Date: Tue, 5 Oct 2010 18:18:59 -0600
From: Katya_Dee <concertoind@gmail.com>
Subject: The Dreamtrap - chapter 27

This is a story of fiction, all resemblances (dead or alive) are eerily
coincidental. Everything in the story is owned by myself beloved. Contains
descriptive sexual scenes between males, if you are not supposed to read it
then don't. Feel free to e-mail me.

****


- XXVII -


               Henry got to the airport and slowly made his way towards the
front desk.

   "I have a ticket reserved for me," he said to the man behind the desk and
carefully put his easel on the floor. "Henry Allister," he added, and the
man nodded and his fingers started flying above the keyboard of his
computer.

   "Here you go," he said a minute later and handed Henry the ticket.

   "Thanks," the artist muttered and looked at the departure time. It said
3:15. Henry glanced at the clock; it was only 12:55, and he sighed and
picked up the easel.

   On the way here, while he was sitting in the cab, he suddenly remembered
that he completely forgot to mention something else about that blasted
painting; something that the ghost made him to do. "...leave it there, but
cover it up. I don't want it to be noticeable..." he remembered her saying. He
frowned when he realized that he never mentioned it to Julian or Gabriel. He
almost thought of asking the driver to go back, but then he saw blinking
lights of the airport not too far away, and changed his mind. Whatever the
ghost was trying to achieve by making him put that certain number underneath
a coat of paint, would be futile right now, he thought. The painting is
gone, which means, whatever the ghost (Magda) was planning, wouldn't work
anyway.

   ...He sighed and headed towards the cafe, digging in his pockets. He knew
that he had some cash on him; it wasn't much – ten talons at the most – but
it was enough for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

   ...He swallowed the last piece of sandwich and finished his coffee,
feeling better by now – food was good. The entire situation didn't infuriate
him as much as it did before; he was on his way home, Salamander never even
hurt him, he was alive, and he had an easel. He grinned at the last part.
Then he thought of Emma and sighed. To be honest, he silently agreed with
Desmond when the man said, "It was a win-win situation for you." At first,
he felt genuine grief every time he thought of her; now, however, his grief
was diluted with relief – he wouldn't have to endure any more humiliation
every time Emma would shut down his free will yet again, just so she could
make him do something that he would normally decline with passion. He knew
that she enjoyed humiliating him, and she was perfectly aware of the fact
that he remembered everything after she released her hold on him.

   He sighed again and looked at the big clock outside the cafe. It was
almost two in the morning; he had more than an hour until his plane would
take off. Henry got up, grabbed his easel, and left the cafe, heading
towards the bathroom.

   Ten minutes later, he was washing his hands, and then he blinked several
times when he caught himself whistling. He grinned and turned off the
faucet, reaching for the paper towel.

   "So nice to see you in a good mood," he heard a dark voice, and he froze,
water from his hands dripping onto the counter. "You sold me out to that
psychotic blond, you little traitor... Thanks to you, I am still stuck here
and my plan is now ruined...!"

   "No..." Henry muttered, jerking backwards, away from the mirror, praying
for someone to walk into the bathroom and get him out of here. "No... Leave
me alone... I am going home...!"

   "You are not going anywhere, Henry," the ghost said coldly. "I have a
plan B, and you are going to help me out without betraying me this time!"

   "Leave me alone!" he screamed, trying to get away from the mirror, and
suddenly, he was rooted to the floor, unable to move. "Help...!" he yelled
desperately.

   "Shhh...!" the ghost pressed her finger against reflected Henry's mouth,
and the artist choked on his own voice – he couldn't make a single sound, it
seemed. "Now," the ghost continued with a slight nod. "I don't need you to
paint anything this time," she gave him a cold smile. "I have different
plans for you!"

   She turned towards Henry's reflection and stepped closer to him, putting
her hands onto his shoulders – they were almost the same height (the ghost
was maybe a couple of inches shorter than the artist was) and she didn't
even have to look up. She leaned closer and planted a long, deep kiss on his
mouth. Suddenly, the surface of the mirror shimmered in a slight silver
wave, and then the ghost was gone, and Henry's reflection was the only one
that occupied the mirror right now.

   The artist looked at his reflection for a couple of minutes, and then his
lips stretched in a slow, satisfied smile.

   "Easy-breezy," he muttered, and then tutted with irritated regret. "Too
bad it won't last too long... Oh, well," he shrugged. "I'll take this for
now."

   With that, he turned around and left the bathroom, his easel forgotten in
the corner. He made his way towards the entrance of the airport, and gave a
small, absent-minded smile to the man behind the front desk. The man
politely smiled in return, recognizing him – it only has been an hour or so
since he gave the ticket to the artist – and he never noticed that Henry's
light-blue eyes changed colors. Now they were brown instead.



 ****



   It was ten in the morning, and Desmond's mood could not possibly get any
darker. Obvious reasons aside, there was also the fact that he didn't get
much sleep last night, since Rayhe would shake him awake every half an hour
or so.

   "I have to make sure that you don't slip into that damn coma again!"
Gabriel said after Desmond looked like he was about to murder him with
extreme violence after he shook him awake for the third time. "I can't
sleep, Des! I keep thinking that you won't wake up again...!"

   "Dammit, Rayhe...!" Desmond remembered himself saying. "If I slip into
that bloody coma, shaking me won't do you much good anyway! Just let me
sleep, will you?"

   "You slept for ten days," Gabriel nodded firmly, and Desmond gritted his
teeth helplessly, knowing that he would be woken up again tonight, and more
than just once.

   "Believe me," he said through his clenched teeth. "I do *not *feel
refreshed!"

   "You can take naps during the day while I am at work," Rayhe nodded
again, as firmly. He seemed to be determined not to let Desmond to get any
sleep tonight whatsoever. "I am sorry, but I am going to keep you awake," he
said, confirming Desmond's suspicions. "I will probably stop freaking out
soon enough, but right now, I am keeping you awake. Sorry," he nodded yet
again.

   "Sorry my ass," Desmond growled softly. "Bloody hell, Rayhe! Do you
seriously expect me to play cards with you for the rest of the night?"

   "Who said anything about cards?" Gabriel frowned slightly and shoved
Desmond back onto the pillows. "I went without you for ten bloody days, and
I did not want to molest you while you were unconscious... Even though the
idea has occurred to me," he added with a small sigh.

   "Dammit, Rayhe..." Desmond started growling again, when Gabriel shut him
up with his mouth, and Desmond did not get any sleep until Rayhe's alarm
went off at seven in the morning.

   He promptly fell asleep as soon as Gabriel got out of bed, and he slept
for an hour and a half, before he was woken up at 8:30 in the morning by
something that sounded like moaning screams.

   "What the..." he muttered with a small, somewhat concerned frown, about
to get out of bed, wondering whether someone was being attacked violently,
when he heard:

   "Oh, oh, oh...! Oh, harder...! Oh, yeah, like that...! Ohh, don't stop,
oh God, don't stop...!"

   "Fucking hell," he muttered and plopped a pillow on top of his head,
trying to go back to sleep.

   Pillow proved itself to be utterly useless, and ten minutes later,
Desmond hissed a creative profanity under his breath, threw the pillow into
the wall, and got out of bed, hissing something nonstop without pausing for
air.

   "More...!" he heard while he marched to the shower, all but kicking the
wall while he walked. "Julian, more...! Oh, yeah, like that... Don't...
Ohh...! Don't stop...! Julian, don't stop...!"

   "And Rayhe says *I *am loud..." Desmond muttered and slammed the bathroom
door shut. "He should hear *this*..."

   The sound of running water muffled all the screaming somewhat
successfully, and Desmond stayed in the shower until he was positive that he
wouldn't have to endure any more of `Don't stop...!' When that seemed to be
the case, he turned off the water and got out of the shower. Sleep was out
of the question by now – Desmond was wide-awake and he craved coffee. He
glanced at the clock and sighed – it was 9:45 in the morning. He blinked
when he realized that all the screaming stopped less than ten minutes ago.
He grudgingly admired Salamander's stamina, got dressed, and went into the
kitchen where he immediately started working the coffeemaker.

   Coffee was ready by ten in the morning, and Desmond was drinking it
slowly, while furiously dragging on his cigarette and contemplating
different scenarios in his head. All of those scenarios were equally
violent. He heard footsteps some time later, and raised his head. Julian
walked into the kitchen, and he looked as if he had eight or more hours of
very refreshing sleep – the blond looked impeccable. "Damn him," Desmond
thought gloomily.

   "Good morning," Salamander said mildly and walked to the cupboard,
reaching for the coffee mug.

   "Go get your own damn coffee," Desmond thought, but then sighed. He is
not going to be a cheapskate, he thought and dragged on his cigarette again.

   He muttered something that sounded like `morning,' and watched the blond
drink his coffee rather quickly and reach for his phone.

   "Bring the car," he said shortly into the phone and snapped it shut.

   He finished his coffee, put the mug into the sink, shoved the phone into
his pocket, and glanced at the clock. Then he nodded to himself quickly and
walked to the front door.

   "Goodbye," he said before leaving the house, and Desmond stabbed his
cigarette in the ashtray.

   He sighed when the door creaked closed, got off his chair, and walked
towards the coffeemaker, his mug empty by now.

   ...It was almost one in the afternoon when Desmond heard water running in
the shower. Half an hour after that, Raven walked into the kitchen, and he
looked content.

   "Morning," he said, and Desmond sighed and shut the book he was reading.

   "It's one-thirty in the afternoon," he nodded.

   "Oh," Raven threw a quick glance on the clock. "Umm, is there any
restaurant in six-mile range?"

   Desmond sighed again.

   "Just look in the fridge," he said and put the book away, reaching for
his cigarettes. "Eat whatever you want; as long as you cook for yourself,
it's all good."

   "Thanks," Raven nodded with a small smile and walked to the fridge.

   "I need to go to the bookstore," Desmond said ten minutes later, watching
him break several eggs into the frying pan. Raven threw him a quick glance.
"Yes," Desmond nodded. "I need you to go with me; the bookstore is about
five miles away, but I am not taking any chances. I really don't want to
pass out in the middle of the road."

   "All right," Raven sighed and threw several slices of ham into the frying
pan as well. "Give me twenty minutes... Is that all right?"

   "That's fine," Desmond replied, watching him somewhat thoughtfully. "Are
you always this loud?" he asked suddenly, and Raven's ears turned slightly
pink.

   "Oh," he said and turned off the stove, reaching for the plate. "You've
heard, huh..."

   "I am pretty sure the entire block heard that," Desmond nodded firmly.

   "Oh," Raven said again and dumped the eggs and ham onto the plate,
carefully setting the frying pan aside. "Yeah, I..." he coughed and grabbed
a fork out of the drawer. "I kinda lose it sometimes... I didn't wake you
up, did I?" he shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, leaning on the
counter.

   "Yeah, you did," Desmond sighed again and slid his lighter into his
pocket.

   "Mmm..." Raven shook his head, chewing on his food. "Sorry," he said when
he swallowed everything.

   "I'll take a nap when we come back..." Desmond shrugged, and then he
frowned slightly. "If you two are gonna go at it again, tell him to shut you
up, would you? I didn't get any sleep last night, I am rather tired..."

   Raven hemmed at that and cleaned his plate with the fork the best he
could; Desmond was impressed at how quickly all that food has disappeared.

   "Yeah," the smaller man put the plate into the sink and wiped his hands
on the towel. "Let's go," he nodded.

   Desmond nodded as well and headed towards the garage. Raven frowned.

   "I thought your car was outside," he said.

   "It is," Desmond agreed and opened the door that led to the garage. "We
are not taking the car; it's almost out of gas and I am not going towards
the gas station."
   He pushed the button on the wall, and when the garage door slowly slid
up, Raven let out a low whistle. He was staring at the shining black
motorcycle, which sat proudly in the middle of the half-empty garage.
Desmond smiled somewhat smugly after he saw the other man's expression.

   "Got it a month ago," he nodded. "Rayhe hates it," he sighed.

   Raven blinked at that.

   "Holy hell, why?" he asked with genuine puzzlement. He squinted his eyes
just a little. "Is this an Antana?" he asked in almost awed voice, and
Desmond smiled again – wider this time.

   "Yup," he nodded. "Rayhe hates it because it can go a hell of a lot
faster than my car," he sighed again. "He calls it `a suicide machine'..."
He shrugged. "Let's just say, he doesn't really ride it a lot," he nodded
firmly and walked towards the motorcycle. "Come on," he looked at Raven, who
was still staring at the bike.

   "Helmet...?" Raven asked when he hopped onto the bike behind Desmond.
"Never mind..." he sighed when the ex-assassin threw him a look that was
almost mocking. "Let's go," he wrapped his arms around Desmond's waist, and
the other man slowly wheeled the bike out of the garage and pushed a white
hooked-on button on one of the handles, causing the garage door to start
slowly sliding down.



****



   Henry watched the house for the last couple of hours, and he was getting
more and more frustrated.

   "Shit," he muttered through his clenched teeth at 1:45 in the afternoon.
"They are not even going to leave? Crap...! I don't have much time left
here... Dammit, son of a..."

   He kept cursing softly for the next five minutes, and finally, he spat on
the ground in helpless fury and whirled around, clearly intending on
leaving. Just as he did that, the garage door of the house slid open, and
Henry's head immediately snapped back, his eyes turning into brown slits.

   "Finally...!" he breathed with great relief and quickly went towards his
car, never letting those two figures out of his sight.

   He watched Desmond kick the bike to life, and snorted impatiently when
they took off in a flash, leaving nothing but a curtain of lazy dust behind
them.

   He got to his car (well, it wasn't *his *car exactly, but it would do for
now; he made sure that he didn't leave any prints anywhere inside or outside
the vehicle – this body didn't need to be imprisoned, it still had some use
in the future), slid into the driver's seat, and started the engine.

   "Careful now..." he muttered, while watching the bike to disappear in the
horizon. "You know that son of a bitch is extremely intuitive... Don't
follow him too close..."

   He quickly threw the car into gear and muttered something under his
breath when he caught up to Desmond's bike on the very first traffic light.
He made sure that he stayed at least a couple of cars behind, never shifting
his gaze, and not bothering with the traffic. Then, five or so minutes
later, the bike flew into the exit that led to the freeway, and Henry cursed
again. He knew that he wouldn't be able to keep up with that bike – the car
that he had now was nowhere near impressive when it came to speed (Henry
didn't want to risk stealing something better) and the bike would leave him
behind in a heartbeat.

   "Damn you," he muttered through his clenched teeth, his eyes locked on
Desmond. "Goddamn you... Asshole!"

   To his wary relief, he saw the bike take another exit several minutes
later, and his jaw unlocked. That exit led to the shopping center, and it
was clear that was where those two were heading. Henry pulled to the
shoulder of the freeway and killed the engine. "I can't get to them myself,"
he thought while his fingers tapped quick rhythm on the steering wheel.
"They know this face... I also can't get into the house; I am not risking
it. Neither am I risking getting to them through mirrors... That damn blond
almost killed me already..." He gritted his teeth. "Twice...! All right...
Let me think..."

   Finally, he slowly nodded to himself and started the car. The plan wasn't
perfect, but it would do for now. He tutted with regret when he realized
that the plan would cut his time much shorter than he hoped for – he had
maybe four more hours of being able to inhabit this particular body as of
now. After that, it would be his (well, *hers*) original-self returning to
her mirrored cell while the artist would regain the control of his body and
mind. If he went through with this plan, however, it would leave him with
two hours at the most before he'd be kicked back into the mirrors.

   "That's fine," he muttered while he was making his way towards the
shopping center and driving around, heading towards the freeway yet again –
this time he was going back.

   Fifteen minutes later, he finally saw what he was looking for – a militia
cruiser parked on the shoulder of the freeway. He pulled over and thought
for a couple of minutes. What he was planning, was risky, he knew that. "Oh,
Henry," he thought with a small sigh. "There is a good chance you might get
shot... I am willing to take that risk," he shrugged, turned the car off,
and got outside, heading towards the cruiser.

   He frowned slightly, thinking that if he goes through with his plan
successfully, it would leave him with two hours or maybe even less of being
able to hold onto reality. "Let's hope those two are done with whatever the
hell they are doing," he thought with the same frown. Then the frown
smoothed out somewhat. "If everything goes fine," he thought. "I might be
able to finish this right here!"

   He nodded to himself and walked faster. Once he was near the cruiser, he
yanked the passenger's door open and slid inside, smiling brightly at the
startled trooper. The trooper was young – twenty-one at the most – and
obviously inexperienced, and that was probably why Henry didn't get a bullet
between his eyes. The artist's smile became even toothier when he saw
trooper's hand jerk slightly towards the holster on his belt.

   "No need for that," he murmured and leaned forward, knocking the coffee
cup out of the cup holder in between the seats.

   Before the trooper could make another move, Henry smashed his lips
against the startled man's mouth, latching on so hard that the trooper let
out an involuntary groan. Then the artist's body jerked spasmodically for a
couple of seconds, while the trooper became rigid all of a sudden. Henry's
eyes rolled backwards and he fell facedown into the younger man's lap,
completely still, and clearly unconscious.

   The trooper blinked several times, and then smiled slowly. He quickly
shoved his hand into unconscious Henry's pocket, and several seconds later,
he let out a satisfied sigh, and pulled out something that looked like a
medium-sized brooch in the shape of a spider. The spider sparkled gold in
the beam of sunlight, and the trooper smiled almost lovingly.

   "Hello, my darling..." he muttered and brought the brooch closer to his
face. Spider's eyes gleamed dark-blue for a second or so, and then the
brooch became lifeless.

   The trooper smiled again and lowered his hand, staring into the side view
mirror without blinking.

   ...Forty-five or so minutes later, trooper's lazy, relaxed posture
suddenly became alert and quite agitated.

   "Showtime..." he muttered, glancing at unconscious Henry in the
passenger's set. He knew that the artist would be out of it for at least
another hour, and he nodded to himself seriously.

   The black bike zoomed by the cruiser, and the trooper let out short
laughter and brought the engine to life, while turning on the siren and
flashing lights. He stepped onto the gas pedal hard, knowing that militia
cruisers were insanely fast – catching onto that bike would be a child's
game. The bike picked up more speed, but then it slowed down, as if
realizing that it was told to pull over.

   The trooper let out another short laughter and brought the cruiser to a
dead stop, once the bike froze on the shoulder of the freeway. He left the
flashing lights on and killed the siren. Then his hand dove into his pocket,
and he nodded firmly, and got out of the car.

   "Easy-breezy..." he muttered while walking towards that black bike
waiting patiently in the loose gravel of the freeway's shoulder.

****

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