Oz sat on the window seat as it seemed he always did. The day
outside was hazy as it had been... when?
Oz blinked and stared at his bare feet.
He looked around the dingy room with its one dirty window. As soon as he viewed the cheap furnishings and threadbare carpet he forgot them and looked again out the window.
The building across the way was probably industrial. The street below was a surprisingly clean alley. The sky was gray.
Nothing ever changed outside. Just...when the light was just right, sometimes he could read words in the dust on the window.
Hope. Find me. Watch out. Beware. Get Lost.
Who wrote them? Had he? Why?
Did the words come to him in dreams? Were they something he shouldn't forget?
What had he been dreaming (remembering)? Or was he dreaming this?
He was on stage playing with Dingoes Ate My Baby. Man, they'd sucked, but they were happy.
He was happy now. Wasn't he? He wasn't unhappy. Oz thought he just... was.
But not the peaceful, oneness, meditative "just was" he'd learned in Tibet. He was like the gray of the sky or the washed-out yellow of the linoleum on the table. The table was yellow, wasn't it?
He lifted his head to find the answer and just as quickly forgot why he'd moved.
It had been Willow. His most vivid dreams (memories?) were of Willow.
She'd been beautiful, pale and naked on a bed of furs as she'd looked coyly over her shoulder at him.
She was dressed in little-girl clothes and suspenders as she'd been when they first started dating, her books clutched to her chest.
Her breathing quickened as he kissed her.
She is evil. Oz blinks as if he's found a diamond ring in a box of cereal.
He sees her clearly, briefly. Her eyes are black, her hair is long and wild, her fingers are like claws as she paints a pentagram on the wall in blood. Whose blood?
Light fades from the window and Oz thinks he was once ruled by the turning of the Earth, by the waxing and waning of the moon.
The wolf is still with him. It will never leave him. Mostly it... sleeps.
She sometimes calls it out. She fights it. She fucks it. She makes it sit by her chair and she pets it like a beagle. She feeds it....
Oz shakes himself and looks at his bare feet.
What had he been dreaming?
There were words in the dust.
No. There were no pets here. Or were there?
Book 10: Captive
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