" I pulled out a tiny volume, about the size of my palm, that had been tucked behind a larger book. "The Steganographia. Well, I'll be."

  "Oh, that. Yeah, I saw that yesterday," Jim said, sound­ing bored as it continued sharking the bed. "I thought you preferred the Liber Juratus. Isn't that what you used to call me?"

  "Yes," I said slowly, flipping through the book. "But it's odd that Wiccans should have a book of this sort."

  "Not if they had anything to do with the Venediger," Jim said, still rubbing itself along the bed. "Think you could get me a brush? I want to look my best if we're going to see Cecile."

  "The Venediger..." I'd almost forgotten that Perdita worked for him. "Of course, if she worked for him, she must have had some skills with the dark powers, don't you think? Hence the Steganographia."

  "What I think is that I need brushing," Jim said point­edly. '

  "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I suppose you do. You're looking a bit ratty." I slid the book back into its spot and make a quick check of the shelving holding the various pots of herbs and such. No dead man's ash.