scrying A Vampire Chronicles/Sandman crossover story by _Twi_ (mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]) , November 1998. Rated R for homoerotic situations (Daniel Molloy/Dream) and surrealist imagery. I watch, silently, as a leaf, spattered vivid with autumn red-gold, breaks free of the tree whose increasingly-skeletal branches are reaching out over my bench and embracing it. It's an unreal daub of colour against the darkening grey sky, and my eyes follow it as it falls, weaving in a slight breeze, and lands a few feet from where I lie. Today is my birthday. I'm thirty-one. I feel older. There's an elderly woman in the park who looks after me, when she can. She calls herself Mrs Morrison. I must remind her of her son, her grandson. No other reason to care. But she smiles when she sees me huddled on my bench, if her mind is in a proper state to recognise me. She gave me one of her blankets; she tells me not to worry. She gave me an apple she managed to finagle from one of the fruit vendors at the nearby farmer's market today. When her eyes aren't mired and muddy with drink, she tells me of nice places I can go in the city, like a storyteller would tell children of heavenly cities of gold, of glass, in bottles. I wish I knew what city this is. It's cold at night these days; winter is coming. Does he hear me? Do I have to beg? It's night now, and I'm shivering, despite Mrs Morrison's pink-and-brown quilt. I look up through the canopy of trees, and the leaves seem blood red, the stars achingly bright where they peek through the blue shrouds of clouds. The locket he gave me burns against my chest. I know what I need to be warm, to shake this bone-deep chill I've held since I last saw him. I can't do it. It's so sentimental, but it's all I have of him now. The bastard. Why do I always leave him? I bring this upon myself. But staying, staying... It would mean admitting too much. He makes me his whore. Even I have pride. I can't sleep; the dream has been wearing at me, grinding and scraping, and my nerves are too raw to endure it. This clarity of thought is amazing. I haven't slept in three days now. How long will I have to dread sleep? How long until I'm free of the dream? I know I have to resist sleep, just a little longer, until he comes. But when will he come? And will the dreams end then? I ease myself horizontal, rest my head against a roll of newspaper, staring up at the sky. I just need to rest my eyes for a moment... ...I've been drifting. I blink. Could I have fallen asleep? The moon is higher in the sky now than it was when I first closed my eyes. I don't remember if I dreamed. I want to go somewhere, do something. It's oppressive, claustrophobic, this stillness and quiet, now broken only by a faint wail of sirens far off in the distance. The night hasn't been my true friend since it made me its slave, since I got over the novelty of waking with my lover and sleeping with the dawn's light. Now that I can't escape it... I pull myself up, and I realise that there is no pain as my abused muscles stir and come back from slumber. The blanket is too hot, and I let it drop from my shoulders, struggling for a moment to untangle my limbs from its grasp. I don't know why the air isn't so cold anymore; only that the change is wonderful. I feel dizzy. God, it's good to move! I stretch, lifting my stiff arms to the stars, splaying my fingers into thin, pale branches against the sky. I shake my head, and the resistance of air feels good against the greasy, too-long mass of my hair. I feel...alive. There's a small trail I never noticed before a few dozen yards away, its path obscured by the thick barrier of trees edging the park, which is starting to feel less like a city park and more like a small clearing in a forest. Why didn't I ever explore before? Why did I sleep so long? I follow the path. It's been a long time since I've gone camping. The darkness of the woods takes getting used to; I can't even imagine what life must have been like five hundred years ago, when illumination only came from fires and candles. How does my love endure the light? The woods are so still... Which...feels wrong. It seems too still. I can't hear any bird-sounds or insects; not even the low roar of rushing air and electricity that envelops cities late at night. I break through the wall of trees, and there's a clearing. And a pond. It draws me. I want to swim, see my reflection, anything that involves that smooth black mirror sprawled across the meadow. It's been awhile since I've gone swimming, and my skin tingles at the memory of cool water slipping past it, stroking and soaking and wrinkling. I want to be clean. I want to see what I have become. There are no ripples in the water as I approach it; no sound or sign of life anywhere around. I fall to my knees on a soft patch of grass, feeling the dampness of dew soaking into my sweatpants, and it's not cold, though I know it should be. I lean forward on my hands as I peer into the surface of the pond. I blink against the painfully sharp silver sliver of the moon's reflection in the water, and then my eyes focus, and I gaze down at my own. Even in the wan moonlight, my skin looks too flat. My eyes don't seem to be there at all; only dark socket-shaped shadows take their place on my face. I shift, supporting myself on one hand as I lift the other to my jaw, scratching along the rough stubble. I look...dead. I touch the tip of my finger to the water mirroring my nose, and the image seems to shatter. There's a soft sound, one that could be mistaken for a bird, or even just a leaf hitting the ground. But I know it isn't. It's laughter. I freeze. I hear footsteps, very quiet, but clearly audible in the silence. I'm not alone. I see the frost-white reflection of another in the pond, the giveaway. And she's so pretty, so pale, like my lover, just a soft-smiling blur across the broken surface of the pond. And she's smiling at me... ...I open my eyes again, and I know I'm nowhere I have been before. The pond is gone; the clearing is gone. Whatever city that was is gone. I'm in a building, and the ceiling is high, arching majestically, reaching and stretching miles and miles above me. It looks like a church...but somehow I know this is a castle. For a moment, I can see myself from above: My body sprawled across the floor of a cavernous room, too pale, too scrawny, the skin around my closed eyes a slightly cooler shade of violet than the eyes themselves. My clothes are torn, loosely covering the careless spread of bony limbs and too-sharp cheekbones and dull blond hair that I seem to have been reduced to. I still look dead. And then I'm back in my body, and I can distantly feel the toes of my right foot twitching, curling and straightening experimentally, as if they're learning how to on their own. I feel disconnected, more spirit than flesh. I raise my head, wincing at the dull ache in my neck and shoulders, and look around from this point of view. I didn't see the throne before, from above. But there it is, against the far wall of the room, and the beautiful girl I saw is sitting upon its armrest, leaning against the man sitting in it. They look like male and female reflections of the same androgynous person. The man seems to be much taller, more serious, but their pale skin is an identical shade of paper-white, their hair the same messy mop of black, their limbs frail, like bones. They're talking quietly to each other, the man gesturing in my direction, and the girl's face turns towards me. I can see what looks like a tiny, delicate tattoo of a spiral leading out from the corner of her left eye. "Okay," I can hear her say, as if from a great distance, and she vanishes, a ghost dematerialising. The man stands up. Tall, pale, a horror-movie creature...or a fairy prince from a fantasy. He could be either or both, from this point of view. He towers as he walks toward me, his bare feet making no sound, and I find myself turning my head away, watching the strange swirls of movement behind the colourful stained-glass windows along one of the walls. Yes, this could be a church...but there are no religious figures in the windows. On the left side of the wall, the glass is arranged in gracefully-random patterns; on the right, there are dark-cloaked figures. One of them looks like a slightly harsher version of this man; another, like the beautiful girl. He stops, standing over my fallen form. I can't look away from his eyes. They're...black holes. Sockets. Huge empty spaces in his face. He has no eyes. But wait: There's a faint glint, a reflection of light. Alien-eyes then, the eyes of an insect, something clearly not human. Something that never was human. Silently, he bends down, just far enough to offer a hand at a level where I could grasp it if I tried. I raise myself up on my elbows, and it's as if the movement is an anchor, a tether pulling myself back into my body to feel and see clearly again. The brush of a lock of hair across my forehead is excruciating; the tug of the ill-used muscles in my shoulders and arms makes me quiver, like a string strummed. But I lift my arm and clasp his hand in mine. "Silken skin" is a cliche. There's no such thing, in real life. But is this real life? His skin is perfect, like fine marble, no blemishes or variations in colour, just this sleek frost white, like expensive paper, like cream, like... Like my lover, only more so. My eyes follow the clean lines of his outstretched arm, and I notice that the skin is completely smooth, hairless, and so is his chest, exposed from where the black cloak he's wearing has slipped open. And I can't help but wonder about the rest of his body, and if he's wearing anything under the cloak. What am I thinking? The endless nights of meaningless sex with strangers, of being an empty vessel for another's lust...have they changed me that much? Would I have thought this before? Would I have even looked? I don't even know what he is. My head falls back as he lifts me to my feet, his other arm wrapping around my shoulders to steady me, and the ceiling sways, momentarily dizzying. Then I'm on my feet, and the wasteland-eyes are capturing mine again. It's clear that he's expecting a question. Who are you? What are you? What is this place? Who was that woman? "Why?" I ask, and the low rasp of my voice surprises me. I thought I could at least still speak clearly. Am I that gone? "I've made a...bargain...with my sister," he says, and it's clear that there will be no further explanation on that point. I have to look away from him. "But what are you?" A pause. "Do you know why you've been dreaming of the Twins?" A bonding of blood, a spiritual link with the immortals...none of those explanations ever quite fit. It's a question that has plagued me. "No." But how could he know about that? Black and white, black and white, like all the scars in the sky... God, that impossible face. I close my eyes. I am trapped: Whenever he speaks, I must look at him. And whenever he looks at me, I must look away. "You are connected through the Dreaming," he says, and I can hear the capital "D." Not a nebulous thing, a concept, but a place... Connection. "That's where I am now, isn't it." He nods, and I am transfixed by the sway of his spiky, sloppy (lovely) hair as it slashes and weaves in sensual black rhythm, the strands like dancers. The Dreaming. The place I explore when I am sleeping. Then...this isn't real. I can do anything I want here, then, can't I? It's just a dream, a Dream...no. This is too real. But it can't be... ...and if this isn't real, who is he? "I am the Lord of the Dreaming," he says, quietly, answering my unspoken question, and I laugh. A madness that comes in dreams, then. "You expect me to believe that? You don't exist." Just a delusion. More gravy than grave? Less. This must be what happens when you don't eat or sleep for too long...delirium. Now I know why this is all so unrealistic: It's all in my head. I have gone mad. For some reason, I remember, vaguely, something someone I used to know said. Was it Armand? 'I'll tell you what I fear... That it's chaos after you die, that it's a dream from which you can't wake.' What am I thinking? I need to wake up. I can. I turn away from him, and I realise that the room has no doors. None. The windows are too high up to exit through, and I have a feeling that they don't lead outside, anyway. Wherever outside is. I don't really have much choice but to face him again, and I do. He's standing just as he was before I looked away, his face smooth and unreadable. He blinks, and I absentmindedly watch the flickering flutter of his eyelashes, long and thick, more like ragged scraps of soft fabric, perhaps felt, than individual hairs, as they sweep through the air. Down, up again. Lord of the Dreaming, huh. I speak, and I seem to be finished shouting, for now. My voice comes out even and controlled, if a bit too flat. "Say something." It shouldn't be possible for those eyes to darken, but they seem to do exactly that, flaring into onyx fire to melt the cool black ice that they were just a moment ago. And... He grabs me, and those eyes are piercing mine, devouring them, hypnotising... "I exist," he says, and he kisses me. He may have made a bargain with his sister, but what kind of bargain have I unwittingly made? I try to pull away, but he holds me fast; I can hardly breathe. It's surprisingly chaste, just the press of lips to lips, but still suffocating in its heat. He releases me. I almost want to laugh. Imagine that - even the "Lord of Dreams" can't resist me. What is it about me? The greasy hair, the unwashed clothes? Even in my dreams, this always happens... I close my eyes again, and I can't quite articulate my question, so only its first word will have to suffice. "Why?" I open my eyes, tentatively, in time to see him close his, and his face looks almost normal like this. He lets out a breath, starting to speak, and then he stops himself before I can understand what he was about to say. The loose grip of his hand tightens, and I wince as already-sore muscles protest. His eyes open, and the fire is higher, hotter. "I have granted you a boon, on a whim," he says, and though it's clear he means to intimidate me, he sounds more angry with himself. I pull away from him, and, surprisingly, he lets me go. "And I owe you this? This is how I repay you? Some boon," I spit, and the venom in my own voice is surprising, even to me. Is it even him I'm talking to, now? He steps back, eyes wide (wider), the hand that had touched me now at his heart, clutching at the folds of his cloak. And something hollow and cold rolls through my mind, unbidden: It's so lonely. His face is a mask, a smooth porcelain replica of a human face, angry and proud...and hurt. He's trying to hide it, clearly, but it still glows in his eyes. I wonder if he can cry. Jesus. I'm wondering about the emotional status of "the Lord of the Dreaming." Who just suggested that I owed him something, for letting me take this strange little trip. Are figments of my imagination always this pushy? But I can almost remember the time before Armand, when I'd go for months, years, without being touched... I let myself slump to my knees, hands rubbing at my temples. I just want everything to be...safe, again. What am I thinking about? I have no time machine to take me back to that night in 1976, no way to change the path my life started down that night. Where would I be now, if I had decided to just stay in the bar with my friends, if I hadn't started talking to the quiet, beautiful man who insisted he was a vampire, if I hadn't allowed my curiousity to get the better of me? Who knows. I might be dead. I might be married. I might have a boring nine-to-five job. I might have children. I might still have friends. There is no way of knowing, or being safe again. But I can still wish. A slim finger, insidious as a serpent, wends its way into my hair. To avoid his eyes, I look down at myself, my attire, and the practical side of me groans; these clothes were findings, presents, and I like them. The button-down black sweater hangs open, displaying the fishnet shirt I've been wearing for warmth underneath, a gift from a punk street kid who wore a spiked collar, to match that of the kitten he took everywhere with him on a leash, and still got clothes from his parents when he bothered to return home. The grey sweatpants have large rips in the left knee and in the seam along the inner thigh of the right leg, gaping open. I'm a mess. There's a soft sound, and I look up. He's kneeling before me, eyes level with mine now, and the hand in my hair slips down to grasp my chin, forcing our eyes to meet. His other hand, braced on the floor, reaches up, and I instinctively flinch back before I realise that he's not reaching for me. He's reaching for his own cloak, fingers pinching an edge and drawing it back like a curtain, revealing himself to me. Smooth alabaster skin everywhere, defining a long, slender body, stronger than I would have guessed by the fragility of his fingers and arms, flesh like stone all over...but especially there. I drink in his body with my eyes: The long, almost swanlike column of his neck. Gracefully-curved collarbones. Subtly-muscular torso. Lean, boyish hips... The hand cupping my jaw turns, sliding down to my chest, down my stomach, and then glides up my leg, fingers deftly stroking their way into the holes in the worn fabric covering them to touch my bare skin. "Daniel," he says, voice now a warm, almost husky counter to the frozen, windy mind-whisper. This is the first time he has acknowledged my name. The sound frees me, lets me move again, and I can't resist sliding my hands into the raven's nest of his hair. I used to have a girlfriend, a year or so before the Change, who did her hair like this; it was always stiff and matted against my skin, sticky with hairspray and tangled in over-teased clumps. But his hair is strikingly soft, a thick, rumpled mop of satiny wisps slipping airily through my fingers. He makes a sound suspiciously like a purr, rubbing against my hand, and I'm suddenly flat on my back on the floor. His body cleaves to mine, mouth brushing, then locking to my own, and it's like being licked by fire, his fingers easily finding the gaps and tears in my clothes and sweeping hungrily across my flesh, the touches evoking flashes behind my eyes, warm and clear, like honey, amber... And the throne room dissolves, its brightness dimming to a small, dark room, and we're on a bed. It has to be a canopy, because real ceilings aren't black lace; real walls aren't feathery black spun-sugar drapes of soft spiderweb fabric, swaths surrounding and enclosing us like a ghost-moth's cocoon. Things are making less sense, more like a true dream, the lucidity dropping and blurring as his warm body presses mine down into soft blackness. I haven't been with anyone since I last left Armand, three months ago, and I can't even remember the last time I slept with someone who wasn't a puppet to Armand's desires, who didn't have it firmly in mind that this was a one-night stand, nothing more, and would be forgotten as soon as the morning came. Then again, he probably does. But he also probably isn't imagining my lover behind his closed eyes, pretending it's him he's touching, like so many of my erstwhile partners. We're both naked now, I think, bodies slick with sweat, and his hips settle between my legs like they were always meant to be there, his legs shifting mine further apart. His mouth is clamped to my throat, a strange parody of my lover's kiss, and I reach out for him, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling his head up. He raises himself up on his hands, crouching above me, eyes glinting faintly even in this darkness. And then his mouth crushes down on mine, and his hands come down to grasp my calves, raising them up over his shoulders. I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't let him...it's been a long time since I've done this... I can't seem to make myself tell him no, however. And it's not a matter of telling; it's a matter of wanting, I realise. And I do want. I do want. He pushes in, and I brace myself for a pain that doesn't come. His hands settle on my back as he pulls me closer, shifts himself deeper. He moves, and God, I shouldn't like this, shouldn't, shouldn't let myself be drawn to the rhythm, shouldn't, shouldn't... I shiver; his heart beats within me, throbbing in time with my own, pounding with our rhythm... His strained face fills my vision, eyes glittering, huge and black, all-encompassing... "I'm sorry, ma'am. Did you know him well?" Who...? I can't see anything. I hear the unfamiliar voice from a distance, warm and human and real, even now. "He was...a sweet lad. Like a son to me." Mrs Morrison? Her voice is choked, and I can hear her sob. The sounds are sharpening, getting closer and clearer, and I listen. "Did you know his name?" "Donny...Damien...um...let me think..." "Daniel." That voice. I open my eyes. The first thing I see is the tree, still leaning over the bench, and I realise that all the leaves are gone. I blink, and I see their faces. Three figures standing over me, all staring like I've come back from the dead: Mrs Morrison. A tall black man in a police uniform. And a pale, slender young boy... A boy with the face of a painted angel, eyes of soft warm glass, like the sweetest, deadliest doll... He kneels before me, and I sit up, eyes catching on the black limousine parked at the nearest curb. "I've been looking for you for a long time, Daniel," he murmurs, low enough so that the still-gaping policeman doesn't hear. What happened? They thought you were dead. Was I? He doesn't answer. "My brother," he says aloud, "it is time you came home. Father's waiting." "This is your brother?" asks the cop, incredulous, comparing my worn, filthy clothes with Armand's tailored elegance. "Yes," he says, clasping his hands together. "He worries us a great deal, but we love him." He helps lift me to my feet, and I can't help but grab onto him for support, pulling him to me. His arms wrap around me, carefully, and I let my head drop to his shoulder. And over that shoulder, in the distance, I almost make out a pond, black as the Dreamking's eyes... The cop stops him, duty calling, despite the shock still evident on his face. "You can't just do that," he says. "I need to file a report..." Armand looks at him; he flinches, almost imperceptibly. "What happened?" the policeman asks, much quieter this time. "I accidentally fell in the pond," I hear myself say. He frowns, face going strange. "But there's no pond around here." Armand shakes his head. "Forgive my brother; he is prone to flights of fantasy. Now, we must go." He releases me, and I blink, the vision vanishing, as he ushers me toward the limo, the hand clutching my wrist a gentle vise. Will I ever know what really happened? Maybe it was all just a dream. But I don't think it was. I should feel very awake right now, after so long a sleep. But as Armand lays my stiff body across the soft cushions of the limo's backseat, I can feel myself drifting... Waiting for the dream. (http://star.less.as/) ************************************** Get a sneak peek of the all-new AOL at http://discover.aol.com/memed/aolcom30tour
