Bad Dreams by Kim Newman Page A

even guess at the truth. Compartmentalized and secret-filled the Lawyer’s life might be, but he had few dreams, and he could never hope to tap in to the Big Dream he sought to control. The Lawyer’s questions about Hugh Farnham were entirely practical, and entirely irrelevant: how much could the man be trusted, how could he be controlled, what could be used to leash him?
    She was looking across the room at him, a catlike smile on her lips, her eyes seeming to swell in her face. She had known him at once, as he had known her.
    It had been sixty years since the End of the Immortal Empire. Since Giselle’s death, he had not encountered another of the Kind. He had heard nothing of the Elders, and wondered occasionally whether he was the last of the family. It would have been so easy, amid the chaotic bloodletting of two world wars and innumerable revolutions, colonial disputes and massacres, for the Kind to die out, and pass from history as unnoticed as ever, its Fall eventually percolating through into the myth-echoes that were all they ever left behind.
    Evidently, this was not so.
    ‘King of the Cats,’ she said, inside his head, amused at his surprise.
    He controlled himself, and nodded minutely, raising his glass to her.
    Her protégé was trying to get her attention, and she was brushing him aside. Waiters were flocking to their table, and the young man, left on his own, was awkwardly ordering wine and food for the both of them. The Monster sensed in the young man the seeds of the extraordinary. It could hardly have been otherwise, if this creature were interested in him.
    ‘Outside,’ the words formed in his mind, ‘on the terrace.’
    He was excited by the meeting. He noticed his nails had changed, growing hard and pointed, sharp enough to part the tablecloth. And teeth were swelling in his cheeks, tearing the inside of his mouth. He subdued his body, and excused himself, reaching for his cigarette case like a Noel Coward character.
    The Objectivist looked at him as he walked towards the terrace, gliding through the dancing couples. The orchestra was playing ‘A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes’. He felt the tendrils of her desire snapping back at her as they broke, as he slipped out of the crowded restaurant.
    Beyond the curtains he was alone, looking out at the lights of Hollywood. There were premieres out there, and searchlights stabbed the velvety sky. In the darkness, the Dreams sparkled.
    ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, appearing through the curtains like a leading lady, ‘I am honoured.’
    She was mocking him.
    ‘The Kingdom of the Cats is over,’ he said. ‘I’m Hugh Farnham, now.’
    ‘Hugh. Very well. You change your names with your skins, nephew.’
    ‘We all do.’
    She made no noise as she came near him, her dress catching the lights of the city.
    ‘Not all. I’m Ariadne.’
    He had heard of her, but not much. Giselle had met her in Portugal, after the Lisbon earthquake. And, he realized, he had seen her credits on motion pictures.
    ‘Of “Gowns by Ariadne”?’
    She smiled. She was supposed to be one of the Elders, but she was not above being flattered by recognition.
    ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ he said.
    ‘No, you aren’t. You were enjoying your uniqueness, imagining yourself the last of the Kind.’
    He said nothing. She was more beautiful even than Giselle, and stronger even than he.
    ‘We’ve flourished since your little kingdom fell, you know. We’ve changed our ways, while you’ve stayed the same.’
    ‘Am I to be punished, then?’
    She laughed, musically. ‘Oh no, Hugh. You may follow your own road. Perhaps there’ll be another Kingdom of the Cats. You can always rejoin when you get tired of playing with all this…’
    She extended her arms, including the city in her gesture.
    He reached out to her, drawn to her burning ice centre. Feeding was one thing, but this desire was different. The way he felt for Ariadne was not so different from the way the Objectivist or