Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

Spoilers: There is, unfortunately, no third book yet, and therefore I cannot spoil it.

Warnings and Pairings: Carrion might seem a little out of character. However, I believe it’s a fairly appropriate OOCness and my reasons for thinking so will be given within the chapter. (Aren’t I clever?) Um, CandyCarrion or CandyHob or one-sided attachments could all work here. But they don’t have to! Once again, read it as you will.

Notes: So, yeah, eight months is still a really crappy update time, but hey! It’s better than twelve months, yes? So I’m making progress. (Besides, I was out of the country right after finishing the chapter. That gets me a little bit of an excuse, right?) And I’m hoping I managed to keep Finnegan Hob in character this chapter. Carrion I’m not so worried about because I have the extenuating circumstances excuse, but let me know if Hob’s just not working for you. Finally, CCTA has broken 100 reviews! WOOHOO!!! I love you guys for that. : ) (PS – Sorry for the delay in posting this after re-uploading Ch. 9. That was both unintentional and unavoidable.)

Dedicated to… Red Stockings, of course! She so very generously drew a picture for CCTA. And it’s awesome!!! (huge grin) I’m so happy. You can find a link to her excellent work either from my profile or through her homepage. Go see it! You’ll love it! (But, um, anyone else out there who’s artistically inclined… I’d still love to see what you’ve got! (winkwinknudgenudge)) Red Stockings, thanks again for the fantastic drawing! Hope you enjoy your chapter!

Chapter Ten: In Which There is a Great Deal of Angst and Carrion Implements the Five Steps

Journal Entry 16: Day 21

I am still reveling in the utter lack of therapy or other intrusion on my solitude.

Well, apart from the odd speck of glitter that occasionally appears, but those are swiftly dealt with.

Apparently, this glitter truly was a torture device of That Idiot’s, for The Girl and her coconspirators seemed just as surprised and horrified by its spread as I was. For once, I was not forced to clean a mess that occurred through no fault of my own. Four guards and the geshrat were sent in to subdue the vile stuff and it still took them over an hour to eradicate it.

I found this both reassuring and highly amusing – the former because it is a strong indication that The Girl plans to continue this farce instead of sitting back and letting me asphyxiate in glitter (a convenient way to dispose of me without effort); the latter because I have seen the geshrat Malingo face down my dearly departed grandmother’s sorcerers and stitchlings without flinching, but That Idiot’s glitter proved more difficult to destroy.

Oh, how I wish I could have set it loose on the Hag.

---

Christopher Carrion paused in his musings to savor the mental image. It was right up there with the memory of the time The Girl had tightened the leash on Hob. Who could guess that one might gather fond memories while imprisoned?

His smirk faded into a pensive expression as his thoughts moved on. Today was his twenty-first day of rehabilitation and therefore he could expect another missive from The Girl. I daresay I will finally know for certain whether or not she’s given up on this little experiment of hers, he mused. I still haven’t quite decided which I’d prefer…

---

The tarrie-kitten slunk stealthily into the room. His paws were light as air when they touched the ground, and he made no more noise than a wisp of wind on a still summer day. He was Silence.

Sticking to the darker parts of the room, staying low to the ground, the tarrie-kitten crept on. The black stripes of an adult were beginning to show in his fiery fur and made him one with patterns of dark and light. He was Shadow.

He had travelled behind the couch and now peered carefully around the corner. Slowly, he scanned the room. There! The Enemy! He froze, staring fixedly at the tiny, telltale glint. Neither whisker nor tailtip twitched. He was Stillness.

The Enemy did not move – it hadn’t spotted him. Now, the hard part. He slipped closer to Snarl’s chair, drawing on every ounce of his abilities as he stalked the Enemy who had invaded his home. Finally, he was close enough. He crouched, gathering his strength – and sprang!

Claws outstretched, he landed hard on his foe. It fought back fiercely, but he hissed and clawed and wriggled and bit until it died.

For a moment, the kitten lay there, stretched out on his side and panting a little from his battle. Then he rolled to his paws and looked up at Snarl.

Snarl glowered.

The kitten began washing his flank, immensely proud of himself. After all, he’d just saved Snarl’s life from the evil sparkly stuff. He had Stalked, he had Fought, and he had Won! He purred happily to himself as he put his fur back in order. This was a good game!

---

Carrion scowled down at the animal by his feet. That Thing looked particularly pleased with itself, though Carrion couldn’t see what it had to be proud of.

After the glitter had swamped the kitchen and he’d been forced to rescue the beast, it had refused to leave his shoulder except to curl up next to him on the arm of his chair. (He absolutely drew the line at curling up on his lap.) The next day, however, That Thing must have regretted showing so much dependence on the Lord of Midnight, for its behavior was particularly reprehensible. It took to leaping – often near or toward Carrion – for no apparent reason other than perhaps to provoke or unnerve him.

The first time he’d seen the cat “attacking” out of the corner of his eye, he had whirled around, automatically preparing to retaliate. Only a quick realization that it was That Thing and it was not attacking him had saved the kitten from meeting the same fate as the crickets.

Throughout yesterday and this morning, That Thing had periodically stalked him. Carrion was becoming increasingly immune – only twitching slightly instead of jumping – but also increasingly irritated. Its scare tactics were ineffective, so why wouldn’t That Thing just stop?

Of course, there was always the possibility that these false attacks were an attempt to train Carrion to ignore the stalking and leaping, only to be caught by surprise when the real attack occurred, so he wasn’t about to let his guard down.

Carrion grumbled irritably to himself and was about to flip through his Midnight blueprints again (the rough sketches he’d started out with were becoming more and more detailed) when there came the perfunctory knock of a guard at the door. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. Insane therapists, pouncing tarries, imbecilic guards… If it wasn’t one interruption, it was another. He closed the book, stood, and headed for the kitchen, the tarrie-cat bouncing happily at his heels.

---

Candy and Finnegan stood outside the door to Carrion’s rooms as Darug (one of the guards, a fellow from Qualm Hah) went inside with Candy’s weekly letter and more prey for the tarrie-kitten. He was back out in a moment – for, like anyone sane, he had no desire to remain in the presence of even an imprisoned Christopher Carrion longer than necessary – and bowed slightly to the two of them before leaving.

“Remember to wait until Malingo lets us know that he’s finished reading it,” Candy said absently.

“I will. You’ve only reminded me three times!” Finnegan managed to sound lightly teasing, but it was clear to Candy that he was starting to get a little exasperated.

“Sorry!” She reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder in another silent apology. “I’m just a little – well, a little nervous, I guess, not knowing how he’ll take it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Finnegan, frowning. “I can handle whatever tantrum he throws, especially with Malingo’s help.”

Candy bit back a sigh, patted his shoulder, and stepped away slightly. She knew Finnegan was under a lot of stress. This was the man who’d spent years hunting down every last dragon because one had killed the woman he loved. Now, the man who everyone knew had ordered the attack was sitting in an armchair just a room away and she wasn’t letting him retaliate.

Now Candy did sigh. Of all the people who wanted Christopher Carrion dead, she’d managed to convince the ones that mattered to at least give her idea a chance. Finnegan had held out against her calm arguments, angry lectures, and downright pleading the longest, and she knew that he still didn’t believe Carrion had ever been or would ever be anything but a heartless murderer.

Sometimes, she wondered if he was right. Sometimes, she wondered why she’d ever thought “hey! Rehabilitation! It could work!” She just hoped she wasn’t alienating her closest friends in the Abarat to try to help a man who neither wanted nor deserved it.

Well, there are still ten days left, Candy reminded herself. A lot can happen in ten days.

---

Meanwhile, Carrion was watching with a small grimace of disgust as a guard set on his table a platter of small, dead, shrew-like rodents. The letter sat modestly to one side. Carrion sneered. The guard needed no dismissal – he was already on his way out the door. As it shut behind him, Carrion stared at the letter.

It looked so very ordinary. Harmless. Rather like The Girl that had written it. But The Girl was far more dangerous than her appearance would indicate, and Carrion couldn’t rid himself of a niggling apprehension that her letter would be just like her. Then, with a curious mew, That Thing brushed against his leg.

Irritated with himself, irritated with the cat, and irritated with the world in general, Carrion snatched up one of the dead rodents and flung it. It bounced off the kitten’s flank, the kitten flinched in surprised, and then it instinctively pounced on its meal.

Carrion frowned. Another pile of bones and bloody fur-scraps he’d have to clean up. He dumped the rest of the shrew-like critters in the kitten’s dish. Hopefully the vile beast would stay there to eat, leaving any remains in the dish. It would make cleaning up after it much easier. That done, any other delay in opening the letter would be stalling, and the Lord of Midnight does not delay confrontations. Carrion sat, his back to the mirror, and scowled at the letter.

…Yep, definitely stalling.

He decided, however, that this one time it was excusable.

Christopher Carrion was a man not unaccustomed to stress. This might seem odd for someone as confident and powerful as Gorgossium’s prince, but somehow stressful situations often encroached on his life. There were the everyday stresses of dealing with minions who rarely had more than half a brain and almost never bothered to use it (case in point: Mendelson Shape). The Hag, may her rotten soul be eternally tormented, induced stress with her mere existence, let alone when she deigned to speak with him.

Then there were occasional periods of great stress caused by spurned love, silly girls ruining his plots, or attempts on his life. These, while often painful in more ways than one, were at least usually things he could do something about.

Finally, there were situations which caused lengthy, extreme amounts of stress that he could do nothing about, such as being locked up for weeks on end with a vicious Thing and a psychotic pseudo-therapist entirely at the mercy of his archenemy and The Girl.

Frankly, even the Prince of Darkness has limits, and he had a sinking feeling that this letter would only make life worse. Huzzah.

Carrion let out a nearly inaudible sigh. Enough. Best to get it over with. And he unfolded the letter and began to read.

---

Dear Mr. Carrion,

For the past three weeks you have managed to successfully care for the kitten in terms of basic physical needs. However, particularly after so long, this is simply no longer adequate. You must interact more with the kitten. Play with him. Talk to him. Acknowledge his existence! (In a positive way, Mr. Carrion.)

Additionally, you are still refusing to cooperate with Dr. Friendly. Throwing out the therapist responsible for attesting to your ability to manage your anger is not the best way to go about securing your release. Although his methods may seem unconventional, you have to cooperate with him if you don’t want to go back to prison.

In addition to that, you used magic for the second time when it has been made extremely clear to you that it is not allowed, not for any reason. Although it was decided (after a lengthy debate) not to immediately terminate your chance at rehabilitation, you will face consequences for your actions. From now on, someone will come to your rooms after every piece of correspondence to make sure you understand exactly what it expected of you. This will prevent the possibility of any further misunderstandings.

Finally, you told me that you didn’t think we would ever genuinely consider releasing you. That’s not true, Carrion! Whatever you put into this rehabilitation is what you’ll get out of it. If you don’t listen to us, if you don’t listen to Dr. Friendly, if you don’t try to really care for that kitten, you’ll get nothing. But if you can prove that you’re making an effort by listening to us and Friendly, and caring for the kitten, we can help you go home. You’re just being stubborn out of some stupid sense of pride when you could be helping your case. Please, Carrion, just try.

Yours sincerely,

Candy Quackenbush

---

Carrion stared at the letter. He expected that he would start seeing red any second now – after all, how dare The Girl address him so disrespectfully? – and that the familiar rage he associated with everything about this place would come rushing over him, expected that the indignation and fury would surge through him soon.

Except that it didn’t.

He didn’t feel anger or…anything. Just a gaping chasm of emptiness.

He thought vaguely that he ought to be disturbed by this lack of reaction, but he couldn’t even feel that. He stared at the letter blankly a moment longer, then dropped it to the table. He stood up and tottered into the living room, feeling oddly disconnected from his body.

Christopher Carrion collapsed onto the couch, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift away.

---

The kitten peered uneasily after Snarl. For the first time since he'd met Snarl, the kitten was worried about him. He'd sat under the table as Snarl looked at the paper which smelled vaguely of the Nice Girl. Since these papers tended to make Snarl bristle with irritation, he'd wanted to know as soon as possible just how bad a mood Snarl would be in after finishing with this one. Unbeknownst to him, the tarrie was expecting the same reactions as Snarl, and both were disappointed.

The kitten watched, bemused, as Snarl left the kitchen without a sound. He huddled there under the table indecisively for a moment before plucking up the courage to see if something was wrong with Snarl. He padded quietly into the other room and saw Snarl sprawled face-down on the sofa. One foreleg was under his head and the other hung limply down to the floor. The tarrie kneaded his paws nervously. This was weird.

After a moment's hesitation, he stepped nearer and batted lightly at Snarl's paw. There was no response. Trying again, he nudged it with his head. This too failed to rouse Snarl. Maybe he was asleep? But no - Snarl never slept on the couch, nor did he ever fall asleep so quickly. Something was wrong. For a while, the tarrie stared. It just wasn't right to leave Snarl like that, but how could he help?

An idea suddenly glimmered faintly in his thoughts, and the kitten stepped forward to walk under Snarl's paw, almost as if Snarl was petting him. He repeated the process several times and fell into a pattern, walking back and forth under Snarl's paw, hoping that the contact could get Snarl back to his old self (or at least get him angry enough to react).

And then, miraculously, after several minutes of diligent work, Snarl's paw twitched! The kitten froze in surprise, and then he felt Snarl gently stroke his head. The kitten could hardly believe it. Snarl - his Snarl - was petting him?! There was only one thing to do.

The kitten purred.

---

Behind the kitchen mirror, four guards kept a bored watch on their prisoner as he opened his mail. (Actually, they weren’t paying much attention at all, because they were only really there as back-up in case the famed Lord of Midnight unleashed his equally famous temper.) When Carrion dropped the letter with no visible reaction, they looked at each other in surprise. No paterzem exchanged hands – no one had expected nothing from the volatile man. When Carrion left the kitchen, they shrugged to themselves and continued trying to solve a few pages out of a Commexo Crossword Collection.

Malingo, on the other hand, frowned uneasily and decided not to signal Finnegan just yet. It was always better to err on the side of caution when dealing with a man like Carrion, and after a quick word with the guards he headed over to the living room mirror.

---

Jimothi Tarrie and Tev Cerra were chatting with the ease of an old friendship when Carrion suddenly entered the room before them and practically flopped onto the couch. The two exchanged glances, both hearing the same mental alarm bells go off, and then turned as Malingo joined them.

“What’s he–?” The question died before it was even voiced as the geshrat took in the scene before them. “What happened?”

“He seems to have collapsed,” Jimothi answered, surprise coloring his voice. “I suggest you fetch Miss Quackenbush. She’d want to see this, I think.”

Malingo had been thinking the same thing and left quickly. Meanwhile, Jimothi studied the form on the couch. It would certainly make things simpler if the former Prince of Midnight lost his mind or his life on his own, but somehow… Well, somehow the limp figure just didn’t sit quite right with Jimothi. About to comment on this to Tev, who’d been surprisingly silent, he was distracted by Malingo’s return, Candy and Finnegan at his side.

Candy immediately went up to the glass, only to be confronted with a seemingly lifeless Carrion and a tarrie-kitten rubbing against his hand. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Jimothi admitted. “He went into the kitchen, presumably to read your letter, and returned looking…”

“Furious?” Candy suggested as Jimothi trailed off.

“Blank,” Tev snapped. “Empty. Not entirely there.”

“Really?” Candy was surprised, both by the answer and by the vet’s irritable tone. “That’s…strange.”

“What’s strange is that it hasn’t happened before,” Tev countered.

“Why do you say that?” Jimothi asked.

“I’ve seen this sort of reaction,” said the vet, still watching Carrion. “Usually when I’ve been treating a very ill pet for a very long time. People go through so much fear, worry, grief, and so forth that sometimes something snaps for a while and they feel nothing.”

“But grief…?” Candy began, puzzled.

“Why not?” Tev snapped again, this time turning to face them. “It needn’t be grief that does it. Any strong emotion over a long period of time will do, but the most common ones are grief, fear, and anger – all of which Carrion’s dealing with all the time.”

“All the–?”

“Yes! Have any of you seen him relax for more than a few minutes at a time? Not even when he’s asleep, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve got a man in there who’s angry nearly all the time because he sees this as insulting and pointless, afraid nearly all the time (though he’d never admit it) because he thinks he won’t get out of here alive or free, and grieving for the home he’s lost. That Hag destroyed everything associated with him, remember? On top of all that, he’s obviously never developed any response to stress except anger, which he can’t express here. If you were in his place, you might feel a little overwhelmed too!”

It was one of the longest speeches either Candy or Jimothi had ever heard from the vet, and this was saying something given the length of his and Jimothi’s acquaintance. Tev blinked at his speechless companions and turned back to the window, though not before Candy saw a light flush begin to creep across his cheeks. “The kit has more sense than you lot,” he muttered gruffly, a little embarrassed by his sudden outburst but not regretting a word of it.

Finnegan Hob bit his tongue. Only respect for Candy and Jimothi kept him from blurting out his opinion of the vet’s little rant. Time would tell, though, that this was no more than Carrion’s latest trick – probably an attempt to gain sympathy. Well, the former Lord of Gorgossium would find none here.

---

Carrion was slowly drawn back from the roaring nothingness that had engulfed him. Gradually, he became aware of a sensation in his hand, and it took a great deal of concentration before he was able to put a name to it – soft, warm fur. Fur running back and forth beneath his hand. Fur was preferable to nothingness, despite his very vague sense of misgiving, so he mentally clung to it, focusing on its shape and motion.

Slowly he realized that the fur covered ears, a head, a neck, a back, and a tail, and as he concentrated on the fur, other details trickled into his awareness. He was lying down on his stomach. Fabric brushed his cheek. The couch. That’s right, he was lying on the couch, the couch where the tarr– Carrion’s eyes snapped open and his entire body stiffened as memories of the past month or so washed over him.

Well, he thought with a certain grim humor, “washed” makes it sound like a gentle rain. A hurricane is more apt.

He forced his muscles to relax. Apparently his mind had already decided to take a brief vacation; he wasn’t about to let his body do the same. It was only then that he realized that his hands had clenched into fists – one by his head on the couch, the other on the scruff of the tarrie’s neck.

Immediately he released his grip. It would be just his cursed luck if he harmed That Thing purely by accident and was summarily executed. He wondered suspiciously why the beast hadn’t immediately turned on him fang and claw, for it had certainly been an almost painful grip, and yet his hand remained blood-free. Carrion shifted slightly to stare down at the cat, which looked up at him with wide amber eyes. It was an expression Carrion might have called concern if it hadn’t belonged to a Thing bent on torturing him. The kitten nosed his hand gently. When he made no response other than a wary stare, it dared to rub its head against his palm.

Maybe it was because he’d finally lost his mind. Maybe he was simply still reeling from the emptiness. Maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever the reason, Carrion hesitantly rubbed the kitten’s ears. It immediately began purring explosively, and Carrion was finally able to relax.

---

Candy stared speechlessly at the Lord of Midnight. Although the back of the couch was to the mirror, it was only a foot or so away and she’d watched the entire scene play out. A sudden thought jolted her from her frozen state and she quickly turned to see Finnegan striding away, toward the door to Carrion’s rooms.

“Finnegan, wait!” she called, hurrying over and grabbing his elbow when he didn’t stop. He halted at her touch, near the kitchen window, and raised his eyebrows.

“What is it?”

“Listen, could you just wait a few minutes before going in?”

Finnegan frowned slightly in confusion. “I thought we agreed it would be best to give him just enough time to read the letter. This is supposed to throw him off-balance. Just because he–” Sudden understanding dawned and Finnegan’s gaze hardened. “You’re feeling sorry for him, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “Candy, you know better than most the atrocities he’s committed and just what he’s capable of. I understand that you want him to have a second chance, but we all know the chances of him changing for the better are practically in the negatives. Besides, for all you know that could have been nothing more than a ruse to throw us off balance and let our guard down. He can’t be trusted, Candy. Ever.”

And although it was clear he wasn’t going to change his opinion and thought she was either a little crazy or a little naïve for believing differently, his movements were gentle as he pulled away from her grasp. Candy stood frozen for a moment, frantically casting about for a reason to delay him.

“Wait!” As Finnegan turned back, looking a little exasperated, she hurried on. “Look, you have a point. But let Dr. Cerra go first. If this is a ruse, then he did something to the kitten to force its compliance. The kitten’s welfare is the most important concern right now, so would you let Tev go in first and check him out? And while he’s doing that, Malingo can check to see if he can detect any recent spells in Carrion’s rooms.”

Finnegan nodded a little grudgingly and Tev immediately brushed past them to see to his charge. Noting the stiff set of his shoulders, Candy wondered if the veterinarian disapproved of her project as much as Finnegan did. Meanwhile, Malingo was happy to begin a series of incantations that would hopefully reveal any magic Carrion has performed.

Candy exhaled, relieved that her friend was willing to wait. “Thank you,” she said, and Finnegan smiled back.

---

For a while, Carrion simply laid there and petted the kitten. He knew that normally his mind would be racing ahead, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, why it had happened, how much his captors had seen, how they would react, and how he could turn it to his advantage (or at least less of a disadvantage). However, his mind didn’t seem up to racing just yet – maybe a nice, steady jog but not a race – so he just wondered idly what it was about the combination of soft fur and gentle purring vibrations that was so very soothing. Perhaps a skill the creatures were born with as a way to lull their prey into a deadly comfort? Hm, yes, that was probably it. Of course, the Prince of Darkness would never be caught off-guard, so it was perfectly all right if he –

Someone knocked on the door.

Carrion immediately bolted upright and the kitten jumped in surprise. He forced himself to calm down, and when he stood it was with the iron control he used so often. He headed for the kitchen, and twice nearly tripped over the cat which was pressing close to his legs. He growled a few perfunctory curses at it as the door was opened and the veterinarian entered.

Carrion relaxed marginally. Better him than any of the other lunatics in this asylum. The tarrie seemed to agree, for it began its usual exuberant bound forward – only to halt almost in midair. It looked over its shoulder at Carrion, hesitated, and started to turn back.

“Oh, for-” Carrion gritted his teeth and pointed at the vet. “Go.”

To his immense irritation, the kitten hesitated a moment more before running to greet Tev. Carrion pointedly ignored the examination, going to get a glass of water instead.

---

The kitten purred happily as Tev rubbed his ears. Tev was almost as good as Jimothi or another tarrie, knowing all the right places for a rub or a stroke or a gentle scratch. It had been wonderful to finally get Snarl to pet him, but – well, Snarl was a novice petter. He had a good natural talent, but his technique still left a little something to be desired.

“Yes, you’ve done well,” Tev murmured as he switched from greeting to examination. “Very well, in fact.” As the kitten’s head was gently tilted up, his amber eyes flicked from Tev’s face to Snarl’s stiff back questioningly. He knew Snarl still hadn’t quite got his paws back under him, and wondered if perhaps Tev should give Snarl a look too. After all, the kitten wasn’t the one who’d just collapsed!

Tev saw the question in his eyes and chuckled. (That was another thing – the vet understood him nearly as well as Jimothi.) “Somehow I doubt he’d appreciate it, kit.”

The kitten huffed. He had to be examined all the time – why shouldn’t Snarl?

Tev chuckled again. “Perhaps I’ll take it up with Miss Quackenbush, then,” he said. More seriously, he added, “I know you’re worried, but he’ll be fine,” and gave the kitten one last pat.

The kitten purred and sat, wrapping his tail smugly around his paws. Hah! He couldn’t wait to see Snarl poked and prodded. Oooh – and what if Tev tried to rub his ears! The kitten snickered. Wouldn’t that be a sight!

---

“Have a seat?”

Carrion transferred his scowl from his glass to the vet, considering. Only the slight lilt that turned the words from a command into a request kept him refusing with a scathing remark. Instead he set the glass in the sink, pulled out the chair he’d used earlier, and sat down without a word. The scowl remained.

Tev tugged the other chair slightly to the side so that it was at the corner of the table – mostly facing away from the mirror, but at an angle where he could speak to Carrion with ease – then picked up the kitten and settled it on his lap.

“I thought you were done with That Thing,” Carrion muttered, voice dripping with distaste.

“I am,” said Tev, though he appeared to be going through all the motions of his usual exam again. “But it’d look a little odd if I stopped to chat with the prisoner, don’t you think?”

Carrion raised an eyebrow, asking sharply, “And what might the esteemed veterinarian have to say to the disgraced prisoner?”

“That the esteemed veterinarian happens – to a degree – to sympathize with the disgraced prisoner.”

“I don’t need your pity!” Carrion snapped.

“I don’t recall mentioning it!” Tev snapped back.

Carrion fell silent for a moment, still irked. No matter what the vet said, “sympathy” was just a pretty word for “pity.” Still… If he thought he was saying something else… How could Carrion use this to his advantage? Perhaps the vet could be persuaded to overlook an injury to That Thing? Carrion vetoed the idea as soon as it formed. Doubtless the vet valued the beast’s welfare far more than Carrion’s, but– Another thought struck him. What if the vet saw Carrion as just another animal, therefore feeling a sense of responsibility toward him? Carrion wasn’t sure he liked that idea.

“Listen,” Tev was saying. “You’ve managed to surprise people, Carrion. Frankly, no one but Miss Quackenbush thought you’d make it more than a few days – a week at the most – without either trying to escape or killing the tarrie. And yet here you both are, three weeks later, no–” His eyes flicked briefly toward the fading scars Carrion still bore. “Well, almost no worse for wear.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Carrion, voice coated in scorn and skepticism.

“More than you think, apparently,” the vet said impatiently, continuing before Carrion could retort. “I’m not the only one who’s starting to wonder if maybe you aren’t completely beyond hope.” He paused, shrugged, admitted, “Or that maybe you’re even more devious than your grandmother and are simply biding your time.”

“Is there a point to your rambling?”

“Put simply, stay the last ten days. Your chances aren’t as poor as they seem to be.”

For a while, Carrion simply stared, trying to figure out what the man’s angle was. He didn’t think Tev was the sort to put on such a show for The Girl or one of her cohorts. However, this didn’t mean that he couldn’t rule it out as another trap they’d contrived. Tev seemed intelligent enough, but anyone can be subtly manipulated without even realizing it was happening. (Carrion should know – he’d practically made a career out of doing just that.) But what if the vet was being honest? The thought of being an object of Tev’s “sympathy” still rankled, but he didn’t seem the type to offer false hope. If there was even the slightest chance that, by suffering through the rest of his rehabilitation, he could sway the opinion of The Girl or one of her friends in his favor…

“So you say,” Carrion muttered dismissively.

“I do,” said Tev, unable to hide the smallest of smiles as he set the kitten back on the floor. Despite Carrion’s attitude, Tev had caught the slightest renewed gleam in the Lord of Midnight’s eyes. Maybe Carrion still believed he had no chance of returning to Gorgossium, but the last of that empty expression was gone and Tev was willing to bet that it wouldn’t be back any time soon.

Fixing the cat with a look of distaste, Carrion asked, “Are you finally done examining that beast?” Said beast bounded over to press against his shin and purr happily. Tev swallowed a snicker.

“Yes, quite finished,” he said, managing to sound perfectly serious. “And I’ll be pleased to let Miss Quackenbush know that the kit was neither physically harmed nor put under any sort of compulsion or control spell.”

As Carrion rolled his eyes (because honestly, if he hadn’t tried something like that weeks ago to stop That blasted Thing from shredding him, why would he do so now to force the creature to touch him?), the vet headed for the door, feeling rather pleased with himself for a good day’s work. He was halfway out the door when he suddenly paused and looked back. “Carrion? Looks like the dragon-killer, Finnegan Hob, is visiting after I leave. Thought you might want to know.” And he was gone.

For a moment, Carrion sat paralyzed, unable to quite believe the vet’s words because Hob simply could not be coming to ridicule him in his moment of weakness because the universe was simply not that cruel and therefore this must be a joke – a joke in very poor taste, to say the least, but a joke nonetheless.

Then it finally sank in and Carrion was hit with blinding, all-consuming rage and hate that drove every thought out of his head but the image of his hands wrapped around Finnegan Hob’s throat. Indeed, his hands were clenched on the edge of the table so tightly that it was painful but in his anger he–

And just as suddenly the fury vanished, replaced by the (not glee, the Prince of Darkness does not feel “glee”) overpowering smugness of a Brilliant Idea. Carrion reflected in a back corner of his mind that these abrupt, intense shifts in emotion were rather dizzying, and possibly an attempt to make up for those few minutes when he’d felt absolutely nothing. Irritating, but not debilitating. Hopefully it would pass soon.

In the meantime – and he allowed his lips to curve into the smirk that had caused widespread panic across the Abarat – in the meantime, he had a plan to deal with Hob’s imminent intrusion.

---

Finnegan watched Tev Cerra leave the prisoner’s rooms. As soon as the vet had assured Candy and Jimothi that the kitten was unharmed and neither coerced nor controlled (a verdict seconded by Malingo), he started for the door.

“There’s no trouble if I go now, right?” he asked Candy over his shoulder.

“No, go ahead,” she said, and Finnegan tried not to let it annoy him that she still sounded the tiniest bit reluctant.

It isn’t her fault, he reminded himself. She’s a kind, gentle person, always wanting to see the best in everyone – always has been. He’s the one who’s manipulating her, the evil murdering– Finnegan cut off the beginning of a mental tirade with a shake of his head. He would be civil if it killed him – for her. Only for her. Anything for her. With a last calming breath, he opened the door and entered the prison of the man who’d murdered his bride.

---

Carrion was unsurprised when Hob failed to knock. Regardless of Carrion’s current position, it was still a common courtesy and Hob was clearly too much of a dragon-killing barbarian to care about such social niceties.

Again, despite how much it went against the grain, the Lord of Midnight remained seated. Though he loathed giving Hob even the slightest illusion of power over him, he’d found from using the same trick on The Girl that it was much harder to seem the aggressor in any confrontation when one was seated. And oh, he was going to use that.

“Afternoon, Hob,” said Carrion, the picture of a polite host. (There was a quiet growl from somewhere near the floor, and he shot the tarrie-cat a glare. The kitten reluctantly quieted and sat close to his chair.)

“I’m not in the mood for games, Carrion.” Hob managed not to spit the name but it was a near thing. Instead, he decided to put the hatred aside for a moment and simply enjoy the fact that he was in a position of power over the former Prince of Gorgossium. “Since you – expressed – several days ago that you’re having difficulties understanding the contents of Candy’s weekly letters, she’s asked me to go over them with you so that there will be no doubts at all concerning what’s expected of you.”

Carrion felt the rage and hate still bubbling in the depths of his mind, rather like a pool of lava that hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to erupt with volcanic force. But his self-control was equal to it, and his carefully hidden smugness provided an excellent barrier. And so, rather than verbally flay Hob, Carrion merely nodded. “I see. Very thoughtful of Miss Quackenbush, to be so accommodating.”

Hob’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he took a step forward. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with the sudden pitiful act, but I don’t believe any of it for a second. There’s no point in pretending. You won’t fool anyone here.”

Carrion kept a sudden surge of relief hidden behind his expression of polite indifference. His first piece of good luck in - well, since The Girl had come to the Abarat. Hob, at least, believed his collapse was nothing more than an ill-thought-out ruse. Hopefully the dragon-killer would be able to convince the others as well. Carrion would rather be thought foolish than let even a rumor of weakness begin circulating.

“Very well, I can’t fool you,” Carrion said with a small, dismissive flick of his hand. “Let’s simply get on with your reason for visiting me, shall we?”

“Very well,” Hob repeated, his tone just this side of mocking. “We’ll go through line by line.”

“A fine idea,” Carrion agreed, unable to keep the tiniest hint of a smirk away. Hob was playing right along with his plan.

Hob read through the letter’s first paragraph. “’In a positive way, Mr. Carrion,’” he finished, unable to fully hide just how much he was relishing the moment. “So, ‘Mr.’ Carrion, do you understand what Miss Quackenbush requires of you?”

“I believe I do, Mr. Hob,” Carrion replied cordially. “Candy acknowledges that I’m taking care of Tha- the cat, but asks that I play with it. Would you agree that’s the gist of it, Mr. Hob?” Inwardly he smirked. Using The Girl’s first name would be even more likely to irritate Hob than the polite answer.

Sure enough, he could tell the dragon-killer was clenching his teeth. “Good,” said Hob shortly, and continued. “’Additionally, you are still refusing to cooperate with Dr. Friendly. Throwing out the therapist responsible for attesting to your ability to manage your anger is not the best way to go about securing your release.’” He looked up from the letter. “So tell me, Carrion. Why would you throw out someone who has so much influence over your fate?”

Carrion raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever had the – unique experience of speaking at length with this doctor?”

Hob’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a very busy man. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Ah.” A knowing nod. “I see. Then I’m afraid, Mr. Hob, that you couldn’t possibly understand.”

Hob limited his reaction to a mistrustful frown (Carrion was reluctantly impressed – he’d thought that would at least merit a snarl) and read off the final line of the paragraph. “'Although his methods may seem unconventional, you have to cooperate with him if you don’t want to go back to prison.' Is that clear, Carrion?”

“As the waters of the Izabella off the Nonce,” said Carrion placidly.

For a few beats Hob only stared at him in silence. Finally, he asked, “What’s your game?”

“Game? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Hob?” The Lord of Midnight was the picture of innocence – except for the slightest hint of a knowing smirk in his eyes and at the corners of his lips. No one would notice unless they happened to look very closely and had previous experience with Carrion’s smirks.

Hob noticed. He planted his hands on the table, leaning over to glare into Carrion’s face. “We both know you’re hardly inclined to be so agreeable,” he snapped. “This act isn’t going to make me think any better of you, and I’m sure you know that. Tell me what you’re playing at!”

“Are you threatening me?” Carrion wondered aloud in the tone of one asking what the weather was like. He allowed his gaze to shift briefly from Hob’s face to Candy’s letter and back. Scowling, Hob straightened.

“I’m watching you,” he corrected stiffly. “You aren’t pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes, Carrion. Least of all mine.”

“Of course.” It was an effort, remaining outwardly composed while he was snickering on the inside. If he’d only known years ago that acting calm and agreeable threw the fool so off-balance! “Shall we continue with the letter, then?” Carrion thought with malicious glee that he could hear Hob’s teeth grinding.

“Why not,” Hob growled. “‘In addition to that, you used magic for the second time when it has been made extremely clear to you that it is not allowed, not for any reason.’ This seems to be something particularly hard for you to comprehend,” he said, looking up from the letter and fixing Carrion with a cold stare. “Wouldn’t you agree? But is it that you don’t understand or that you refuse to obey?”

Carrion leaned back slightly, as if giving the question serious thought. “I would say…once each.”

“How do you figure that?” Hob’s voice was kept carefully neutral.

“The first time I used magic in these rooms was to retrieve the tarrie-cat. It was my first day here, as you may recall, and Miss Quackenbush failed to mention anything about magic when discussing the regulations for this – rehabilitation. Therefore, once out of ignorance.”

“Oh, as if I’d believe that for a second!” Hob spat, finally irritated enough to show it. (Carrion was mildly relieved. He’d begun to worry he’d lost his touch.) “You made it through over two weeks in prison on the understanding that no magic was allowed. You may be an evil, murderous waste of space, Carrion, but you’re not stupid.”

Carrion blinked in genuine surprise. “Thank you, Hob. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in, oh, two decades or more.”

“Quiet!” snapped the dragon-hunter. “You knew magic was-”

“I knew magic was forbidden,” Carrion interrupted, “in the cell. Where I also had several bindings placed on me by the geshrat. Here? With those bonds lifted? How could I have known? After all, I am in rehabilitation instead of prison, am I not?”

Hob opened his mouth to protest – then closed it, jaw clenched. He was obviously forcing the words back down his throat, having realized that nothing he could say would have any impact on Carrion’s ridiculous claims.

The Lord of Gorgossium shifted slightly in his chair, settling into a more comfortable position. With effort, he kept the internal smirk from showing in his expression. You may be an arrogant, self-righteous waste of space, Hob, but you’re not completely stupid, he thought smugly. Yes, he was enjoying himself.

“Very well,” Hob finally said. His voice was brusque, but Carrion could still hear an undercurrent of annoyance. “Let’s say you really were honestly uncertain about the rules the first time. That doesn’t excuse throwing fireballs around!”

“Quite right. The second time I used magic, yes, it was with full knowledge that it was not allowed,” Carrion agreed, sounding far too calm for someone confessing that he’d deliberately ignored the conditions of his imprisonment. Before Hob could comment to that effect, Carrion went on. “Of course, that was in defense of my life, so I fail to see why I should be punished.”

“Your life was not in danger!” Hob could hardly believe that the Prince of Darkness would claim that crickets were a mortal threat, and he sounded more incredulous than angry.

“Have you ever gotten into bed only to find yourself covered in insects?” Carrion asked, lip curling in disgust at the mere thought.

“I don’t believe this,” Hob muttered, more to himself than Carrion, and looked back to the letter. They – he, Candy, Malingo and the others – could debate the cricket issue later. Instead, he finished the third paragraph of Candy’s letter. “‘From now on, someone will come to your rooms after every piece of correspondence to make sure you understand exactly what it expected of you. This will prevent the possibility of any further misunderstandings.’” Now it was Hob’s turn to smirk. “Is that clear enough for you, Carrion? You can’t claim ignorance anymore.”

“So it would seem,” agreed Carrion blandly.

Hob leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I’ll need a clearer answer than that. Remember, can’t have any misunderstandings.”

“I understand that from this point on any and all correspondence I receive will be read aloud to confirm that I have read and comprehended all the information contained therein. Thus, I can no longer claim ignorance, misunderstanding, or misinterpretation of any rules, regulations, guidelines, or policies mentioned in said correspondence.”

For a moment, Hob could only stare. Carrion stared back. Hob decided that, even for Carrion, that was good enough.

“‘Finally,’” Hob read from the last paragraph of the letter, “‘you told me that you didn’t think we would ever genuinely consider relea–’” He abruptly stopped, reading ahead silently. The two or three taunts that had immediately come to mind upon discovering that Carrion thought his situation was hopeless fell by the wayside, his thoughts racing onward as he took in Candy’s words.

Carrion folded his arms across his chest and leaned back to watch the show. He allowed the smirk he’d been holding back for so long to surface for a moment while the idiot was absorbed in the letter. The Girl might have thought her seemingly concerned words would affect him, but she’d given no thought to who else would read the missive. Oh, this is going to be so entertaining!

---

The kitten glanced between the two men, confused. He’d growled at the strange man – the one Snarl disliked as much as the Leech, the one he called “that-fool-hob” – as a warning. But Snarl hadn’t wanted his protection, and so he’d subsided and refrained from attacking the fool-hob. However, he hadn’t left the kitchen, remaining politely to one side of Snarl’s chair and out of the way. There was no way he was going to leave Snarl alone after collapsing like that.

The tarrie had watched the exchange with interest, not always getting all the words or references, but still following fairly well. Snarl’s calm would have worried him so soon after that blankness, but the tarrie knew him well enough to sense that Snarl was well-pleased with a plot in progress. So, he’d been willing to sit back and enjoy Snarl’s victories over the intruder.

Until this unnatural stillness. Something was about to happen. The fool-hob was tense and Snarl was waiting. The kitten stood uneasily, shifting from paw to paw. Whatever happened, he would be ready to defend Snarl.

---

The words were still running through Finnegan Hob’s mind. Everything else, however, seemed to be frozen. Some phrases kept jumping out at him.

“That’s not true Carrion!”

“We can help you go home!”

“Please, Carrion, just try!”

He’d been telling himself that Candy’s insistence on trying to rehabilitate Midnight’s former prince was only a result of, at best, a strong belief in mercy and second chances or, at worst, sheer naïveté. But this… This letter made it seem as though she had some sort of – some sort of soft spot for Christopher Carrion! So what if in the end he’d helped them defeat Mater Motley? That was only because the Hag had turned on her grandson and he’d wanted revenge. Carrion was still nothing more than a vicious, lying devil who would try to take over the Abarat again the instant he was set free.

His Boa had had the kindest heart the Abarat had ever known, and even she had seen that Midnight’s darkness permeated Carrion – heart, mind, and soul. How could Candy, knowing Carrion’s past and having experienced his evil firsthand, possibly think anything good of–

She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly see any good in the former Lord of Midnight. She was smarter than that, she was…

It hit him. Of course she was.

“What do you mean by this?” Hob snarled, thrusting the letter in Carrion’s face.

Carrion raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

“You’d never be able to control her – she’s too strong for you.” Although Hob managed to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, rage blazed in his green eyes. “But I’m sure altering her letter isn’t beyond you. What are you trying to achieve, Carrion?”

“My dear Hob,” Carrion drawled, “I did not tamper in any way with either Candy or her missive.”

Hob took a sudden, irate step forward and the tarrie-kitten leaped in front of Carrion’s chair with a warning hiss, placing itself squarely between the two. Its eyes were narrowed and the fur down its spine bristled. Surprise halted Hob’s advance, and then he fixed a furious glare on Carrion.

“Managed to corrupt the cat, I see. There’s hardly any reason to continue trying to rehabilitate you, in that case,” he spat.

Carrion swiftly hid his own surprise. Was this another ploy of That Thing’s to get him jailed or killed? And if it wasn’t, then… Carrion mentally shook himself – Hob was ranting and it was finally time to pull off his Brilliant Plan. The cat’s motivations could wait.

“My dear Hob,” Carrion repeated, “you seem a bit – upset.”

“Upset?” Hob said the word as though it were the worst of curses.

Carrion leaned forward. “Really, Hob,” he began kindly, “you need to learn how to control your anger.”

The dragon-killer was momentarily rendered speechless. “What?”

“I’m hardly as accomplished as Dr. Friendly, of course,” Carrion continued, “but I do know that the first step to managing your unhealthy anger is to consciously determine to be calm. Can you try that, Hob?”

“Consciously determine to be calm?!” Hob snarled, sheer rage temporarily robbing him of the ability to do any more than repeat the phrase.

“Come now, Hob, the second step is to communicate!” Carrion admonished. “Until you open a dialogue with the people around you, you’ll be trapped in an endless cycle of anger. Repetition doesn’t count!”

“Would my hands around your throat communicate enough?” Hob ground out.

“See, that’s progress!” said Carrion, pleased. “Now, the third step is to remove yourself from the scene until you can respond without anger. I believe this step would be very beneficial at the –”

Without another word, Finnegan Hob abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, flinging the letter to the floor. A moment longer and he really would strangle Carrion.

“Don’t forget to take time for yourself and look for the positives, Hob!” Carrion called after him mockingly. The door slammed so hard that the glass in the sink rattled.

For a while, Gorgossium’s prince merely sat there, emblazoning Hob’s apoplectic expression in his mind. Then he released a smug, self-satisfied sigh and stood. The constant fury at having Hob in his space had vanished completely, and far more quickly than usual. He looked down at the cat almost tolerantly as he headed back to his armchair.

“And that, my dear Thing,” said Carrion, “is how to manage your anger using the Five Steps.”

The kitten rubbed against his leg and purred loudly in agreement.

---

And thus, once again I have triumphed over that half-breed fool, Finnegan Hob. I honestly believed Friendly’s Five Steps to be completely useless. I shall have to apologize to the man.

…

On second thought, perhaps not.

I am in a rather generous mood, however. I’ve decided not to skin the cat alive for assaulting me while I was lying prone.

…

Although… To be perfectly honest, I

Well.

It hardly matters. I will not be so weak again, and even if such a thing were to occur I’m sure That Thing will take advantage of the opportunity to kill me rather than…assist me.

It’s simply part and parcel of its elaborate plot to trick me into lowering my guard. And so was leaping between Hob and me.

…After all, what else could it be?