books as she handed them, and he blinked at the pictures of winged lizards being fought, being ridden. The closest to reality was the cover of a book where the dragon, large and black, was holding a dark-haired female in its claws.
"These ... are dragons?"
"Oh, yes.” She nodded earnestly. “They're very popular.” She turned away. “I'll see what else we've got."
The writing seemed like so much gibberish to his eyes. If he worked he could make out some of the words, and he realized part of the problem was that he'd never really bothered to study human writing—for his needs, being able to speak was enough. So, under the guise of reading the back covers, he looked into her mind again.
She was thinking of bedding, and other things, and they involved him. He blushed as he pulled back then frowned over his reaction. When one assumed another shape, one acquired the normal thoughts, instincts and reactions of that shape. He was thinking and reacting like a human, and he was not all that certain it was a good thing.
He gave her the books back. “I thank you, but these are not what I'm looking for."
"Oh, well.” She tossed around for something clever to say.
He gave her his very first human smile, hoping it was about right, and walked away. His child was not here, among these dead trees and human maids.
Libby's Diary
It's the dreams that hurt the most, lying quietly in my head. Images I'd rather forget flickering behind my eyes and robbing me of rest.
For instance:
It's night, of course ... when is it not? All the worst things happen in the dark. I am waiting for my sister. Rita is small and redheaded and adorable. She has men lined up around the block waiting just to see her.
I'm sitting on my couch, wondering what she has to tell me that's so very important she's willing to break a two-year silence.
It's not late, but I was up very early, and the TV isn't helping me in my quest to stay awake. There's a sweet smell in the air, but apartment buildings are full of strange smells, and as long as it isn't the smell of burning, who cares?
The smell is a heady scent, though, and I find myself curling up on the couch, making myself more comfortable. My eyes close. She'll wake me, I reassure myself, when she gets here. She has the key, I remind myself, she can let herself in.
I wake to the sounds of the morning news. Downtown traffic snarls and “be sure to take your umbrella.” My neck hurts, and it sends its complaints up to my head, which has decided to throb in a show of solidarity. I groan and force myself up. That article wasn't writing itself, and I had a deadline to meet. I'm not worried about Rita. That was an occupation I'd given up years ago.
Bleary-eyed, I look to my answering machine for clues, but the little red light isn't blinking. Calling to explain why she'll be late or not there at all is not one of Rita's habits. I shrug and make my way to the bathroom.
I loved that bathroom. It was the only nice room in the apartment, all white tiles with a bathtub separate from the shower. Unfortunately, it doesn't have a linen closet, so I keep my towels in the bathtub. I rarely use it, anyway, and the fact I use it as a closet of sorts gives me an excuse to buy a really beautiful shower curtain for it.
It's a mark of how crappy I feel, the fact I step over the neatly stacked towels in the middle of my bathroom floor on my way to use the toilet. I stare at them for a long moment then, thinking last night had been one of my rare bath nights, I pull the curtain back to see if the tub needs cleaned before I put them back.
I find Rita there, her hands tucked under her chin, her head tipped just slightly so it rests against the shower wall. She's smiling sweetly in my direction, her long red hair brushed over her breasts.
I don't check for a pulse. I know that still, pale body is dead. It is perfectly clean-looking, and flawless, save for the two careful red tracks, like tears, leading from the empty pits of
"These ... are dragons?"
"Oh, yes.” She nodded earnestly. “They're very popular.” She turned away. “I'll see what else we've got."
The writing seemed like so much gibberish to his eyes. If he worked he could make out some of the words, and he realized part of the problem was that he'd never really bothered to study human writing—for his needs, being able to speak was enough. So, under the guise of reading the back covers, he looked into her mind again.
She was thinking of bedding, and other things, and they involved him. He blushed as he pulled back then frowned over his reaction. When one assumed another shape, one acquired the normal thoughts, instincts and reactions of that shape. He was thinking and reacting like a human, and he was not all that certain it was a good thing.
He gave her the books back. “I thank you, but these are not what I'm looking for."
"Oh, well.” She tossed around for something clever to say.
He gave her his very first human smile, hoping it was about right, and walked away. His child was not here, among these dead trees and human maids.
Libby's Diary
It's the dreams that hurt the most, lying quietly in my head. Images I'd rather forget flickering behind my eyes and robbing me of rest.
For instance:
It's night, of course ... when is it not? All the worst things happen in the dark. I am waiting for my sister. Rita is small and redheaded and adorable. She has men lined up around the block waiting just to see her.
I'm sitting on my couch, wondering what she has to tell me that's so very important she's willing to break a two-year silence.
It's not late, but I was up very early, and the TV isn't helping me in my quest to stay awake. There's a sweet smell in the air, but apartment buildings are full of strange smells, and as long as it isn't the smell of burning, who cares?
The smell is a heady scent, though, and I find myself curling up on the couch, making myself more comfortable. My eyes close. She'll wake me, I reassure myself, when she gets here. She has the key, I remind myself, she can let herself in.
I wake to the sounds of the morning news. Downtown traffic snarls and “be sure to take your umbrella.” My neck hurts, and it sends its complaints up to my head, which has decided to throb in a show of solidarity. I groan and force myself up. That article wasn't writing itself, and I had a deadline to meet. I'm not worried about Rita. That was an occupation I'd given up years ago.
Bleary-eyed, I look to my answering machine for clues, but the little red light isn't blinking. Calling to explain why she'll be late or not there at all is not one of Rita's habits. I shrug and make my way to the bathroom.
I loved that bathroom. It was the only nice room in the apartment, all white tiles with a bathtub separate from the shower. Unfortunately, it doesn't have a linen closet, so I keep my towels in the bathtub. I rarely use it, anyway, and the fact I use it as a closet of sorts gives me an excuse to buy a really beautiful shower curtain for it.
It's a mark of how crappy I feel, the fact I step over the neatly stacked towels in the middle of my bathroom floor on my way to use the toilet. I stare at them for a long moment then, thinking last night had been one of my rare bath nights, I pull the curtain back to see if the tub needs cleaned before I put them back.
I find Rita there, her hands tucked under her chin, her head tipped just slightly so it rests against the shower wall. She's smiling sweetly in my direction, her long red hair brushed over her breasts.
I don't check for a pulse. I know that still, pale body is dead. It is perfectly clean-looking, and flawless, save for the two careful red tracks, like tears, leading from the empty pits of
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