It's just her style, you tell yourself, and go back to bed, where you doze fitfully for another hour or so.
It's ten o'clock--close to your regular wake-up time--when you drag yourself from the bedroom and into the shower, where you massage yourself all over. It's been a long time since you've been able to relieve your adolescent tensions, and your cock springs swiftly to life. You groan as you squeeze it, but it feels very wrong to do anything about it while under Kali's roof. But one of these nights you are going to suffer an embarrassing emission, and Miko will never let you hear the end of it, you're sure.
You feel ragged and baulked as you exit the shower, to find-- "Oh, fuck!" Towels are in the wash. You wipe away as much moisture as you can before hopping out of the bathroom to scamper to the linen closet. Your path takes you through the living room.
You're halfway across when you hear a scratching at the front door and see the knob turn. Oh, God! Kali or Miko would choose this precise moment to return early. You drop down onto your haunches, just behind the sofa, with only your head sticking up. You'll have to ask them to stay out in the hall until you can get that towel. But if it's Miko, she'll probably just grin and insist that you make the run--
The door opens. It isn't Miko. Nor is it Kali.
It's a man, and he is so filthy and disheveled there is no telling how old he is. His cheeks are ashen and puffy and bristle with several days' growth of beard. His long, lank hair, which mixes dark brown with streaks of grey, trails down to his jaw, and it looks like it hasn't been washed in weeks. He wears a stained, wrinkled sports jacket that looks several decades old, and a button-down shirt that maybe was once fire-engine red, but is now the color of a white shirt that's been accidentally washed in a load with a red handkerchief. His lips are thick, and even at this distance you can see they are chapped.
You've seen homeless guys by the bus depot that look better kempt.
He pushes the door open but stays on the threshold, his eyes darting about the room. He seems to be looking very carefully for something, and cataloging everything he sees. You can only stare and suppress a gasp as his eyes rake past you. But he seems not to notice you.
Not notice you. Kali had said you could render yourself inconspicuous. You hope you've managed to accomplish that now; you'll have to get her to figure out how you do it.
After a long minute, the intruder takes two steps into the room and closes the door behind him. There's a small table by the door, with a vase. He picks it up and glances at the bottom of it. Clearly he's a thief, and you wonder how he managed to get into the building. You glance at the hall leading to Kali's office, wondering if you can get into it and lock the door if this guy goes into another room.
Your head barely moves, but the intruder jerks his head and stares in your direction, eyes boring holes into ... your cheek? He's not looking you in the eyes, unless there's something wrong with his vision. He sniffs, and his upper lip curls, showing yellowed teeth.
From his jacket pocket he swiftly pulls out the biggest and scariest knife you've ever seen. He holds it across his chest, and begins to scan the room again, much more carefully than before.
He takes some careful steps to the side, his head darting about this way and that. He continues to sniff--a loud hissing sound, actually, since he's got his teeth bared. And then he begins to mutter to himself.
You have to clench your bowels. He's not just a thief or a homeless man. He's got to be a lunatic off his meds. If he catches you, Kali and Miko will return to find the newest Stellae gutted like a fish.
Miko. Her sword is in the bedroom. That would easily trump a knife.
You shift on the balls of your feet, and it seems to draw his attention, for his eyes dart in your direction, and his smile widens and his eyes gleam. His mutters and whispers become more frantic. Those voices in his head must be eager for blood. He steps lightly over, and in six paces cuts you off from the hall leading to the bedrooms.
Maybe he can't see you, but you doubt he can't feel you, and if he comes this way he'll trip right over you. There's a small decorative table behind the sofa, and you slide under it, trying to tuck yourself in as far as possible.
Tip tap tip tap. His feet, shod in ancient black dress shoes, appear right next to you. You can hear his words now, too. "Fishy fishy in the sea, fishy come and talk to me. The maelstrom sings, the abyss calls, fishy dreams 'neath coral walls. Fishy fishy, are you near? Fishy has no ears to hear. Ride the current, ride the wave, watery cradle, watery grave. Fishy fishy, come with me, to frying pan from out the sea."
He continues to chant, madder and madder as his voice grows more insistent. His feet shift, and he tiptoes away. But you don't dare peek out. You hear a scraping sound, and a loud clatter as something hard hits the floor. It bounces before coming to a rest: Joe's mask. The madman must have taken that African doodad off the wall. Probably it reminded him of his own personal demon. He drops to his knee briefly to pick up Joe's mask.
The mask.
You glance down at your palm. Masks knock people out. You have the power of the masks in your hand. If you can get your hands on him--
You concentrate, trying to summon up the image of the sigil. It's hard, with your heart hammering and your eye jerking spasmodically over to the ankles of the intruder. But you start with the moon, and will yourself into shutting out the sights and sounds of the house. It seems to appear before you, and its dark spots arrange themselves into sigils. Your palm grows warm.
Tip tap tip tap. The shoes are again directly in front of you. "Fishy fishy makes a splash, tails wave and scales flash."
You look at his shoes. Another idea forms.
Delicately you pick up the trailing lace of one shoe, and the trailing lace of the other. If you can tie them together without his noticing, and he trips, maybe you can scramble out the front door before he can recover himself.
Chunk! Your head whips: The knife blade, penetrating an inch of wood, has plunged down only centimeters from your bare shoulder.
A stream of piss shoots out your willy.
"Ha!" The madman drops to his knees, his face only inches away. His mouth splits in a rictus, and his eyes, wide with glittering lunacy, stare full into yours.
Without thinking, you slam your open palm onto his face; in your minds' eye, the sigil blazes to life.
He falls back, arms and legs flailing; you scramble after, pushing him down and sitting on his chest, keeping your open palm locked onto his face. Your hand feels very hot. His mouth gasps and works. Terror wells up inside you. What if you kill him? What if you melt his face off? You don't even understand this power. He's not falling unconscious. You summon the third sigil, and his back arches. Then the fourth sigil, binding the other two together. He collapses, but your hand seems stuck to his face, and won't come away no matter how strongly you pull. The sigils seem to burn into your mind, and you hear yourself gasping and crying. You only meant to knock him out, but you can feel it, the man's degenerate body and rotted mind burning into your own, etching themselves into your very being. You twist your head back and forth, trying to throw it off, but it's like a hot brand, and it closes around yours, searing itself--
You fall back with a cry, shaking and sweating all over. The man is unconscious. You look fearfully at your palm, just in time to see the fading sigil. You watch with horror-struck trepidation, waiting to see your hand wither into a simulacrum of the stranger's. But nothing happens.
After a minute of dumb silence you scramble to your feet and run back into your bedroom, where you snatch your trousers off the floor. You then scamper back across the living room, pausing only long enough to grab up the house cell phone from the coffee table. You're then out the door and running for the elevator banks.
But that's stupid. If he comes after you, you'll get caught while waiting for the lift. You don't want to bang on the doors of anyone in the building; that'll just draw the madman to them. You should get the security guard from the lobby. Hell, call the cops. You yank open the door to the stairwell and bolt down it five steps at a time, landing hard each time.
You have to slow up after three floors, because your ankles can't take it.
You're on the fifth floor when you stop to catch your breath and pull your pants on. As you puff, you wonder if you shouldn't call the cops. They're bound to check out the apartment, and maybe Kali won't want that. Maybe you should call her first.
But that'll take time, and the lunatic might get away, to menace and murder more people in the building.
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