(See previous disclaimers for obligatory BS)
A/N: This chapter runs longer than usual, mostly on account of the chunk from "Gemini Descending". (No, I am NOT going to write the whole book!) Poor Mort is freaking out, between Nadine and Shooter. God, I love it!
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Rainey awoke on the couch again, feeling icky. He sat up slowly, his skin crawling. He definitely needed a shower. Making his way upstairs, he checked the enclosure for mice before turning on the water and removing his clothes. His briefs felt like they'd been glued to his skin. Mid-day naps were often a signal than Shooter had been out; now Rainey was forced to wonder what else his dark side was capable of. If murdering people didn't bother him, why would he draw the line at rape?
Even after emerging from the shower and donning a ragged pair of shorts and his bathrobe, Rainey didn't feel clean. Shooter's violent potential disturbed him, and he had a nagging sense that there was something important he was supposed to be doing. (Getting rid of evidence? What did he do? What's going to happen now?) Standing by his desk, looking down into the living room, he caught sight of an unfamilar blue object on the coffee table. Mort hurried downstairs to investigate. It was a book: "Gemini Descending", by Nadine Cooper.
Rainey felt sick. After the day they'd spent together, engaged in freeform creativity, he'd developed an appreciation for his neighbor. She was intelligent, understood the pitfalls of their mutual craft --- she was the first person in months who hadn't looked at him like he was a monster --- and if Shooter had done something to her --- ! He groaned, put down the book and hurried to the phone.
Her line rang several times, and just as he was reaching the point of panic, she answered with a warm, "This is Nadine."
"Nadine. Hi. It's Mort. I was wondering how you were doing?" He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me, it was nothing, really."
Nothing? What was nothing? Shooter, you twisted fuck, what did you do to her? "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Well, if you can call being up to my elbows in pumpkin puree okay. I swear, they multiplied since you left." The laughter in her voice got through to him, and he looked around his kitchen at Shooter's harvest.
"I think they're multiplying over here, too," he said ruefully. "Want some more?"
"I tell you what, bring me over a couple more tomorrow and sample my experiments. You might get a couple recipies out of it."
Mort swallowed. "Okay. What time?"
"Say, noonish?"
"Will do. See you then."
"Good night." She paused. "Sweet dreams."
For the first time that he could remember, Mort actually wanted Shooter to manifest. He grabbed the hat from the rack by the door, marched to the twig-framed mirror over the fireplace, settled the hat on his head, and demanded, "What did you do to her?"
Nothing happened. "God damn you, Shooter, what did you do to her?"
Then slow laughter bubbled up, and Shooter's words came out of his mouth. "Didn't hurt her none, if that's what you're so all-fired het-up about. Told her we'd read her new book."
"You never laid a hand on her?"
"I didn't say that, pilgrim," Shooter's drawl was amused. "But she didn't sound too bent out of shape, now did she? Seems to me, I heard her wish us sweet dreams." Rainey's blood ran cold. A note of rare pleasure in Shooter's voice caressed the words, and Mort wondered frantically how he could warn Nadine that she was getting friendly with a psychopath.
"I wouldn't recommend that," said Shooter softly. "You just settle down and read her story, so's you'll have something to talk about tomorrow. You're in a whole lot more danger from me than she is."
Mort sat down on the couch with "Gemini Descending" and turned to the first page:
"On the day after Janice's 11th birthday, her best friend Becky noticed the change. 'You're walking funny,' she said to Janice. 'What are you supposed to be?'
"Janice raised her chin, and said in a clear voice, 'I am the Princess Cecelia Annabella Anastacia Monteleone of Barcelona. I am walking with the dignity befitting a princess.'
"Becky thought this was a grand game. 'Can I be a princess too?' she asked eagerly.
" 'No, it's hard work being a princess. I think you should be my lady-in-waiting.'
" 'What am I waiting for?'
" 'I'm not sure,' said Janice pensively. 'But you don't want to be a princess.' "Mort wrinkled his nose. "This sounds awfully...girly." Still, Shooter had promised that they'd read it, and it would give him something to talk about, so he continued reading about Janice and her friend, and the princess game.
Then in Chapter Two, a girl who introduced herself as Cecelia Monteleone picked up a man in a bar. The guy, Joel, got the shock of a lifetime when she handcuffed him to his bed and had her way with him. ("That gal's got some imagination," Shooter remarked in Rainey's ear. "Maybe one of these days, we can get her to show us that trick with the ice cube.")
Meanwhile, Janice had a peaceful life; a good job, a nerdy fiance named Sheldon, and she still kept in touch with Becky, who was raising a family. Little by little, though, things started going wrong: Sheldon broke off the engagement, saying he had proof she'd been with other men. Janice was upset, suffered from insomnia, started falling asleep at odd moments. Becky accused her of leaving bruises on Becky's daughter Miranda while baby-sitting. Twenty thousand dollars cash disappeared from Janice's employer, and she fell under suspicion.
Mort swallowed hard. He knew where this was going, could almost hear it cackling in his ear. He forced himself to continue. Janice was caught with a co-worker's missing ring in her pocket, and a search of her car turned up the missing money. Her boss, who was written as sympathetic, gave her the option of therapy as a way of avoiding prosecution.
"I can't read this," he said, setting the book face-down on the coffee table. "I can't. I know what's going on here, you know it as well as I do. Jesus Christ, Shooter, she's going to figure it out!"
"She's a right smart woman," Shooter agreed.
"What are we going to do?" Mort asked frantically.
Without his conscious intent, he stood up from the couch. Shooter took the hat off and dropped it onto the coffee table, partially covering the blue volume.
"Go to bed and get some rest. You've got a lunch to go to tomorrow. Sweet dreams, pilgrim."
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A plate of puerco pibil to everybody who catches the OUaTiM reference, provided they promise not to shoot the cook.