“We haven’t got much time. I’m issuing the call to order–NOW.” The dark, slender man tapped his foot impatiently on the worn carpeted floor. “And who the hell invited the Fairies?!”
The faint, lilting buzz of gossamer wings sounded above the heads of those gathered. “We have every right to be here!” one of the thin voices replied. “Every right in the world!”
“Get on with it, Bloodsucker,” the werewolf snarled. “We don’t have all night. She’s bound to awaken soon.”

The vampire held court from the center of the room, raising his arms for attention. Mac stared at his audience with an interest he hadn’t felt in all of his five-hundred plus years. Had there ever been such an eclectic meeting of such diverse, fantastic individuals? “As rude as this flea-bitten creature is, I’m afraid he’s right. Our time is short–”
“As are these quarters!” A huge beast of a man, his face hidden in the shadows, bellowed as he bumped his head on the ceiling once again. “Can’t the female afford a place with a bit more space??”
“You are welcome to wait outside, sir, if you find the area too cramped. There are the Titans and the Greco-Roman Gods. You’ll find yourself in good company. But I fear we can wait no longer.” Mac ran a hand through his smooth hair, flashing his fangs. “We all know why we’re gathered here tonight. This is her space. Her own cats have been allowed to attend us.” He bowed slightly to the felines who sat in rapt attention in each of the four corners. “She sleeps soundly in the next room. But the woman-scribe known as Raine is not writing.” He made a malicious hissing noise between his teeth. “And if she does not write, each of our special stories may never be told. And this we cannot allow.”

“I say we simply kill her. Why should we pin our hopes to someone so weak? I have the perfect poison–”
“Don’t listen to the Roman whore! If the writer dies, we may never live. I’m sure the charms of a Creole gentleman like myself could–”
“No, no, no, this is all wrong. A firm hand, and a flick or two of the whip is what’s needed here. We Victorians knew exactly how to–”
“The secret lies in tempting her. Like all base humans, she feels an attraction to the forbidden. The secrets that lurk in shadow. Let me have her but for a night, and I will rekindle–”

“Enough of this bickering! The woman cannot be forced.” Calming himself with a supreme effort, Mac offered the group a brilliant smile. “We’ll take the indirect approach. Her dreams. Each of us will insinuate ourselves into her dreams. There you may do whatever you wish. Whisper to her. Captivate her. Frighten her. Sell the stories of your lives in 3-D Technicolor, if that’s what it takes. But see that the woman never knows a good night’s sleep again until she resumes the writing. No mercy for the Weaver, until she weaves our stories once more!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My head rocketed from the comfort of my pillow, throbbing insistently.

A dream. It had all been some freakish sort of dream. Reaching for the lamp, I flinched as the light burned my eyes, vaguely trying to remember what the hell it was about.

Water. I needed a cold drink of water to rouse me from the last dream before I was willing to try for another. I tiptoed into the living room, flicking on the light there, nearly expecting to find my own personal Gallery of Characters waiting in ambush, angry with me for failing to write again tonight. Isn’t it silly how we allow our worries to bleed into our subconscious minds?

And yes, I confess that I grabbed a pen and paper on the way back to bed. Just to jot down a line or two before sleep. A character description. A story idea. Just in case. Y’know?

It had nothing to do with the four cats sitting in the four corners of my living room, staring silently at me through slitted eyes.

Nope. Nothing at all. :poof: