bridle glowed in her hands. The mares were not for the eyes of this world. She watched as his soul, helpless, took hold and climbed on the mare’s back, and she heard him scream as the plunging, rearing mare sped off faster than light or dark, taking him away from his sleeping body.

Then she turned and walked with smart steps out of the alley. The mare would bring him back later. This was not the kill she would make tonight.

She heard the movement before he came. The crush of newspaper, the sound of a trash-can lid falling.

The black cat miaowed at her feet, huge and sleek, green eyes brilliant in the dark.

"Darkling, I listen," she quoted with a smile.

"And for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death," the Cat quoted back in her ear. "Are you ? Sick of our world already?" He straightened, very tall in his long black coat, his black hair hanging down to brush his shoulder blades. His lashes made spiky shadows on his white skin, a cold, resilient skin like nothing human nor animal.

"Do you think I long for the higher gardens, Morpheus, the Elysian Fields? Death has no mystery for me, it is merely a way of passage, to the fiery depths or to the sunlit meadows."

"We are promised the Elysian Fields when we are done," he whispered to her. Voice like velvet, like soft night itself. "When you are done."

"I am not sick of this work yet. I have barely begun, and you were to let me begin properly tonight."

"Then come with me." His hand took hers in its cold grip, and the shadows swallowed them up.

He waited in the street below as she appeared in a shadow, in the room where two people she had once known slumbered. A rite of passage, the first kill. What was the lesson? That dreams can be dangerous ? That here was no place for love or mortal memories here in this moonscape of light and shadow?

A black mare. A pitch black mare with rolling red eyes and flared nostrils, screaming and pawing the ground. A mare of such strength that she resisted the bridle with great spirit though futilely. A mare who leapt like a panther at the sleeping man once shown her target, and who would take him on a path of horrors before delivering him at the Gates of Hell where he would pay the price for the irreparable damage he had done to a young girl he had once known. For all the nights of suffering and hate and fear that he had given her.

And for the woman? Sleeping there and unaware, the lines of care and hardness gone or softened in sleep, vulnerable and so deeply unhappy. She was not blameless, for she had turned her back on it and let it go on, but her crime was not so severe, for she was already paying the price. A white mare, a white mare for her in remembrance, and a necklace of large pearls and hammered silver on the dresser for her on waking. Live the life you have always wanted, Mother.

She paused. The King of Dreams waited outside, and already he had been joined by two other shapes in black and silver. Other Herders. She saw Vincent and saw his wave to her. Beautiful Vincent with his long fingers and soft smile, his hair golden in the sunlight. Vincent who now stood so solemn in the street next to Morpheus, waiting. But she had another visit to make this night.

The writer slumbered in his bed, burrowed under the sheets. The typewriter stood on the table, the stack of paper beside it weighted down with a polished river stone. The sheet in the typewriter was blank, as usual.

The crystal ball rolled easily over her shoulders as she stretched her arms out. Her fingers snatched it an instant before it fell and she tossed it up high in the air so that it glittered like a diamond. She caught it again, feeling the smooth cool glass in her hand as she stepped up and leaned over the bed.

"Dream sweet dreams, and write down with inspiration what you dream." The ball broke in her hand and its contents dissipated like smoke over him. "Remember me."

It was done, all her earthly cares set down and cast free. She leapt lightly from the window, landing neatly on the pavement below with a slight bend of her knees. Morpheus’ arms enfolded her into the soft folds of black as Vincent came to take her hand.

From the second story window, an old woman waved a frail hand. Another night in the city.