A Prospecting Canine

Sipping his coffee, Jason drove Layathel back to her parents' house. While Jason's folks had insisted he have his own place, Layathel's had insisted she continue to live with them while in college. They took good care of her.

When Jason parked, he was ready to kill the engine and go in with her, but she surprised him by bidding him good night. "It'll take a while," she said when he asked if she didn't want him to go in and help research. "I've been studying this stuff for a while." She got a dreamy look on her face. "I didn't think it'd actually ever be useful, that it could work."

She went inside and he went home. Halfway to the house Jason was glad she'd dismissed him. He had forgotten just how tired he was. A glance at his watch told him it was nearing midnight. Back at his flat, he came in through the double doors, nodded wearily to the receptionist as he crossed the lobby, and staggered into the elevator. Ding! It opened and Jason stumbled to his room and fumbled with his key-card until the door decided to admit him rather out of pity than any sort of successful swipe. Feeling top-heavy with exhaustion, he just tilted forward and let the weight carry him across the parlor, down the hall and to his bedroom. With a spin to get into the right orientation, he plopped back-first onto the bed and was asleep before he could think about anything related to spells, vampires or shooting blanks.

Five in the morning.

Jason awoke bleary-eyed to an enthusiastic knocking on the door. He felt so awful that his mind, of its own volition, began concocting schemes to get out of answering. A lull in the knocking had him drifting again, but then it returned with renewed fervor. Eyes now wide, the whites shot through with red veins, Jason sat up with a great effort. He was still in his clothes from yesterday. He figured it at least meant he didn't have to get dressed. The knocking was now playing in a rhythm that reminded Jason of Curly from the three stooges playing those spoon things on his knees.

Jason pulled the door open to see Layathel with both hands up, knees bent like she were in the middle of a jig in time with the knocking. Jason stared at her. She looked back bashfully. Bending, she picked up a big book from the floor. "Hey," she said. "You look tired." She certainly didn't, looking like she'd gotten a full night's sleep and then eaten a healthy breakfast.

"Yeah." Jason's voice was hoarse.

"Listen, you're gonna love this. I have a spell!" She walked past him, chattering excitedly. Most of it Jason didn't catch. Something about thralls and not a word about coffee.

After listening to her prattle for what must have been five minutes straight, she paused to catch her breath, visibly winded, chest heaving rapidly. Jason hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "Mind if I get some coffee?"

She didn't, so he made some while she waited impatiently, walking all around the kitchen, the living room, and circling the couch. She put her book down on the sofa, and then picked it up again. Jason hardly noticed. Finally he had his mug. He sat with his feet pulled up close on the couch. He blew at the wisps of white steam rising from his coffee. "So," he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the top of his wrist, "you were saying something about spells?"

"Yes! So I got this book a long time ago from some shady bookstore that was probably a front for drug dealers."

"Sheesh."

"What? It's true. The guy behind the counter looked like he had at least one person stuffed and mounted in his basement like a taxidermist. The only reason I was in there is because my parents were looking through every piece of dull junk in an antique shop next door. I can only stare at baubles for so long before I check out." She took a breath. "So according to the contra—" When Jason winced, Layathel rephrased, "That is. . . It seems that family is O.K., but not not family."

"Well done." Jason had a sip of coffee and grimaced as it burned the tip of his tongue.

"Thank you. Well, if you're worried about me, then don't be, because we have a spell to nullify any mental magics."

Jason wouldn't have bought it fully awake, but he barely even registered what she was saying in his present state. "Oh," was all he said.

She shook the book she'd been clinging to since her arrival. "Let's try it!" She sounded like she had a new board-game. As for Jason, he was too tired to object. He just wanted to drink his coffee, so he agreed with a mild shrug. "Great!" Layathel exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "Just sit on the floor," she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the kitchen. "I'll be right there."

Five-thirty in the morning.

Jason was sitting in the middle of his living room, in the center of a circle made of salt, while Layathel read dramatically from her book. She had her own circle, and the two circles overlapped like a Venn Diagram. Sometimes she would get up and fetch something from the kitchen, return, read a line aloud, then sprinkle something or other.

Is she cooking or doing a spell? Jason wondered. Layathel sat down, read a little, then stood up, walked a circle around Jason, then reached out a hand and sprinkled a little pile of salt onto his head. A few white granules cascaded down into his coffee. Jason wondered if perhaps she was cooking him. He took a sip from his mug. The pile of salt on his head shifted and sluiced down onto the floor. Swell.

It sounded like the spell was coming to a head. Layathel was getting louder, now sitting in her own circle, sprinkling what looked like Italian seasoning onto her own hair. She spoke a line in a final sort of way, and a silence ensued. Jason glanced around. Salt plopped into his coffee. Then there was a strange "snapping together" that was difficult to define, but unmistakable. Immediately Jason had the impression that his soul had been lashed to something. To Layathel? It was as inarguable as it was indefinable. Jason felt his chest where a small pressure seemed to be. When he looked up at Layathel, he imagined that her expression, one of shock and deep uncertainty, mirrored his own.

"What did you do?"

"I, I don't know. I mean, I do, but I can't really explain it. We're connected.

"Connected how?"

"Our lives are linked."

"Linked how?"

Layathel's voice dropped, her gaze, still shocked, became almost apologetic. "I don't know."

"Why didn't you explain this beforehand?" Jason demanded, confusion turning to something like fear. Not fear, but great uncertainty. He clutched at his chest, at the pulling sensation, but it alleviated nothing, nor gave him answers. It were as if a thin rope were painlessly set into his chest, and the other end tethered to Layathel. Or perhaps it was just the direction he was facing. Jason set down his coffee and stood, turned. The tugging undeniably remained tugging in her direction; even when he turned all the way around it pulled "through" his chest and out of his back. He looked around to see Layathel staring at her book, then clutching at the air. She could feel it too, this rope-like impression. They were connected, she'd said. Yeah, he could feel it. He understood it, wordlessly. Their togetherness was inevitable. Now all they needed to do was consummate their relationship.

Jason stood suddenly rigid. He had thought about it before, of course, but not like this. His mind was racing with images, actions, techniques—all of them unbidden, unnaturally present, yet each idea possessed of the absolute truth of himself. Layathel looked up at him and the expression of shock and confusion set on her face jolted him from his lascivious reverie. "Layathel," he said quietly. The room was deathly still, save for Layathel's breathing, the whisper of her hair as her head turned, her supple flesh moving on the carpet as she stood. Jason kept his gaze fixed on the floor where she had been. "I need you to go."

"What is it? Look, I didn't think it would really work, you know? I'm sorry, I should have done more research."

"Please. I'm not mad at you, alright?" Jason used every mental muscle he had to restrain himself. "I need you to go."

Layathel didn't say another word. She collected her book and went to the door. Her shoulders were hunched, and he could see by her eyes that she was thinking, trying to come up with some way to make this right, something to say to make it O.K. Jason ached to make it better, but the way he wanted to make it better might not have been what she wanted, and he knew that if he approached her he wouldn't be able to detach himself.

"I'll see you soon." Jason's voice was raspy with effort, but he wanted to comfort her in some way. The way she looked back at him sheepishly let him know that it had worked. Then she was out the door.

The latch clicked. Jason rushed to the door in her absence and locked it with a definite, meaningful flick of his fingers, throwing a metallic Clack! across the room. Demons were running through his mind. He could sense Layathel walking down the hallway, feel her through this thread affixed to his chest. He knew where she was. About to turn into the elevator. He wanted to run after her, but he didn't understand what was happening, and therefore couldn't trust himself. As he resisted the urges, they swelled backed up, roiled within him, manifest as anxiety, nervousness, restlessness. He began pacing, then when that wasn't enough he wandered the suite in manic confusion. He looked wildly through his book collection, hands slapping on the spines. In the kitchen he drank water from the faucet with cupped hands, then splashed his face. In his bedroom he flipped through the songs on his stereo with the RF remote. Volume up. Volume up. Volume up. Next song. Next song. Indecisive and shaking, he left the room, whatever playing, tossing the remote over his shoulder. It clattered to the floor.

An hour later he lay in the middle of the living room, exhausted and heaving.

Layathel stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. Gerald the security guard waved a hand as he passed by. He stopped to chat but he quickly realized she was in no mood. "Hey, you cheer up, a'ight? I aint seen you sad yet, and I don't like it none. Is it Jason? I'll go up an' give 'im what for. You know I will."

Gerald's thick southern accent and sweetheart manner always gave Layathel a kick. It was no exception this time. She shook her head bashfully. "No, thanks, it's not him. I'll get better."

"A'ight, then. I'll talk to you later." As they parted he called, "Don't be a stranger."

"No, sir," she agreed.

Outside of the building, she realized she was shaking with nerves, and feeling stupid. She'd come all the way down here with this stupid book and made a fool of herself. Standing in the coolness of the dreary gray morning, Layathel considered the chain at her chest. It was scary, and when she thought about how she kind of liked the idea of it being there, it scared her even more. What effect had it put on Jason? He was acting so strange. Was he lying, and he really was just mad, or was there something else? That wild look in his eyes didn't seem like simple irritation or even anger. It was something wholly different. Layathel had never felt so scared and so desirous at the same time.

Ambivalence. She hadn't known the spell would even work, so how could she be blamed? Yet, she could have said more, given Jason more information. Clearly he hadn't been making an informed decision when he agreed. She would make it up to him. Yeah, that's what she'd do. He'd calm down, and when they were together again she'd make sure he knew he was appreciated. The relationship had been a slow burn, but it was becoming stronger every day, and she didn't want to lose him because of something like this.

On her way to her car—an orange and black Tiburon (with a little scented pumpkin hanging from the rear-view mirror)—feeling rather secure in her plans for the future, Layathel became aware of a black smoke on the ground. With a throaty squeak, she hopped to the side to get away from it, then whirled around to see a thick sheet of black mist floating toward her. She backpedaled in the direction of her car, slowly and cautiously. She already had her suspicions about what this was. When the mist began gathering together, she was certain of it.

The mist billowed together into a single cloud, then congealed. The shape of a man appeared in the writhing black gel, and finally color and texture and details materialized. Dracula, cane gone, stood before her as trim and proper and handsome as ever.

"My dear, you look quite surprised."

Layathel wasn't about to let him have the upper hand in a verbal sparring match. "I am, about something else. Fancy meeting you here."

"I was about and thought I might stop by for a visit. It was rather in a huff that you departed your beau's room. Are things well?"

"That's none of your business." Layathel put a hand on her forehead. Her nerves were shot, and she could feel a headache coming on.

"Oh, but you are prospective, my dearest Layathel. And he is my competition. That makes it quite pertinent to me."

"This isn't the best way to steal someone's girl, Drac. It's making me spiteful about the whole thing. Modern girls don't like being fought over. It's too much like dogs fighting over a bone."

"Oh, somehow I doubt you mean that."

Damn, he had her number. "What do you know about it? Why are you really here?" Layathel took a step back again toward her car. Both hands were now on her book, ready to attack him with it. Suddenly he was gone, smoke billowing where he had been. Layathel's eyes went wide, and before she recovered, his voice whispered in her right ear. "You know that you won't be able to escape, and fighting would be comical."

Layathel had the book raised, but she lowered it, along with her gaze. "I know."

"Come along, dear. Being a 'bone' isn't so bad, you'll see. To a dog, a bone can be its most prized possession."

Right, Layathel thought. Right up until it gets buried.