Sandra Pascoe - Who Needs to Dream? 02

Title: Who Needs to Dream? (2/13)
Author: Sandra Pascoe
Disclaimer: Giles doesn't belong to me - I'm only borrowing him. Can I keep him, please?

< >indicates thoughts

"Rupert!" The bellowed shout interrupted his explanation and Giles turned his head to see a dark-suited, thickset, middle-aged man running lightly down the stairs towards him.

"Bernard, you're looking well," grinned Giles, "have you been eating monkey glands?"

Bernard laughed and clapped Giles on the arm.

"Hardly. The new Doctor says I have to get fit. Its all part of his 'healthy mind in a healthy body' obsession. Don't see the point myself. Once a pen-pusher, always a pen-pusher."

"You're a bit more than that," smiled Giles. "Are you still dining with the devil?"

"I'm using a very long spoon," he grinned.

Bernard nodded to the Receptionist then, lightly gripping Giles' elbow, he ushered him towards the stairs.

"Seriously though, Quentin HAS mellowed," He continued. "It's not an easy thing you know, to face the fact that much of what you've done, what you've worked for, has been - I hesitate to use the word 'wrong' - maybe 'misguided ' is more accurate."

Giles glanced at Bernard, frowning when the latter wouldn't meet his eyes. <He knows,> came the soft voice in his mind and Giles sighed.

"I AM still me, Bernard," said Giles with a touch of irritation. "Or did you expect my eyes to glow red?"

"Actually my money was on gold," smiled Bernard nervously. He sighed with relief as Giles grinned. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Did you actually 'merge' with it?"

"Well it would be more accurate to say that he merged with me."

"What does it feel like?" Bernard was intrigued at Giles' use of pronoun.

"It feels," Giles paused and smiled widely, "interesting. Very interesting. He's a part of me yet, at the same time, he's not. We are one, yet separate. Bit of a paradox really and very difficult to explain."

Bernard nodded and continued to lead Giles to Quentin Travers' office. He studied Giles surreptitiously. <He could be the one eating monkey glands,> mused Bernard. <Rupert looks younger; more relaxed . much less haggard. He still has that steel behind his eyes but he seems happy. Whatever it is that Vulcan's Bane does - maybe this is just what Rupert needed.>

*********

The chained demon sat perfectly still, eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Occasionally, an ear twitched as if to send out a signal that he was still alive. Suddenly, he tensed; eyes snapping open, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. <So,> he mused, relaxing back against the chains, <the wheel has turned full circle once more. I can never refuse. That is part of my curse. They come here, somehow finding their way to this realm, and make their demands. I must agree. A prisoner cannot say no to his captors. A slave cannot refuse his masters. It has been a long time since one came to me - over 100 years - but one is coming now. I can feel his presence. He brings the stench of humanity with him. I will agree to his request - I must agree. Maybe this time I can win my freedom. Maybe this human will be different.>

The hooded man approached the chained demon warily; taking great care not to look for too long at the constantly changing landscape that surrounded him. A multitude of colours drifted through the air in a seemingly endless and random procession, whilst hills, mountains, deserts, oceans and ice appeared and disappeared almost at whim. Something that resembled a chuckle came from the creature as he watched the hooded man.

"My prison is the Realm of Dreams, human. It is in a constant state of flux." A forked tongue flicked out from between sharp, pointed teeth. "Is it not to your liking?"

"I like to think my tastes are more refined," replied the hooded man as he continued to watch the demon. <Why do demons all look so stereotypical? Can't they come up with something other than lizard-like skin, pointed ears, long razor-sharp claws and pointed teeth? The forked tongue is a nice touch though.> He moved closer, taking care, despite the chains, to stay out of reach of the demon's claws. <This may only be a representation of myself,> he thought, <but what happens here is reflected upon my body lying on the floor of the cellar so I'm not going to take any chances.>

"You are compelled to answer my questions, is that not so?" The hooded man smiled with satisfaction as the demon nodded wearily. "And to do my bidding?"

"When your mark is upon me - yes."

"A human put his mark on you about a hundred years ago - do you remember that?"

"I do," replied the demon evenly.

"And what did he have you do?" The hooded man took a step closer.

"At first he wished to talk, he wished to learn. Then I killed for him."

"Why did he want you to kill those women?"

"I do not question my masters," snapped the demon. "I merely do as I am bid."

"Good, if there's one thing I hate it's chatty demons." The hooded man reached out and placed his hand on the demon's shoulder. His fingers were as shadows; they seemed to pass through the flesh but the effect of his touch was instantaneous. The demon screamed and arched against the chains, trying to pull away from the hand that was burning like the fires of Hell. The hooded man stepped back, both arms by his sides once more. He nodded with satisfaction at the black and blistered handprint on the demon's shoulder. He drew a pattern in the air and the chains dropped away from the demon.

"What - what is your bidding, Master?" The demon gasped for breath as the pain gradually receded.

"You will kill. You will use the same methods as you did for my predecessor. You will ONLY kill the ones I select and only at a time of my choosing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You will wait here until you are summoned." The hooded man slowly faded from sight and the demon sighed, sinking wearily to the ground, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

**********

Henry Rochester would normally be described as an easy-going and cheerful man; however, at this particular time he was having great difficulty in keeping hold of the tattered remnants of his temper. He winced as one end of the large crate hit the concrete floor with an audible thud.

"Be careful, you idiots!" He roared. "If that's damaged I'll have your damn guts for garters!"

"Yeah, yeah," replied one of the four deliverymen, "keep your hair on, granddad."

The other three chuckled and Henry glowered and stepped forward.

"Now, look," he began, stopping when an instantly recognisable voice interrupted before he could allow his temper free reign.

"Problems, Henry?" Nicholas Goldsmith had, as usual, walked in unnoticed.

<I'm sure that dratted man levitates,> thought Henry as he turned around. <I wonder just how soft his soles are?>

"Oh no problem at all," began Henry. "If we employ such a 'cheap' delivery company then we should expect slipshod service. Have you ANY idea what is in that crate?"

"None whatsoever," smiled Nicholas. "I never claimed to be an archaeologist."

"No.you're more of a bean counter. Well, to put it in terms that you would understand, the items in that crate are valuable. Should any of them be damaged then the Museum would have to pay compensation - a LOT of compensation."

The smile slipped from the Curator's face.

"I see," he replied thoughtfully. "I'll look into it."

Henry nodded; watching intently as the crate was deposited in a corner of the room. A short, rather rotund man in overalls peeled away from the others and wandered over to Henry, pulling a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Sign here, mate," he said, pointing a dirty and battered finger at the bottom of what turned out to be a delivery note.

Henry gingerly took the paper between thumb and forefinger and placed it on a table. Spreading it out, he signed and then carefully added a note at the bottom:

'I hold your company entirely responsible should these artefacts be in less than perfect condition. Upon delivery, your employees dropped the crate and treated the consignment in an entirely slipshod manner.'

Henry handed the note back, receiving a scowl and his half of the delivery note in return. The rotund man stalked away and Henry allowed himself a small smile.

"I need a word," said Nicholas softly, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Of course - what's wrong?" Henry thrust the delivery note into his pocket.

"How has Rupert seemed to you recently?"

"He seems fine," shrugged Henry. "Does his work with his usual efficiency - no problems."

"He seems to have been a bit distracted - you know the type of thing: not listening, talking to himself."

"Oh good Lord," interrupted Henry. "My dear chap, EVERYONE talks to themselves - it's a fact of life. I not only talk to myself but I also regularly converse with televisions, books, kettles." Henry shrugged. "Although I will admit my 'conversations' with kettles usually consist of me snarling 'boil you bloody thing' at them."

"Uh, yes, well," stammered Nicholas. "Getting back to Rupert though - would you have a chat with him? Make sure he's not ill or something. I'll have to check his employment contract - it would be a bad thing were the Museum to be liable."

"I'll have a word when he gets back," replied Henry.

"Oh? Where's he gone?"

"Taken a couple of days off. Said he had personal business to attend to."