Unquiet Dreams Read online

  She shivered and curled one paw under her chest. It was that time of the cold season when the Big Ones, not content with their little stars, strung myriad stars of kaleidoscoping colors all over their giant nests. She remembered; after all this was her fourth litter and she was still alive and providing. Always, at the darkest part of the cold time, when the days were so very short, out came the bright stars. And the Big Ones were everywhere! Usually in the dark she was safe from their big feet and their hurled objects. But when the many stars appeared, they swarmed out of their nests just like her own kind did when the sewers flooded in the warmth of the new season. That was the time to have a litter, not now, not when it was so cold and she could hardly find enough to feed herself, let alone sustain those mewling little babies.

  She knew there was good eating in these Big Ones. A few times, not many, surely no more than she could count on her tiny digits, she had eaten their meat. Faces usually, they were the easiest to come by, but a mean portion. Quick to fill a belly, but not succulent, not rich and flavorful, like the parts deep in their flanks. Her mouth watered as she thought of the soft chewy organs that might feed her tonight.

  There! Noise—one of the Big Ones, coming this way, its gait unsteady. Not surprising—they often walked like babies just born when they had that sharp smell of fire about them. All the ones she saw seemed to have that stench. This dead one too. But no time to think about such things, it was getting closer. She hated to leave her food, but there was little she could do against the Big Ones.

  It shambled down the alley, muttering to itself in their odd language of multifarious sounds. More songs than any bird had a right to—how could they understand one another? Her babies, only days old, already knew her cries: hide! food! quiet! What more could these Big Ones need to say?

  The new one approached the body and she slipped down the back side, skittering away into the shadows. The creature bellowed at the fallen one and shook it with its paws. The dead one rolled over limply, one forepaw lying now in the icy puddle. The Big One grunted and touched the eyelids of the other. Standing up, it shook off some of its nesting materials, then reached down to take some from the corpse. With difficulty, swaying from side to side, it fitted the nesting over its forelegs and put its own covering back on. Reaching down once more, it tugged the nesting from the bottom half of the dead one. That was a struggle and it fell over backwards with angry cries. Clambering back up, it continued the battle and finally the nesting came free. It threw the soft covering around its neck and limped back down the alley, muttering still in its sing-song voice.

  She couldn't believe her luck. Its nesting gone, the Big One lay there unprotected as her little babies—and almost as soft. It would not be possible to take a large part, bones were heavy, though she could dream of such bounty. Anyway this was a male creature, and without its nesting the good, dangly bits lay unprotected between its legs. One of those! That would feed her family for some time, when maybe the worst of this cold spell would have passed.

  She set to work at once, gnawing away at one of the sacs. It would take some time to chew it free, but the anticipation of a few warm days made her tired jaws work faster. A full belly was the only heat she could hope for these days, but the cold season would not last forever—

  Her head snapped up. She had been so intent upon her prize she had almost missed it: the Evil One! It was here in the alley, but where? Nervously she glanced around, drops of blood flying from her white whiskers, nose working frantically to local the danger. Her senses cried for flight, but she knew to hold herself in check until she could find the location of the Evil. It came in many forms, but the Evil was always the same.

  There! High on the boxes piled by this creature for a nest. The blood had drawn it, no doubt. Yet the smell of the Big One was enough to make it cautious. The Evil One feared the Big Ones and she had seen enough to realize that the Big Ones were as likely to hurl stones at the Evil One as they were to take them in and feed them. But the Evil One meant death to her kind—always. If one were quick and smart, sometimes that death might be avoided, but the Evil One was quick—oh, so very quick—and that mattered so much more than smart when there was nowhere to hide.

  Did it see her? She wasn't sure. It looked back up the alley, as if in fear of the Big One returning. It was the color of night with eyes like spring grass and a long tail which whipped back and forth in the air. Often the Evil One would play with her kind, pretend not to see them, then pounce—wham! and shake them in its teeth. Even after they were dead, the Evil would continue to play with their bodies, rolling them back and forth between its paws, acting as if they were still alive, before settling at last to chomp the soft belly while making that rumbling sound of happiness. It had happened that way with her own mother, sacrificing herself for the litter. A dim memory now, but it was a well-learned lesson about Evil.

  She slipped down a little more into the space between the Big One's legs. Dangerous, but it was so cold and she stubbornly refused to leave her good meal if the Evil One hadn't seen her because only a few more bites, if she pulled really hard the flesh sac would tear and she would have her prize. Maybe, maybe, she hoped to herself—but then the Evil One turned its head toward her end of the alley, laid back its ears and hissed with hot anger. She felt her mouth go dry and her belly tense with terror. It saw her. She was going to die. She tried to flatten herself between the thighs of the Big One, laying her own ears back like the Evil One and silently licking the salty blood from her whiskers when a shadow fell over her. Rolling her eyes back, she saw what it was and lost all control, a thin trickle of water flowing hot from her hindquarters.

  Another Evil One. This one was shadows, like night and dirt alternating down its coat, ending in rings on its tails. Its eyes blazed like the bright yellow stars and a low rumble rolled from its chest. She just had time to think of her poor babies freezing in the cold of the nest without her before the Evil One sprang. She could hear too that the other Evil jumped as well, a sickening scream accompanying the leap, coming her way.

  But then, inexplicably, crazily, dizzily, the two Evil Ones locked in embrace, screaming, hind paws digging furiously, jaws clamped on one another in murderous hatred. They were attacking each other! How could this be? Yet there they were rolling and yowling in the dirt and debris, each one crying for the other's blood, fur flying around the battle.

  Get out, the mother part of her mind told her sharply, get out with your food before it's too late. With a renewed frenzy she tore into the flesh, pulling with clamped jaws on the delicate flesh, feeling it almost ready to give way, almost—keeping her eyes on the struggling Evil in case they should deem her worthy of notice—a little more, a little more, and yes! It was free.

  Triumphant, she clamped the reward firmly between her teeth, turned her back on the freakish combat behind her and ran drunkenly for the wall, the hole and safety. Darting into the hole, she dropped her juicy meal for a moment and looked toward the Evil Ones. Still they wailed and fought. Fresh blood filled the air. She stared, amazed, another lesson learned, then took up her tasty burden again, running down the corridors and around the darkened corners. Her children would feed well, grow strong. And she would sleep comfortably on her full belly and ponder the way to turn Evil against Evil.

  Spider

  She seemed so small at the big table, a drink with the palest hint of green beaded with sweat next to the flickering candle. His heart swelled. He knew he wouldn't tell her—at least not that night—that the emotion flooding his ventricles was protectiveness. She was so self-sufficient, what with her little candy shop and her scrupulously kept accounts.

  He had seen them—and her—when he first figured out the clues. Her username ("candyheart") and her avatar (the gift-wrapped 1lb dark chocolate truffle box) added to her "self-employed" designation and a few casually dropped references to the chocolate trade. You didn't have to be Sam Spade to connect the dots.

  "Tabitha?" He added the question mark to his voice in
order to play the part of the uncertain swain.

  She smiled. "It's you." Her hand thrust out awkwardly and he enclosed it in his large paw, feeling a surge of satisfaction that felt so primal, so right. It took all his strength not to enfold her in his arms at once. Calm down. You've got a lifetime.

  The drink, she explained, was zubrowka, a kind of Polish vodka with some sort of grass in it. Normally he'd find such a thing unhygienic, but because it was her drink, he got one, too. The cold bite of that first sip sealed the night for him. He didn't usually drink but there was something so clean about the taste, he knew it was a sign.

  Talk came easily, just as it had online. Over the flank steak Tabitha confessed, "I still think of you in my head as Number 7." The pink blush on her cheeks did something to his insides. They churned like hot taffy.

  "It's not actually Number 7. It's Double O seven," he corrected her. "It's from a movie—actually a series of movies." The vodka made him feel expansive, he forgave her misunderstanding easily.

  Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "When you said it out loud, I remembered at once. James Band!"

  "Bond."

  She smiled. "That's the one!"

  The bloody red of the steak as she popped it in her mouth increased the warmth he felt from her nearness and the drink and the night. "I have something to show you," he said feeling the heat a little too much on his brow.

  "I know," she said, smiling yet, though her eyes grew serious.

  He looked over his shoulder to assure himself no one else in the room was paying them any attention, then began to unbutton his shirt. For a moment, he hesitated, then pulled back the crisp linen to reveal the long welts across his chest.

  Tabitha reached up her tiny hand to touch his skin. It was electric. He thought her tiny nails, varnished an innocent pink, somehow made the slender fingers even more delicately beautiful.

  "I really don't mind the scars," she murmured, turning her bright eyes back to her plate, a crimson flush rising up the back of her neck—visible even in the dim light of the restaurant. It foretold a sensuous nature.

  "May I walk you home," he asked, his voice catching slightly as he slipped the raincoat over her small shoulders.

  "Of course." Her bright eyes promised so much. Surely the path to her home would have some quiet corner where he could test that promise and take that little girl into his arms. When they crossed Pine at the corner and she pointed off toward Yates, he knew the right place.

  "Can we step in here a moment?" He gestured to narrow behind the Chinese restaurant. His heart leapt into his throat. "I-I wanted to kiss you. I didn't know how to ask."

  "Shhh," she said and took him by the hand. They walked into the passage and she turned her bright eyes up to him.

  "You're so lovely, Tabitha." He rested his big hands on her shoulders. "So very lovely."

  "And you're so delicious, Number 7," she said with a smile, her white teeth glinting in the dark.

  "Double O seven," he chuckled.

  "No, Number 7," she corrected him as her mouth dropped open and she sunk her teeth into his chest, tearing away a gaping hole in the flesh as he clanged back against the rubbish bin. Her grin transfixed him as she wiped the blood across her face and it dripped onto the raincoat. Quick as a lightning bolt she struck again, cracking ribs and growling. Then he saw it was his heart in her teeth, blood still furiously pumping out of it in all directions.

  "I love you, Tabitha."

  She popped the heart out her mouth with one tiny hand, bouncing it up and down as if weighing it. "I know, dear, I know."

  Provocateur

  with thanks to Patti Abbott

  James Preston basked in the warmth the congratulatory accolades. People swarmed around him, touching him, smiling at him and it was bliss. The glowering presence of that ponderous fool Disch nearby only made the golden glow burn brighter.

  How ridiculous he had been! Amateur! Trying to steal the spotlight from him? A smile curled his lip as he remembered the way the man had floundered through his ponderous pontificating. What a contrast it made to Preston's own witty, economical—and studiously humble—speech. Who would be quoted in the papers tomorrow? Me, that's who, Preston thought as he accepted another congratulatory accolade with what appeared to be an abashed modesty.

  I've reached the tipping point at last! My sonorous voice will be the vehicle that takes me to the pinnacle of success. His smile broadened.

  The party had gone on long enough, however. With the expertise lent by years of practise, Preston could sense that the peak had passed and folks were thinking about the after-parties. That was his cue: he looked around to find Jeannette.

  Preston's personal assistant had been flitting around all night, working on his behalf, pressing the flesh he'd rather not have to press. Jeannette was perfect: bubbly, persistent and pleasantly zaftig. He spotted her talking up Rav Noonan, the producer of last year's sleeper hit and doubtless casting something new. Good work, Jeannette, he thought as, smiling left and right as if warding off bad luck, he made his way through the parting waves of partiers. Jeanette's ample breasts rose and fell with excitement as she gestured toward him, waving him over to the conversation. Her long brunette hair retained its perfect curls from that afternoon. He must remember to ask about her styling products.

  "Wouldn't you, James?" Jeanette said with a grin, laying her hand on his arm, which caused her silk blouse to part a little more and show a peek at her black satin brassiere.

  Preston smiled warmly at the two women, but his thoughts ran ahead with delight. It must still be tucked away upstairs! "If it's a fabulous opportunity to work with Ms. Noonan, the yes, of course I would be delighted." There were chuckles and more words, but his thoughts were racing ahead to the suite upstairs.

  Noonan made a lot of grandiose plans and vague promises, but he took it as a sign that she said she'd be calling him the following week. At last he thought the time was right to announce, "This pumpkin needs to go to bed, my dears. Actors hours," he said, his voice ruched with regret.

  "But James," his PA said, her eyes wide with surprise, some of which might have been genuine, "there's the party UNM has put together for Grady. You must go."

  "Oh, my dear," Preston said, his voice filled with longing and just a soupçon of regret. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, where he could feel the strap of her brassiere just beneath the filmy material. "You will make my apologies to everyone and be your charming self. I'm counting on you."

  Jeannette looked up him, her brown eyes wide. She leaned in and whispered, "You're not snubbing him for that tedious speech of his, are you?"

  "Tedious?" he whispered back, giving his words a conspiratorial tone. "I thought it riveting."

  Jeanette laughed behind her hand, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly within the confines of her undergarment. A warm flush rose up the back of Preston's neck and at once he was impatient to get away, but he had to play by the rules.

  He willed his eyes to meet hers with something approaching sincerity. "I'm counting on you to make it clear that I won’t be there because I don't want Grady to have to share the spotlight. It is his night after all."

  "You're being generous."

  Preston chuckled. "Indeed I am. But you will have to do yeoman's duty, my girl, to make sure everyone understands how generous I am." He pecked her on the cheek. "Good night—and don't worry about making noise when you come in. You know I sleep like the dead." Especially tonight, he promised himself.

  When he locked the door behind him, Preston could barely stifle the urge to run at once into her room, but he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, first and took out his cufflinks. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked into her room, slipping through the door she'd left ajar this afternoon. Jeanette's table was strewn with papers, though her business card binder left an impression of neatness.

  Preston pulled the top drawer open and there it was: the pink box with the name in script. The black ribbon had bee
n undone, but it didn't matter. He knew she had tried it on. Blushing she had said, yes, it fit, it was the right size, and oh, how extravagant he was. Preston grinned and picked up the brassiere, his excitement growing. His thumb brushed the purple silk gently, then he traced the black Chantilly lace with his finger. He didn't even realise that he had sighed.

  He laid the brassiere on the bed, his eyes upon it as he removed his shirt and lay it on the bed, too, as if they were lovers. Preston picked up the brassiere, his touch reverent as he turned toward the mirror. He shivered as he let the straps slip down his upraised arms. The silk kissed his skin, its touch slightly cold, but warming quickly. Reaching behind he fastened the hooks, his eye riveted on his image in the mirror. It was a snug fit but that only added to his delight—and his excitement.

  If only he had breasts like Jeanette's, Preston thought as he allowed his fingers to make lazy circles across the expanse of silk and lace. He grinned at himself. If you did, you'd never work again. Excitement surged within him as he pictured Jeanette's creamy breasts encased in the purple silk, getting nearer and nearer the breaking point, his breath getting ragged as his fingers moved more quickly.

  Preston didn't recognize the sound that preceded the door opening—those damned little cards—but he couldn't miss Jeanette's startled expression as she stood in the doorway. What I must look like, he had time to think, his chest tightly bound by her brassiere, his chinos tented with barely contained desire.

  "Oh, god, no," he whispered, but she already had her phone out and aimed at him. In the camera's click her heard the end of his brilliant career.