2 comments/ 30922 views/ 5 favorites Leftovers Ch. 01 By: Latrani I was walking across the greenest field. A bright blanket lay nearby, upon which I had set a meal for one. The treeline was black and gray. Birds darted about the field, and hares. I was wearing a gossamer dress such as I had never owned. The sky was clear, but the sun was hidden and the moon was out. The grass swayed here and there from the motions of animals. I could smell a lake, not far away. The horse was waiting for me at the edge of the field. It was a curious, fabulous blue-green beast, lean but smooth-edged. Its mane was damp and clung to its neck. It had been chained; the thin, fine links were circled around the barrel of its body many times, and their trailing edges swayed about its... his ankles. He was dark-eyed and still, like a pool of water, and he watched me with intent, a question in his eyes. Every part of him was magnificent. Curious that the chains seemed to fit him so well, and that he did not seem to mind them. I stopped and faced him from a distance. The steed merely watched me, placid and gorgeous. I held out a hand, and he stepped to me, his chains clinking like windchimes. The movements in the grass had vanished entirely, and his feet did not disturb the meadow at all. He set his muzzle under my fingertips, then moved in close and wrapped his chin over my shoulder, pulling me to him in an equine embrace. I stroked his mane, and felt his teeth gently nibbling my hair and neck. He pushed me towards his side, asking the question again. I answered by taking the chains in my hands and pulling myself onto his back in one silky motion. I settled between the chains, tight behind his shoulders. He whickered at me and began to trot. Swiftly he took us from the field, into the trees where he was the only source of color. Something tugged at my legs. The chains were moving, sliding up and onto my calves and thighs like serpents. They pushed under my dress to caress my skin and then fused together, showing no breaks, no means of escape. My ankles were welded to his barrel. I was shackled to my steed. He began to run then, and I could neither fall off nor escape, secure and yet in terrible danger as he careened over stones and fallen trees, carrying us along a treacherous path more felt than seen. I grabbed at his mane and the coat beneath. His body was strong yet the flesh was soft; my hands sank right in and were trapped. We emerged from the gray trees at a full gallop onto a rocky shore. My face was frozen in fear, but my steed deftly evaded every sharp stone without losing a step. His mane was too wet to trail in the wind of our passage. We approached the lake I had scented, itself blue-green and deadly tranquil, and he did not slow. My steed looked back at me a moment before his hooves stroked the water, and grinned with lips dripping with foam like the ocean. His teeth, the teeth that had affectionately nibbled at my neck, were fangs tinged by crimson from where they had touched me. Leftovers Ch. 02 Sleep was a long time coming, and I spent the following day in a haze. I needed to go shopping, but it was too cold and I was too tired. That's what I told myself anyway, when I wasn't looking at the gloves on top of the hamper. I didn't want to unlock my front door. The blood wasn't mine; I didn't have a scratch on me. I tried to forget that morning. I had woken up from a dream on my belly, both hands between my legs, using the same fingers that had been covered in rust-colored flakes seven hours earlier. At first, I thought my fingers were slick with blood, and had jumped up and slammed into the bedroom wall. Mattie had taken off running. My shoulder was bruised and aching. There was a sense of waiting coming from outside my apartment, and it grew on me through the mid-morning and afternoon. I took a look out the window, enough to see that the sky was dark grey. No comforting sunlight there, just the threat of foul weather. I cleaned up the apartment a bit; general boredom and winter blues had made me too lazy to keep it up like I should, and it was as good an excuse as any to stay inside. I came to my closet, though, and couldn't bring myself to open it. I found other things to do, but eventually came back to that tiny, dark space. I found myself watching the closet door while I picked up scattered clothes. Finally I'd had enough. I pulled a few large books from a wall shelf and retrieved a steel box from behind them. Locked inside were a petite automatic pistol and an aged, well-kept .44 revolver, as well as extra rounds and cleaning kits. The revolver was a keepsake from my grandfather, but it was too massive a weapon for someone who only stood five-foot four in shoes. I checked the pistol, stalked across the room with it in hand, and threw open the closet door. I assumed a firing stance. Nothing. Rain boots, clothes in numerous shades of dull, not enough shoes. I felt like a damn moron. But I also knew the feeling would come back as soon as I shut the door, so I propped it open and turned on the interior light. And made sure all the window drapes were pulled tight. And checked under my bed with the pistol. The apartment secure, I sat down in front of the television again. I dozed for a few minutes, and when I awoke, realized I was holding my pistol in both hands. I looked to the table beside the TV, where sat pictures of my parents, and a small plaque where I had mounted their badges. They taught me better than to play with a loaded weapon like that. I emptied the pistol, set it aside, and fiddled absently with the clip for a few minutes. Mattie hopped up beside me and shoved his head under my arm. I grew bored with the heavy clip and picked up the folded blade I had left on the coffee table, beside my black utility belt. That belt was an albatross. It might as well have been stenciled with the words 'Almost looks like a real cop's belt, doesn't it?' Staring at it, I could almost imagine being six years old and playing 'dress up' with my mother's badge and a set of plastic cuffs instead of hats and makeup. There were photos of me doing that very thing high up in the closet somewhere, but I couldn't really remember any that. All I could remember was what real officers of the law did. They took desk jobs so that their families wouldn't worry about them at night. Then they smoked all the time to keep their hands busy, and ended up dead of lung cancer before their daughter turned twenty. I turned the knife over and over, flicked it open one-handed. The blade was loose from wear, which was how I wanted it. That click as it locked into place was somehow satisfying. I'd bought that knife at least twelve years ago, and it had kept a fine edge. Fine enough to slice paper into neat strips (perfect for rolling up), fine enough to open some would-be rapist fuck's hand a week after I bought it, fine enough to cut coke when I didn't have a razor (can't join the Force if you can't pass along a clean pee cup, Jackie Dukes. This toilet seat's taken, by the way). I tapped the blade on the coffee table, mocking that fine chopping motion that I had just been getting good at when I went clean. The fuzzy-jacketed mutt beside me was mildly alarmed by the sound, so instead I scratched his ears with one hand while flipping the knife into the air and catching it with the other. That flash of silver each time it spun and caught the light was magical, making the blade seem enchanted for a split-second with each toss. As usual, I played the game a little too long. I only dwelled on knives when things around me were tired and worn, which meant that I was in no mood to concentrate on what I was doing. The blade landed point-first in my palm. Good thing I kept it so sharp, or it might have just stung. I yelped as the knife toppled onto the table, and instinctively put my mouth on the wound. The taste reassured me for a moment, some primal urge telling me that this was the proper thing to do when cut. Then I remembered the gloves, and started gagging. Matador took off running again. I pictured him as Lassie, running to get help, or maybe a bucket in case I threw up. I giggled as the gag reflex passed, and went to clean up my hand. On the way out of the bathroom, my eyes trailed down to the gloves again. I thought I could still smell them, but that was surely just the taste on my tongue. Where in the hell had that blood come from? The rest of my clothes were clean. There was no blood in the bus the previous night, no stabbing victims lying in the gum and cigarette butts. But I had been gone so long. Maybe there had been an accident and I blocked it out. Heaven knows I had seen that happen often enough, on television anyway, but I thought I was a bit tougher than a soap opera amnesiac. A lot tougher, actually. Corpses didn't really scare me. I had seen four people dead outside of a funeral home in my life, but after the first two, people whose familiar faces had been transformed into unwrapped mummies by disease, the bodies of strangers had barely even made my eyes widen. Something worse then, maybe someone still alive when I found them on the side of the road, or a nasty wreck, or maybe just a dog in the street who would have been better off dead. That last one seemed oddly appropriate. The program on TV changed, from one syndicated crime drama straight into another one, and I jumped up and ran for the bathroom. In the Heat of the Night meant that my shift was only an hour off. I had just flashed the entire day away. In the shower, it occurred to me that a person in shock might do that. I washed faster. Leftovers Ch. 03 Nobody said a word. My passengers never looked up, never met my eyes in the mirror, but that was nothing new. I tried to concentrate on the route; there really was nothing else to do. Some morbid voice kept insisting that what I had seen him doing, myself doing, wasn't nearly as important as looking for a new job in the morning. It insisted that the Bastard, Black Dog to his friends, was going to visit my supervisor with snow in his hair and his dick stiff as a board, and file a formal complaint against one Little Jackie Dukes, Fine and Tasty Driver on the Number Ten Bus. I snickered, and felt my cheeks redden. I hoped that none of the passengers heard me, though it hardly mattered after my 'you're-all-out-to-get-me-where-are-my-pills?' display with the Doog. Either I was hallucinating, or he was a monster. I was not hallucinating. I tried not to dwell on it. The blonde girl cries out to the lights above. What's wrong with her? Why isn't she running, or screaming, something? How could I not know they were back here? The wound on her neck doesn't seem to get any bigger, although Black Dog keeps tearing at it. They're bare-assed on those dirty metal seats. Aren't they cold? My hand strays to somewhere near my belt as she cries out again, and the Dog notices me. "Sorry, Jackie Dukes," he tells me with what sounds like real regret even through his grin. "This seat's taken." His tongue is dark and sticky in his mouth. I pull the stun gun, that tiny, useless chunk of plastic that is all the kind and wise city fathers will let us carry, and fire it up. Even as I lunge forward I wonder if the girl would even feel the shock if I hit her, and a mental image of me packing a vibrator in a belt holster warns me that I'm already close to hysteria. No one else boarded; the weather had gotten too bad, and most everyone had gone home early. The radio was amazingly useless. Nothing much to hear, even when it worked: a bunch of jackasses alternately laughing about and bitching about the weather, random and unhelpful warnings, maybe a few accident reports. The zombies trudged off one by one. I snapped the door shut as fast as possible each time. The roads were almost clear, so at least I didn't have to worry about losing control of the bus just because my hands sometimes trembled. That wasn't from the cold, though they did feel a little numb in those threadbare gloves. Of course there were always warm, damp places I could put them. I hit the Black Dog Bastard, and he tenses up as the charge enters his shoulder. His head arches back and he lets out a burnt-sounding howl of pain (is that even possible?). He goes limp and twitchy. I reach for the girl, possibly intending to pull her from the bus. And he grabs my hand. Pulls me in. Plucks the weapon right out of my fingers, and it disappears. Black Dog laughs at me, laughs! I don't know why I thought it would do any good. Men like him always shrug off the first five things you throw at them, movies have taught us this much. He holds on to one of my wrists, and I have no chance of breaking his grip. My knife is... somewhere, but I can't recall where while he's looking in my eyes. His other hand goes back to massaging the girl's waist and belly, and I can see that he has claws as well, mottled black and wavy-edged. "She's got miles left in her," the Dog tells me, and licks another rivulet from her shoulder. I jolted awake, bounced in my seat. There was a white-eyed lunatic reflected in the windshield glare that didn't look a great deal like me, though she followed my movements. I checked the rear-view; the last passenger was gone now. Quickly I set the bus in 'park' and twisted around in my seat, scanning the aisle for any last nodding heads, listening for... anything. All clear. I pulled out my key ring and opened the locker directly behind my seat. Emergency kits, flares, plastic ponchos, a small shelf of cleaning supplies and unwashed rags (I open the locker and take out what I need to clean off the seats, get rid of the juices that Black Dog missed. He's very clean, fastidious even, but nobody's perfect), and my pistol in its holster, wrapped up in a blanket in the bottom. Keeping it hidden from all possible prying eyes with my body, I slid it under my coat and clipped it on my belt, trading it for the stun gun holster. There was already a round chambered; stupid thing to have done, but my hands had been acting of their own accord when I loaded the pistol. I straightened up, looked around, and returned to my seat. Time to go home, take some pills and get away from this. The bus lot was full, but nobody was about. My Escort was the only car in sight. Its right front fender and door were an unpainted grey, making it appear as if it had come down with frostbite. I circled the fence, and tried to radio in. Only static answered, though it was pretty chatty. I drummed my fingers on the wheel. I could sit there until the watchman bothered to check his monitors; walk over to the squawk-box beside the electronic gate and yell at him; or leave the bus right here in front of the gate and walk (run!) to my car. Not great options. Staying in the vehicle seemed like the best choice, but I could already tell that I would just become more and more jumpy as I waited. I'd already drawn a knife on a man today for helping me get up (that was not why you pulled the knife on Mister My Friends Call Me Black Doog), and might just outright shoot the next person I saw. It didn't even seem like a bad idea. What's one less zombie in the scheme of things? I threw back the lever and stepped out of the bus. Years of cheap movie rentals half-convinced me that the Dog would be in the back seat of my car, on top of the bus (that was just stupid), or inside, watching me on the monitors while he munched on the security guard and waited for me to come up to the door. Actually, all three ideas were pretty stupid. I walked over to the intercom outside the gate and tapped the switch. Nothing. Not even a hiss. The cold had probably shorted out the blasted thing. I tried a few more times, shook the box and beat it with a clenched fist, and waved my arms in the direction of the nearest security camera. Nothing again. After two or three minutes I turned to go back to the relative warmth of the bus. At least it was out of the wind. I stepped up and levered the door shut, threw the latch to lock it in place, and sat down to wait. I follow his tongue with my eyes. The girl has hardly a mark on her! He releases my wrist and lays his other hand on her belly, kneading it and drawing straight, red lines with the tips of his claws. I can't fight or flee; he has me hypnotized. "Come on down," he tells me in a whisper, and I have to come on down. I drop to my knees, as close to the two of them as possible, and strip off my coat and gloves, roll back my sleeves. Black Dog runs his fingers up and down her abdomen, grinning at me like he always does, then sinks his claws in and cuts a line through her, smooth as silk. "She's all warm and tender now," he croons to me, and shows me that tongue again. I look back as he makes two smaller incisions. "Got to move quickly," he adds casually. One arm still around the small of her back, he reaches around her with both hands, sinks those claws in, not like an animal, but gracefully, an artist and surgeon rolled up into one very underdressed package, and he peels her open. The girl shrieks, and it isn't from the pain. I can't look up to her, I really don't want to see her expression, I can only gaze at the place that the Black Dog has exposed. I need to vomit, but my stomach won't cooperate. Sneaking onto the bus while my back is turned. I forgot all about that one. I jumped up, drawing my pistol as I turned to face the aisle, knowing he was there before I even saw him. Black Dog had taken his coat off. I couldn't understand. Didn't he know how cold it was? The reason, absurd as it sounded, hit me just as the first round hit him. He didn't want holes in his faded duster. I fired without even considering if I should. Four rounds in the pectorals, both lungs and the heart ruined. Damn. I was as good as I had always thought I was. A red spray blew out from his lips like a lawn sprinkler and peppered the seats and floor. More cleaning to do. By some miracle, none of the windows had broken. The shots echoed painfully through the enclosed space. Part of me was sure that I was smiling. It was insane; I had no proof, nothing besides a deranged flashback to show as evidence. The Dog was still looking at me, grinning as well. He hadn't fallen down yet, but he was teetering. He moved one foot backwards to steady himself. I couldn't help myself. "What the hell kind of name is 'Doog'?" I asked, and fired again. The fifth round caught him in the cheekbone, just below his right eye. The grin vanished at last. A second hole appeared instantly far back on his left cheek as the small-caliber bullet ricocheted and spun out again. The Dog might have managed a sound, but I could only hear the ringing of the shots off the close walls. He dropped to the ground with his eyes rolled back. I was breathing heavily, my left hand clutching the pistol grip, right hand bracing the left, my stomach knotting and unknotting in a way that wasn't disagreeable. The smell of his warm, damp places hung in the cool air, and steam was rising from the wounds. I stepped forward to examine my handiwork, not even considering how I was going to explain this to the real cops. I wasn't even a real security guard. I had forgotten that other rule. Monsters always shrug off the first few things you throw at them. Black Dog raised his head and grinned up at me, not looking all that bad for having two holes in his head. Then it was one hole... then just a blood smear. I gawked at the best magic trick I had ever seen, and he used the opportunity to kick out and trip me. Instead of firing as I went down, I just cursed at myself for being so damn stupid as to get that close. I fell onto him, face to bloody chest, and he had my pistol in his hand before I realized that he was reaching for it. He tossed it over his head, to the back end of the bus, and wrapped an arm around me as I tried to push up and away. I screamed and fought, kneeing him in the crotch, trying to claw at his face though my hands were gloved. But Black Dog was stronger than me, and my adrenaline rush just seemed to fizz away when he looked me in the eye from only a few inches away. The Bastard had me on the ground in five quick heartbeats, and flipped me onto my stomach even as I clipped him on the chin with my knuckles. He pulled my left arm up behind me painfully, and used his weight to hold me there. "Didn't know you were a Southpaw, Jackie Dukes. Me too. Think we're related?" He pulled my other arm around while I squirmed and yelled, and held it down with one knee. I heard metal jingling, and knew what had been in his jacket even before the Dog clicked the handcuff around my left wrist. I shrieked as loudly as possible and tried to pull away, but it was already too late to keep my other hand from being given the same treatment. He let go of my wrists then, and lay flat on top of me, one hand on the nape of my neck, breathing on my ear. "I smelled the gun oil. Got to watch out for the little things like that, Jackie Dukes, not that it would have helped much. I can smell your panties, too. You liked pulling that trigger. Liked it a lot." It only occurred to me then that the wind and weather made screaming pointless. I worked to calm down, control my breath, conserve my energy, though for what I had no idea. The floor of the bus was disgusting; its stench filled my vision. My thoughts went to the knife, but if I drew it, my hands would still be cuffed, and I'd be fighting backwards. That image made me laugh into the floor, even though a monster had his fingers in my hair, and one hand now wrapped into my tie. He pulled back on it a bit, as if it were a leash. Bastard. The Black Dog hauled me to my feet and held me by the handcuffs, facing away from him. His other hand was tracing lines on my neck. It moved down, and I could feel those claws cutting buttons right off my shirt and reaching inside to brush my shoulder. It was like being gently caressed with scalpels. I felt his breath on my ear again, whispering, "It's not often I meet someone not quite frozen these days, someone with a little freshness left. Only a little." He leered into my hair. "I'm really going to enjoy you, Jackie Dukes." I wanted to insult him, hurt him, scream bloody revenge, kick backwards and break his fucking kneecap. Instead I croaked out, "What are you going to do?" "Just soften you up a bit," he whispered back. I couldn't bring myself to turn my head to him. "Yeah, this doesn't happen often. But you won't say a word, will you, Jackie Dukes? You want to see more, touch more." That enormous tongue stroked my ear, and I shuddered, for more than one reason. "I'm glad you didn't run before. I'd have had to chase you down. I wanted you more, but I was already busy. But you won't run now, for the same reason you won't say a word." His clawed hand moved behind me, and he gripped the collar of my coat. With sudden, violent motions, he yanked it off of my shoulders and over my cuffed arms, trapping me further. Those scalpels patted my shoulder, and then slit open my uniform shirt, the long-sleeved underwear and the bra strap underneath it. He peeled the cloth back carefully to expose the skin, as if unearthing an ancient, fragile vase. The chill air raised goosebumps on my flesh, and when his hot breath hit that same spot, my body shook uncontrollably. I think I was crying. I stared at the ceiling lights, just like the blonde girl had. I didn't want to look at him. He sniffed and licked at my skin, and let out a small, not quite pleading whine, like an aroused hound might use on a balking bitch. He returned to my ear with that evil whisper. "I just have to warm you back up a bit first, Jackie Dukes. Make the meat fine, and tender." He growled then, and I felt his teeth sink into my shoulder. My mouth was open, but I couldn't scream, or even try to twist away from him. He had fangs again, and they slipped right in, from my shoulder blade to my breast, all at one time. The punctures were nothing compared to the pressure. His jaws were so strong. He ground in his teeth and worried at my skin, and I could feel blood welling, his snake tongue snatching it up. Then even the pressure became secondary. The flesh under his fangs became warmer, then burned all through my back and chest, spreading with the rapid pulse of my heart. The Black Dog stayed there for a minute or more, but it felt like an hour, as the heat permeated my body. I could feel my hair prickling, my skin rippling. My hips were rolling in rhythm with his tongue. He reached down and sliced through my shirts, then inside to stroke my stomach with those blades. I was so hot that I was sweating in the chill metal bus. My heart, already coursing painfully, had started beating faster, harder than I thought possible. It thrummed in my ears, and the thrum turned to a cascading roar. My veins ached with it. It was how a champion racehorse might feel, faster than the wind and stronger than any beast on earth, even as its heart neared the breaking point. The flow was so strong I could feel the deepest arteries trembling around it. I gulped air faster and faster, my chest somehow withstanding the speed and stress of working like a locomotive. She doesn't die because he's biting her and violating her. In the end, the girl just stops. Her body can't take it anymore. Can't take this anymore. Black Dog is too gentle to just kill. I was getting closer, just that touch and bite bringing me towards orgasm or death, I couldn't tell. I turned my head to see his face, or perhaps bite it as he was doing to me. Then I saw how he was able to stretch his jaws so far, take in so much at once. Against me lay a long, furred muzzle, black-lipped and stronger than a crocodile's. It was touching my cheek (he had it last night, too, and he used it), and I could see a terrible jaundiced eye. I shrieked then. He didn't let go, just raked at my skin, which was somehow less ragged than it should have been. It didn't hurt at all. My vision was turning a curious shade of red. His tongue sank into one of the wounds, and at that I stopped screaming, just shook in his grasp instead. My legs grew weak and slid out from under me, and Black Dog released his grip, lowering me onto my knees as he continued to lick at my back and shoulder. He let go of the cuffs, and wrapped his arms around me as he dropped to his knees as well. He pulled me tight against him in a strangely tender way. The claws and muzzle were gone. "It's nice to feel a warm body, isn't it?" he asked into my ear. "Too many cold people out there, Jackie Dukes, too many walking corpses. I think you almost became one of them." He took a moment to nibble on my earlobe. I couldn't move, couldn't decide what to do, so I held as still as my tortured lungs would allow. "Good thing I came along. Now you won't have to worry about that." I noticed he was panting, his chest expanding against my back, in time with my labored breaths. I wanted to beg him to let me go, but also to push me down, roll me over and take me. "I can always feel the people who want out," he continued. "I can always smell them. The world thinks they're garbage, just leftovers to be tossed out, but it's really their own idea. They've seen enough. Just like you, Jackie Dukes. Wait up for me. I'll give you what you want. And you'll be soft and tender by then." He ran his fingers over my belly again to illustrate. It felt as if the flesh was melting when he did that, like my skin was hot wax he could score and mold. The Black Dog ran his hands around the swell of my buttocks and down my thighs, and I thought he would start again. But instead he lowered me onto my stomach and whispered again, "You'll be soft as silk." The handcuffs suddenly vanished, and his presence was instantly gone from the bus. I wondered if I had blacked out again. I was freezing on the floor in the aisle. Eventually I felt safe enough to push myself up, fix my coat, and look around. My clothes made me look like the victim of a brutal crime, but my shoulder didn't hurt at all. I felt it with one hand, sensing no wound, and then stumbled to the driver's mirror to take a better look. Traces of blood and foamy spittle on the cloth around the shoulder, more from where I had landed in a puddle of the Dog's blood, but not a cut on me. Only a warm sensation throughout my body that was beginning to override even the chill of the unheated bus, and a tingle growing outward from where I had been bitten, a sensitivity that was making the torn dress shirt and underwear distracting. I looked back down the aisle, and then padded through the red smears to the rear door. My pistol lay a foot or two from it. I retrieved it, checked to make sure a round was chambered, and put it to my chest. He would come back. Maybe I could deprive him of a little fun, at least. But would it even do any good now that the Black Dog had bitten me? My unwounded shoulder suggested otherwise. That wasn't why I didn't pull the trigger, though. I wanted to see what else there was. The Bastard, Black Dog to his friends, had said that he didn't have to chase me because I didn't run. He hadn't hypnotized me the previous night. I had sat down because I wanted to. I had only forgotten what happened out of pure shock. Was that what they called hysterical amnesia? Leftovers Ch. 03 I laid my hand and pistol against my head, dropped into the last seat, and began crying. I couldn't have stopped him with that girl, couldn't have done anything except make him tear me apart also, taking hours to do it. Something in him made her knit back together, so he could enjoy it again and again, and it would have just happened to me too. Running, or screaming, or anything else I could have done would have just gotten me killed. Joining him last night was the only reason I was around now, wanting to die for what I did to her, for watching her die, for touching her where he told me to touch her. It must be hours before he tells me to put my gloves back on. They're still on my hamper, smelling like the unnaturally blonde girl who must have boarded my bus two hundred times since I took this job, and whose face I never saw. What was it I had been thinking, the same as I had thought many times before as I watched passengers drag their way on and off the bus? What's one less zombie in the scheme of things? Not a whole lot, unless you were the zombie. I straightened my coat, located my keyring, and moved to open the locker and retrieve the cleaning supplies. The bus was a mess. Leftovers Ch. 04 My building stank. I caught acidic traces of urine on the front steps, mud congealed into the strips of carpet inside, more urine on the stairs. Sweat hung like a cloud in front of each door, even in the chill air. The place was dead quiet tonight. Not a single television blaring, and usually somebody on every floor left theirs running all night. At first I had been glad that I didn't cross anyone's path because my pistol was in my hand; by the time I reached my door, I was just happy that I hadn't been forced to smell any of the other tenants at close range. My entire body was tingling, buzzing, giving me little electric shivers at the slightest breeze or touch of my own hand. Was that what Black Dog meant by 'making the meat tender'? I thought I remembered a television show where they said that spiders didn't actually drink blood. Their venom was like saliva, and it softened up the prey, made it easier to drink down and digest. It was a horrifying thought, but just then, for that little while, nothing could scare me. After all, just a short time earlier, I had shot a man in the head, been bitten deeply, supposedly fatally, by some kind of thing, and mopped up what seemed like gallons of his blood. What would qualify as worse? There was still quite a bit of blood soaked into my clothing, mine and the Doog's, drying in stiff scabs across my chest and back and legs. My shredded garments carried a strong scent of both that fluid and what I could only call smooth fur. I didn't know any other word for that smell, but it surrounded me like a musk. Riding a constant line between dead calm and morbid hysteria, I imagined the smell, the aura of it, was the reason that the building was so hushed; that my neighbors were locked in their rooms, holding their breaths as they waited for me to pass by. That was pure fantasy, but still the mood held. It carried its own dangerous attraction, like being wrapped up in warm, strong, furred arms with glistening teeth just touching the back of my neck... I came down from that flight of imagination just inside my apartment. God, the stench! I had no idea dogs smelled so badly. The place was thick with Matador's odor, even though he rarely pissed where he wasn't supposed to, and I bathed him every week. He had jumped up to meet me as I entered, but then stopped, sniffing the air as his thin tail stood flagpole-stiff. Then he bolted for my bedroom. I wasn't in a mood to care. I was engrossed in turning a strip of cloth into a kerchief to ward off the canine miasma in the place. It wasn't even the worst part, I discovered as I walked through my apartment. The curtains reeked irritatingly of mildew; the bathroom was a sewer; the carpet worse than the mold at the bottom of a soggy pile of leaves. The odor in the kitchen was almost unbearably rancid, as if wet meat had fallen into every crack. I was certain I could smell the even fouler odors from the kitchen and bathroom in the apartment below me, where a family of five lived. I crouched down, pulled back the kerchief, and sniffed. They were clean people, as clean as possible given the building and their crowded home, but I thought that I could even smell their feet! I replaced the strip of cloth and braved the kitchen long enough to get a drink and snack. I poured a glass of water, but it was too grimy to even force down my throat. The orange juice actually hurt my mouth and burned in my nostrils. Choosing a snack was like running a gauntlet. Everything was too spicy or salty, painfully bland, or had acquired a fuzzy aftertaste from my supposedly clean refrigerator. The plastic containers therein were the worst; the cold leftovers inside them were foul with age. Heating those would do no good. Finally, though, I found a couple of peaches that didn't seem bad. After I got through the refrigerator-crisper odor that had seeped into the skin, they tasted incredible, like downy nectar. Shortly after finding them, I was deliriously happy and a little sticky, sucking on a pit and humming to myself. That secure mood still clung to me as I started to unwind. I wasn't sleepy, but I was starting to be very, very relaxed. A tingling had begun in my mouth and throat and then slowly spread, unclenching my limbs and back, making the aches and fears of the evening fade into ghosts. I almost felt I was being given a massage as I lay back on the couch, heedless of my fouled clothes. I lolled my head back on the overstuffed armrest and was soon limp from the sheer pleasure of stretching my limbs. The couch stank as well, and it felt terribly rough under me, but some dim impression was overpowering my revulsion to the smells in the apartment. It was some time before I recognized the source of that sensation. My makeshift mask was torn from a strip of my ruined shirt. It carried his smell. Strands of dark hair were on it, and it was somehow still a little damp from his mouth. I breathed it in again, and imagined Black Dog's lips. And teeth. Leftovers Ch. 04 Thinking about the bite on the bus brought his scent to my mind. I looked at my bloody but now undamaged palm and sniffed it. I scooted backwards until I was propped against a lightpole, then reached down and touched my stomach with the bloody hand. Without bothering to look around, I stroked lower, feeling myself through the taut leather, right there on the street. I leaned my head back. The frozen metal against my back and neck only made the fire inside glow brighter. My thighs closed around my hand, trapping it. With my free hand I picked up one of my leather boots and held it to my nose. I inhaled deeply, set my teeth on it, tasted the instep. It occurred to me that if I felt this way now, I might very well need a piece of leather in my mouth to keep from breaking my teeth when the Doog laid his hands on me again. That jolted me. I wouldn't need to worry about safety, because there wouldn't be another time after that. Not according to that monster. I'd just burn out, the way I thought the blonde girl died, unable to keep up. And then what? I never saw where the two of them went, where he took her. Does he eat his prey? I caught the scent of my blood again, but this time I pictured it as coming from my heart as it burst. I jumped to my feet, suddenly afraid of the dark again, of claws wrapping around my ankles and wrists and neck, then reaching into my belly just for the sake of seeing what it held inside. And I smelled something else. An odor, not mine, but that somehow meant me. There was sweat, even in the cold air, aftershave, faint oil and a bare shadow of metal. I thought the man might be armed, but it didn't smell like a gun, at least. I shifted my head slowly, and trapped him in my peripheral vision. Probably eighty pounds or more larger than me, burly chested, surely sporting a bald spot under his knit cap. He watched me from half a block away while leaning against a car. I had the feeling that he was waiting for a chance to get closer. "Well, why not go for the wasted chick in leather, sport?" I whispered to myself, as the secure haze drifted back over my eyes. I started humming that awful song again, and resumed my aimless walking. Sure enough, I could hear the crunch of his boots, even above the background roar of the city and the passing cars. Bastard. "Like you didn't see this coming, Miss Fine and Tasty," I breathed. I turned around, and he was a little closer, a little tenser. The odor surrounding him was higher-pitched than before. "I always feel like... somebody's wat-ching meee, and it ain't no fantasy," I sang softly as I began to casually close the distance between us. I could smell the modest monster in him now. He didn't even qualify as a poor substitute for the Black Dog. Just looking to rape and murder me, at most. It was almost cute. What would I say? Maybe lean against the car beside him and ask, Is this seat taken? I was sure that something would come to me. My left hand strayed to my pants pocket, and the folded sliver of silver I kept there. Leftovers Ch. 05 This time, I was floating in quiet water, staring up at a moonless night. The stars were brilliant and endless, more beautiful than I had ever imagined they would be. I couldn't feel my arms and legs at all. My body seemed almost formless, save for the gentle splashes against my cheeks. My submerged hair, oh so long, twirled and danced about my face and neck. It was a night that could never end. The sky was forever. I heard the clink of metal echo through the lake waters. Felt it in my chest. I leaned forward, raising my head, but saw nothing. There were only the stars, the waters, the woods and wild rocks on the shore. Then something touched me, pushed up between my legs. I grasped at it, and found fur and chains coiled together. The hound rose from the lake, and I rode upon it. It was the size of a small horse, hard and strong under its slick, soaking pelt. The beast rose from the water, gliding towards shore as I clung to its back. When its feet found purchase, it lifted me effortlessly and wound its way towards the dark wall of the wood beyond the shoreline. The excess water fell away from us both as we emerged; we were wet, but not dripping. I was sure this time that I dreamt. I did not look about us, but kept my eyes pointed in the direction that the hound stalked, wanting to miss nothing. The woods, already silent, attained a painfully held hush as we crossed over into them. My senses were aligned with those of the hound; it caught no sound or smell of other creatures. The beasts knew better than to be in this place. I felt a great chill now that we were away from the lake, and leaned forward, hugging the hound for warmth. It was so very hot, even through its damp fur and cool, trailing chains. We trekked through the woods of the old Black Hound of Manannan, now called the Trash Hound for reasons living women and men did not truly understand. Sometimes we sniffed at the ancient trails, and later the remains of stone walls in clearings, used long ago to mark the meadow borders. The hound was after a newer trail, though. Some years before, men and women had come again, and they owed him (us) a tithe. Dugrann was gone, even its foundations stolen to build other structures, but a new, nameless place had cropped up near to it, along the old tracks of the hound's home. The folk there all belonged to us, still sheep in essence if not in fact. We growled, thinking of the old hunts. Had the father changed, his face growing old while his beard became that of a young man? Or was he still the same, still ruling the waters with a laugh that brought no joy to others? We did not know, could not know. Uncountable time and trying had only gotten us as far as the lakes; the seas were denied to us, would drive us out, the tide a wall of fire to our touch, the waves throwing us back to shore like a bit of flotsam. The sea foam that those fearful men and women had drunk lingered in their bodies, and when we took them as prey, it had cursed us as well. Surely he had not intended to leave us behind. But it was done, and there was a tithe to take. We continued. Miles later, and we saw the first dim lights. The town was of guarded wood, each home a high fortress. These folk knew us, knew that we could jump a gate with ease, so they barricaded themselves between walls on such nights. The bars on their doors might hold; we had never tested them. Torches lit our way, which was laughable. Did they think we came on a dark night because we could not see? We passed by some of the braver men, who watched us from a porch encrusted with iron spikes. They glared over cups of courage as we padded by. They were armed; I could smell the shapes of their steel. But it scarcely concerned me. My father could make animals come back from the dead, even from bare bones. I myself had done so, even without his presence and power. That made me start. I remembered the fire coming from my hand, the bullets striking the Black Dog, and how he had smiled. I started to push up and slide away from the hound underneath, to wake up and get away from the beast. It turned its head only a little, and caught me with one gleaming yellow eye. Then its chains caught me as well. As before, they slithered around my hips, glinting in the starlight as they welded me to the Trash Hound (he calls himself that because the tithes are unwanted by men, and he cleans them away. Or so he says). They trapped my calves and ankles, forged new connections around my limbs. And then I felt the chill metal in other places. Without warning, the tips of chains slid into my flesh, cutting through my legs and sides without harm. Then came the heat, from the hound and from me, and the piercing of the cold chains was a brilliant, sparkling counterpoint, an exquisite pain. Link by link they passed into me with impossible speed, weighing me down magnificently, tying us together to a degree I would have thought impossible. The beast twitched an ear as if to say, you look so soft and tender. The weight reached my belly, and wore at me until at last I was forced to lean forward and rest upon the hound's shoulders. My face was pressed against the side of his head, my arms hugged his neck for support and warmth, my damp hair mixed with his dark fur. And there I stayed. The Trash Hound seemed to wink, and thus satisfied, it resumed its course. We scented a male, a boy still, waiting for us ahead. He was so tender. Chained to the hound, I felt every motion of its muscles as if they were my own. And I felt the beast's only passion as it sniffed the air, as it savored the first whiff of its tithe. The hound enjoyed the chill tang of the moment just before it met one of its own kind. The tithe waited for us in an emptied shed on a long, low seat, his feet tied to a post. He had been beaten into acquiescence, this boy. The bruises on his face and neck nearly matched the purple birthmark that cut across his right cheek and nose. These people might not have cared for him, might have thought him a more fitting offering than their prettier, luckier children or precious herds. We found him beautiful, and made certain to tell him so with our teeth. Leftovers Ch. 06 I sipped from my first Thermos, deliberately turned away from my "passenger". Instead I watched the sparkles of ice crystals outside. The wind blew them in ghostly curtains across the lot, occasionally showering the bus with them. Warm broth filled my senses, infusing my stomach with a natural heat that was a pleasant counterpoint to Black Dog's bite. I picked up a rose petal from the floor and sniffed it. The monster grinned; I could see his teeth reflected in the faint glare of the window. He knows he's won. He's just waiting for you to turn yourself over and make it official. "Come here often?" I asked the windshield, and took another sip. "Every chance I get, Jackie Dukes," came the answer from over my shoulder. "I wouldn't miss seeing you for the world." Another sip. "Jackie's enough, isn't it? We're kinda informal now, I think." I paused, almost glanced back. "So your friends call you Black Dog. How many names do you have?" I could hear his leather sliding forward on the seat. "All kinds of names, little Jackie. Black Dog, Kelpie..." "Dubh CuMannain," I interjected in a quiet tone, imitating the tone I had heard in the dream. Doov coo. So soft. He paused, perhaps just a little surprised. "Good, little Miss Jackie... Padfoot, Trash Hound... all depends on who's doing the talking." I felt him lean forward. "Which one do you like?" I waited a few seconds. "Mostly I just call you 'Bastard'," I finally told him with a hint of a smile. "Is that the one that makes you warm inside? Or do they all make you warm now?" I didn't answer, which was answer enough, really. I turned away and took another pull from my Thermos. I was having trouble feeling the heat of the broth, next to the fiery lines that traced from my heart into my neck and belly. Suddenly I felt his breath on my ear, his whispers. "You have no idea how hard it was to wait for you, watch you, smell you and make myself stay away. I needed to just give in for a moment, to slip up and taste the back of your neck, just once." His breath moved down, as far down as my collar would allow. I stared at the windshield. I couldn't seem to see his reflection in it. The nape of my neck was shrieking in terror or anticipation. "But I couldn't waste you. Most people run, even if they don't want to. The fear breaks through their need. You didn't run. You walked toward me, Jacqueline Dukes." His hand was touching my ponytail now, petting it, not quite curling up in it. "So here we are, and I can smell how ready you are." I dropped the empty Thermos to one side, onto the black bag in which the other one sat. "You said that some people are smart enough to want to get out of this world," I murmured to the thing over my shoulder. "Why are you still around?" A second's pause. "I don't get to leave." Another pause. "But I'm not one of those people, little Jackie. You are." I stood and turned to face him. The Dog looked as if he should be drooling. I could smell his heat and mine, and the dampness seeping out of both of us. I felt as flush as he looked. Our blood was so close to the surface that I thought I could even smell it. (You will soon enough, Jackie Baby. Count on it.) "All I needed was to get out of this place, Dog, not this world." My voice grew a bit firmer. "Like you said, I'm not dead yet. There's no reason for me to get that way." "Insurance, little Jackie," he replied, reaching up to stroke my cheek. I had no room to escape his hand. "I don't want to see you like that. Stay here long enough and you'll shrivel. Don't you know that?" He cupped my chin, and I could taste my own warm breath mixing with the earthy scent of his palm. "I've seen it before, let a ripe, wonderful creature go while I found lesser fare. They always faded and died, always, even if they kept walking around. Neither of us wants that, do we?" "I'm not one of them, Black Dog. Not anymore." My voice was miles away from steady, but I knew then that I was telling the truth. "Let me be the judge of that," he said, and leaned down towards me, his teeth sharper than they had been a moment before. The fear broke through the need for me, then. I planted my feet and drove the heel of my palm up into the Dog's chin. His teeth snapped together loudly, and he swayed for a second. I brought my other hand up and struck his nose with a clipped yell as he recovered, and his eyes showed white even though I failed to break anything. I jumped for the door. He caught my coat. Black Dog tugged hard and spun me past him, and I ended up in the aisle instead of on the steps. He let go and grinned at me. I tried to flash him a sarcastic smile in return, but only managed a small whimper. I started to reach for the small of my back, but he darted forward and grabbed me again. We wrestled for a second, neither able to get a solid grip in the folds of our coats. I yelled, managing to cry out, "Get away!" and he let go. I lost my balance and tumbled into a seat, smacking my head against the side window. I scooted backwards, trapped. Standing above me, Black Dog cracked his neck and grinned. "Just like a lady to change her mind, as they say. Don't worry, little Jackie. I know what you really mean." He set his hands on the seatbacks to either side of me, and leaned in to sniff. His head was above and between my raised knees. His gaze moved down to roam over my hips, my crotch. "Soft as silk." He set a knee on the seat and slid closer. His eyes were yellow. I tugged my coat out of the way and reached back with my left hand as the Black Dog hovered over me. "I guess you don't watch a lot of television?" I asked between gulps of air. He paused, suddenly suspicious. The grin almost left his face when I produced the revolver. It was carefully coated in five layers of plastic wrap. "A tiger won't eat what it can't smell," I told him. I tensed my wrists and tugged back on the trigger at a range of less than two feet. The pain in my hands and arms was awful, but nothing compared to the sound. The explosion shook the bus, lifted Black Dog up and back, shattered a window behind him, and tore at my hypersensitive eardrums worse than the recoil tore at my hands. I dropped the revolver, clutched my head, and shrieked. I couldn't even hear my own cries. The smell of burning plastic entered my nostrils, along with cooked flesh and new blood. My hands and face were covered in crimson splatter. I rubbed my eyelids and looked up through the pain that was still shaking my skull. A red cloud coated the ceiling and opposite wall. A haze of smoke curled up from the revolver on the seat, where the wrapping had peeled back. And Black Dog was trying to get up. "Oh, good goddamn you!" I yelled, though I couldn't hear it. "No you don't!" I snatched up the weapon, far too large for my frame, and braced against the side of the bus behind me as he halfway regained his feet. I fired again, only able to feel the shot this time. Black Dog's collarbone exploded. He spun and fell into the aisle. My arms shook with the recoil, and my already injured wrists went numb. The revolver fell back to the seat. And the heat came to me. It soaked into my hands and arms and shoulder, licked up through my neck and behind my ears. The heat made everything better. I fell back into the seat and moaned while it worked and stroked my flesh. My hearing returned with a noticeable pop, and I crossed my arms, kneaded my shoulders. You're right, Dog. I did like pulling that trigger. Liked it a lot. Leftovers Ch. 07 Black Dog bent his knees and again snarled at me, dripping spittle into the red pool under his feet. I didn't back away or run. He liked that about me, after all. But when he came at me, I moved, with more speed and luck than I should have possessed. The monster's claws slashed at the edge of the seat nearest to where I had been standing. I had already jumped back, and now stood, legs slightly apart and hands up. Black Dog's eyes flickered at the challenge. Cautious? I suppose he didn't get many fights. When he tensed to spring, I reached for my pocket. My old knife slid into my hand, and I flicked it open with an invisible motion. It flashed silver in the bus, and the Dog's eyes moved to it as he came at me. That hesitation cost him, as I lunged forward a step, right between his arms, and reopened half of his warm, damp places right there. I already knew I couldn't stop him, but that wasn't even my intent anymore. All I wanted to do was stretch out the remaining moments. I pushed the knife into the skin just above his groin and guided it upwards while driving forward with what weight I had. Six inches or so later, the blade and my fingertips slid right in. Hard muscles and soft flesh, so strange. Black Dog stopped and stared at me. I beamed at him. He was so warm inside that I wanted to just stay right there, not move at all. Instead I twisted the blade and pushed again, hard. I could feel the muscles of his belly shudder at the intrusion. His blood coated my hand, and steam rose between us. "Bet nobody... does this to you often enough, Doog," I whispered through my teeth. He stared a second longer, then moved his hands. Expecting to be slit open myself, I flinched, but Black Dog put his fingers over my left hand, encircled it, and pushed the knife farther into his own belly. He reached up with one hand then and touched my head. I could feel wisps of my hair falling away as those black nails moved. Then his hand closed around my throat. I gasped, but my breath was already cut off. Black Dog dragged me closer. His hand was so big that his fingertips touched on the back of my neck. He did not squeeze lightly; I could feel the pressure rise as he choked off the bloodflow, and I grew lightheaded in seconds. I kept pushing at the knife in his belly, but had no leverage while he held me in place. I started shaking. Black Dog moved in until his cock was pressed against my stomach, upright between us, touching my hand, which lay nearly buried in him. He leaned over me and opened that thick muzzle. His hot breath pushed against my face. I could look nowhere but at those teeth, that snaking tongue (perfect for lapping), and the dark hole beyond. Slowly, Black Dog lowered his muzzle over my mouth until his jaws held my face and cheeks. He clenched ever so slightly, testing the skin. I couldn't make a sound through his crushing fingers. That dark tongue lashed my cheek, wetting my skin. I could see very little apart from teeth, black gums, and one yellow-tinted eye, could have breathed nothing but him, if I had been able to draw in a breath. Air from his deep places washed over my face like a sauna. I didn't have any strength left, and no way to break away from Black Dog. I found myself unwilling to even try. Instead, I let go of the knife and pulled my sticky, wet hands away from his wound. My arms felt so heavy, but I managed to drag them up to Black Dog's head. I dug into the dark fur, yanked hard, and pulled his muzzle towards me, pushing my face tighter against his maw. Daring him to bite down. I knew he wouldn't do so, he couldn't do so. It would ruin things for him if he were to kill me like that. But he wanted to bite so badly, poor thing. A whimper built in the back of his throat, and I knew I had him. Then my mind dimmed from the pressure. My eyes fluttered shut. I came back to myself in his arms, able to breathe again. My throat was suffused not with pain but quivering heat, so much that a cloud of cooling vapor enveloped my face with each breath. Black Dog was holding me carefully, whining into my hair. But when he felt me move, he growled. It was more a sound of hunger than anger. His free hand came around my rear and pulled me tight against his body, and he moved his hips against me so that both our bodies stroked him between us. His moist tongue touched my face again, stretching out like a thing alive in its own right. When it touched my mouth, I bit down on it until I tasted blood. He held me desperately close for a few moments. I was dimly aware of the muzzle near my ear, of Black Dog somehow whispering through those fangs. "Hard and soft, tender and vicious. You are so special, little Jackie." He moved back half a step and clutched my shoulders, still whispering directly into my ear. "I should have met you ages ago. What you do to me." My voice had already recovered from the damage dealt by his grip. "Give me one foot of room with my knife and I'll do more, Dog," I growled back at the monster in low, heavy tones. In response, he darted down and bit my shoulder as he had that first time, stretching his jaw and wrapping around me. I went limp, letting him hold me up while he worked his teeth into the wound. I cursed at him, bit my lip, called him any name I could come up with (Bastard!) while he gnawed at my skin. I could actually feel my blood welling up, and vanishing under his seeking tongue. His clawed hands squeezed my arms until they bruised, but I knew that the marks would swiftly fade. He released me suddenly, and I stumbled drunkenly for a second. My chest was beating so hard that my vision shook. The monster towered over me. Then I saw the knife handle, still protruding from him. My hands went for it, but Black Dog held me at bay. He yanked it from his belly and tossed it away. He pulled my body against his again. The bus was crowded with the odors of his fur and blood, but all I could smell was the sex coming from us. I rubbed my cheek against the fur of his chest while he grasped my wrists tightly. I found myself spun around, and Black Dog held my wrists easily in one hand. His throat rumbled as he ran the knuckles of his free hand up and down my spine. He bent his wrist and slashed open my shirt with broad, beautifully slow swipes. The cloth fell away in long ribbons as he worked with a feather-light touch. I shook, expecting those claws to sink in with each pass. My flesh was covered in goosebumps. Soon, most of my clothing above the waist lay shredded. He hadn't scratched me once. I glared over my shoulder at the monster, frightened of his bestial face, angry that his touch was so arousing, angrier that he hadn't done more. He flashed his fangs in response and pulled me against him. His cock lay wet against my back. It was so hard that I half-expected it to cut me. "Bastard," I told him again. Black Dog replied by wrapping his free claws under my chin and up around my face. He released my wrists and pressed that hand against my belly instead, pulling us tightly together. I continued to curse at him until he put his muzzle to my head and took deep breaths of my hair. Then I closed my eyes and grew quiet, save for the hot pounding in my chest and my sharp breathing. That moment was gone all too soon. Black Dog whined again, then leaned his head over my shoulder and licked along the tops of my breasts. He crouched slightly, so that his manhood shoved against the cloth covering my ass, not quite trying to penetrate me. Off-balance, I shifted my feet as best I could while he held me, and reached up to fondle his muzzle and ears. They were velvet-soft. His fingers twitched against my belly. I couldn't take the waiting any longer, and whispered a demand against his neck. He gave out a low, almost submissive growl, curled his hand so that the claws touched me, and pressed, no harder than a breeze. They slipped right through the skin, creating a moment of shrieking pain and an eternity of throbbing, biting warmth. I cried out then, over and over, straining my chest more with each breath. Turning such pain into rapture could not have been possible, but the Black Dog had been around long enough to make up his own rules. He wrapped his other arm under my breasts and pulled me up and back, sitting me on his lap as he slid into a seat. His cock sprang up tautly between my legs. His fingers kept seeking. Soft and tender, Black Dog had said, and he was right. His bite was just like spider venom. As he kneaded at me, he strained to angle down and lick at my neck, perhaps in preparation for another bite. With his free hand, he settled me into place. I couldn't help myself. I reached down and took him in hand, pressed him against my crotch through the cloth there. His skin was silky smooth. He bucked involuntarily at that, and pushed up with his hips, trying to get closer, tighter. I responded by bringing my legs together around him, and stroked his heat with my inner thighs. He couldn't stand it, and neither could I. When I came, I let myself cry out and kick. Black Dog held me tight, far too tight. His strength was terrible, and it felt as if he would crush my ribs and shred my vitals while he clasped me to him and released himself onto my lap and stomach. Almost immediately, while I was still trembling, he lifted me up. His claws came away so smoothly that I didn't feel them leave, only felt the sudden chill as the cold air touched the hot wounds. He laid me on the seat with long slippery hands, leaving red prints on my body, and pressed me down. That black muzzle hovered over me as his human face had before, and then dropped lower. He sniffed at my pants, and then sliced at them as he had at the rest of me. The chill rush as the material came loose from my hips and groin, baring me to the winter air, made me shudder anew. The freed tastes of sweat and thicker odors wafted between us, and the Dog whined almost frantically. He moved his eyes a little higher, then leaned close and licked once at my belly, followed it with the tiniest of nips. My pounding heart went cold at that. One kind of hunger was just like another for him. He'll kill you, Jackie. He'll tear at you until you die. And he'll eat you. I stared at the awful threat to my body, frightened to move or even quiver in fear as his mouth touched my stomach. He would open me, push his muzzle into my stomach and howl while I died screaming, and not from pain. I shifted my legs, still wrapped in cloth, spreading them as I moved one foot to the floor. The Black Dog took that as invitation. He moved in closer, leaned over with one forearm on the seat holding him up, the other hand trailing up my side. Nowhere to go, nowhere at all. He had tossed away my weapons, exposed me, used up my options. Saying "No" wouldn't do a lot of good at this point. Funny I hadn't even considered it earlier. The Dog nipped again at the now pristine skin of my belly, drawing fresh blood. It wouldn't feel so bad. Wonderful, actually. I knew that much. But I didn't have to die to live. Having come close was enough. I moved my hips again, hoping for a way out, and set my foot so as to push up hard, knowing that it would be no use. Then my toes found something, and it jingled like a song at my touch. The Dog's right ear perked up, but the rest of him continued to ready me. I stretched out, brought the object closer with my heel, and reached down to lift it up. A length of chain, one of the few left from when they were first wrapped around Manannan's Black Hound, with a chunk of his leather duster clinging to it. The Dog froze at the sound as I lifted it and freed it from the leather, and his yellow eyes moved up to follow it and then to meet my gaze. I smiled, and he whined and trembled, laid his chin on my belly and then raised it up again in uncertainty. I had him again. The Black Dog had been abandoned, tossed away like old food. He had convinced himself that he was free and alive inside because of it. Ever since then, he had tried to be over the unwanted dregs, to be the master if no one else could be his. Maybe even doing favors for them as he saw it, taking them out of the world he was tired of but wasn't capable of leaving. But as I wrapped the ends of the chain around my hands and leaned up to press the length of it against his neck, I knew that, somewhere in his warm, damp places, he wanted to be bound tight again, made to heel. Why else would he find people to warm, if not to serve them? He moved back just enough to allow me to push up from the seat, but otherwise held very still. A tiny whine escaped the Dog, and deadly impulse made me slap his nose. Time to hold the tiger by the tail, I told myself, and slowly moved to my feet, taking time to wrap the chain around his neck and gather the ends into my hand. His eyes moved to follow me. I had never imagined that yellow eyes could look pleading. He seemed to be holding his breath. We all have our own ways of being alive. My heart was as calm as I had ever known it to be. The tight bindings around it were slipping loose. I stepped around the Dog, then yanked back and down on the chain. He slid to his knees. I dug my fingers into the fur of his neck and sighed inwardly. Only a master was going to keep him in line. If I let him get on top of me again, he would kill me for sure. There wasn't going to be any release, not for us. "No, Dubh CuMannain, you're not getting any more tonight," I heard myself say. He stifled another whine. "I want you to wait, stay ready for me. "But first... get rid of all that fur." I pointed at the puddles and stains, broken glass and shredded cloth. "You are going to clean up this mess."