The Devil's Shadow | The Empty World Sequence

Eight

Los Angeles 2093 AD, the day before Halloween.

The story had stopped, Daniel was aware of that before he was aware of sleep, of waking from it.  And after realising that he was not listening to a story he became afraid that he'd dreamed up bits of it.  Daniel was convinced he wasn't remembering the story right.  It wouldn't have taken him long at all to dream that Death was female or that she had black hair that danced above her head.  It wouldn't even have taken long for Daniel to dream that the devil was a flaming queer.  And if he ever tried telling the story to anyone else he'd probably misquote all the characters.

He woke the other half of himself that had been stuck sleeping by sitting up in a violent movement.  The room seemed unchanged from the night before, same precise level of dimness.  He wondered if it were really the next day.  Daniel sighed.  One thing was certain, he was alone. 

He let himself into the bathroom, pissed, looked in the mirror.  His face looked a little puffy, but that wasn't unusual in the morning.  He lay back against the wall wondering what had become of Chris.  Daniel hoped he hadn't fallen asleep before hearing what this long and ancient tale could have to do with someone coming to Chris' door.  He thought of finding a clock. 

Daniel stepped onto the carpeting, felt it beneath his feet for the first time that he had noticed then spied his shoes sitting neatly under the daybed beside a pair of 11 hole Doc's.  Chris must be one of those neat freaks, close to anal-retentive.  Daniel had lived in houses with people like that, you'd drop your clothes on the floor and wake to find them neatly folded, or worse: hanging in a closet.  He thought he remembered a movie in which a woman on the run from her psychotic and anal husband had purposely set things in annoying and lopsided ways knowing if they were ever set right he had been there and she should run. 

Sometimes Daniel felt he ran habitually.  He certainly remembered running from New York.  But if Daniel were going to decide to do anything habitually it wouldn't be running.  It would be drinking.  But it seemed then that it was only that the drinking came before the running, the same people drove him to both. 

He found an old watch, one of the rare Death Watches, the one with an ankh on the end of the minute hand.  These watches with the comic book character Death on them were perverse but brilliantly marketed things.  Imagine owning a watch that counted the seconds of your life away.  Well, imagine that you were conscious of it, looked down at Death's Goth-chick face every time you wanted to know the time. 

It was nearly noon. 

Chris wasn't around and under the table Troy yawned then rose.  Daniel noticed only then the studded vinyl collar and silvery tag hanging off its slave ring.  Cute that, putting bondage collars on your pets.  But it was a wolf!

It looked up at Daniel then, yellow eyes looking somehow very serious.  Its fur was gray all along its back, almost silver in parts, and completely white below, even on its feet.  Daniel backed toward the bathroom.  The wolf followed.  Daniel looked around for something.  His bloody shirt was hanging on the towel rack.   And my clothes, shall I throw them in the fire?

 The wolf stared up at him.  Daniel threw his shirt down before the wolf.  It held the shirt down with its forepaws and chewed at it. 

It didn't seem it really wanted to hurt Daniel.  And Daniel did want to touch it.  It wasn't every day you got to pet a wolf. 

He knelt beside the animal and ran his finger through the fur on its back.  "It's OK, just me," he said to it.  Looked down at the wolf dick, saw it was male.

He was licking at Daniel's wrist.  Daniel rubbed the wolf's neck with his left hand. 

He felt teeth breaking the skin of his other wrist.  He fell backward, yelled.  Troy was lapping blood from his wrist.  Daniel pulled his arm away, scrambled backward.  The wolf was staring up at him, long fangs bared.