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flat of his palm over the tightening in his groin.
    Neither the Man nor the Beast could remember when they’d first scented the Delectable. They did not like the foulness of memory clogging their minds in the now. Memory was pain and the Man and the Beast preferred to cause harm, never to relive their own.
    Whenever she had appeared on their radar, it must have happened after they’d become a team. No. Her existence had come to the Man only in the Beast’s memories, the remembrances of when it had stalked the plains of the dreamscape. Yes. The Beast’s recollections did not burn the way the Man’s did and having recognized the Delectable as clan—possessing the same accursed affliction as the Man—required the Beast’s rather talented snout to sniff out. Further, the Beast had made the connection between the Man’s scent and that of the woman they would both come to desire. Yes. The Beast must have found her in the Dreaming when she had been merely a psychopomp and the Man and the Beast were still courting one another, still locked in the getting-to-know-you stages of their partnership.
    The Man considered himself, the Beast and the Delectable to be a fortunate culmination of events. When the Man had awoken to the power his cooperation with the Beast brought, and had shared the entirety of Beast’s knowledge, he’d accepted what singular entities they were. The understanding of the Delectable’s similarity to the Man and her value to their cause spoke to their subconscious selves from within memory. Perhaps the past was not so terrible. The Man and the Beast decided not to test their new theory. Pain seethed at the edge of their awareness and they would not have it spoiling their plans. No. Not plans. Party. Yes.
    How much more would they enjoy murder and mayhem when the Delectable was theirs? Only today, they had gotten a vicarious taste of her. One of their minions had come close to claiming their prize. The Man and the Beast had controlled the underling, known what it knew, orchestrated its movements and hungers. They’d held her beneath them while she’d scrambled and prayed. The pleasure of the memory took the Man, and his hand continued to move unconsciously. The Beast crept closer to his side. Had they known the Delectable was a neophyte Somnian, they would have wooed her differently and wouldn’t have trusted merely directing their minion to isolate her in the Wastelands where, as a dream guardian, she could call on the rat-bastard Hawaiian for help and he would hear her.
    Eh, the Man and the Beast knew they were being dishonest. The Beast hacked—the idea of deceit a figurative hairball in its throat. The Man coughed at the back of his hand in a delicately foppish manner.
    Had their Delectable not begun the transition into a Somnian they’d never have had access to her in the dreamscape, free of the protections inherent to psychopomps. And, sweet bonus , there would be more and better chances to have her now her unique power signal—part soul conductor, part dream guardian and part kin—glowed beacon-bright in the Waking World. The Man and the Beast could track their nemeses, the Somnians, anywhere in the two worlds, and as a clanswoman the Delectable had a discernable flavor, different from other dream guardians. They knew they should be grateful to the Somnians for this. The Man decided to thank them with death. The Beast agreed. It was only fair.
    Anticipation turned the flow of their thoughts. The small pack the Beast had ruled in the dreamscape had grown continuously and they’d begun to build a Waking World horde as complement. The next time they caught the Delectable alone, they hoped she would run or cry in terror. They hoped she would run and cry. Such emotions would salt the feast of her body and make it ever so much more delicious.
    The Man moaned and gazed down at his hand. His thumb stroked the tip of his penis, his fist pumping in quick, sharp pulls. Soooo good. So helpless. The Beast