Aaron Keenan paused, frowning to himself. Well, damn. That's inconvenient. He had been walking home from work, just like any other day, when he discovered a very un-routine occurrence in his path. Watching dirt dribble between the metal teeth of a ravenous earth-mover as it ripped the street apart, Aaron decided it was time to pick an alternate route.
 
Should I take the short-cut? The athletic young man was far from weak, but he knew it was best to be off the streets before dark. Once or twice in the past, he had made use of a jogging trail that cut right through Andrews Park, shaving half an hour off the trip. But didn't someone just get jumped back here? Aaron hummed to himself, scratching his forehead. It won't be fun dodging traffic downtown, but getting mugged or killed would be a lot less fun.
 
The path didn't do much to advertise itself. The park was heavily forested, and while the trail itself was clear and well-maintained, blackberry canes and other, less identifiable foliage formed gnarly thickets to either side. Aaron spotted three ideal spots for an ambush just standing at the entrance to the path.
 
Making up his mind, Aaron turned his back on the shortcut and made his way down Cutting Street, taking a left at Scorpion Way to make his way around the block, thus dodging the construction work. The shaggy-haired blond flatface scowled, wrinkling his nose against the smoggy fumes rising from the rush-hour traffic beside him. This is one time I'm glad I don't have a nose like a long-face.
 
Suddenly, Aaron felt a warning sensation in his gut, heard the tiniest rattle of something bearing down behind him. The pedestrian leaped backward into a side alley, just in time to avoid being hit by a bicyclist barreling down the sidewalk.
 
Aaron leaned forward, starting to shout something indignant after the bicycle rider.
 
As his mouth opened, however, a hand clamped quickly over it from behind. Simultaneously, something sharp pricked his throat.
 
Knowing he was in trouble, Aaron tried to run, to fight, to do something, anything. But a black abyss seemed to open at his feet, sucking away all will to run, to struggle, to cry out... and finally, all will to do anything at all.
 
Aaron sighed, falling into the hungry darkness.
 
---
 
The black-gloved hand drops the syringe immediately, both arms leaping out to catch the young man as he sags into unconsciousness. Ah, diazepam, the empty one sighs in satisfaction.
 
He does not wait long enough to look left and right. That would be a mistake, would alert anyone watching that Bad Things were afoot. Instead, he quickly dragged the unconscious man further into the alley. After about ten yards, a door appears in one of the alley walls. Here the syringe-wielder stops, resting the drugged man supine on the filthy asphalt.
 
One leather-clad hand dives into his coat pocket, returning with a primitive, carved bone dagger. The empty one turns this fetish over and over in his hands, gazing down at it with adoring intensity. Then he pricks his own finger with it.
 
He paints a symbol on the door in his own blood, a three-tiered spiral inside a square shape, itself encased in waving lines.
 
The door swings inward. A rectangle of ivory light falls outward, shattering the shadows in the small, enclosed space.
 
Grabbing Aaron's arms at the wrist, he drags his captive through the door.
 
It shuts behind them without a sound.
 
---
 
"I'm allergic to pollen," the empty one said.
 
Aaron's eyes flickered open, blinking away groggy cobwebs. Cold air tickled his genitals, and he realized, in a slow, dreamy way, that he was naked, lying supine on something cold and hard. Deep inside, a dim memory of being in desperate danger reverberated, but somehow, Aaron couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Lightheaded, feeling as if the world was tilting and spinning around him, Aaron squinted, trying to focus his eyes on the blurry human-shaped figure standing before him. The rebellious organs refused to cooperate; he couldn't even make out the person's gender or species.
 
All Aaron could see were white walls. White shelves stacked with unidentifiable objects. Pure, radiant whiteness, immaculate and generic.
 
Did I fall? Did that bicycle hit me? Am I in the hospital?
 
"I said," repeated the blurry figure, "I'm allergic to pollen."
 
Pollen...? Did I hear that right? Am I still asleep?
 
Aaron's eyes then turned traitor once and for all, sliding shut against his will. The jaws of the earth seemed to gape wide, sucking his consciousness back down into the infinite silence.
 
The empty one shrugged, favoring the young man with a gentle, forgiving smile. "Oh well," he said, and turned toward the shelves, leaving Aaron to his drugged slumber.
 
He had work to do.
 
---
 
Delve only feels alive in the White Room.
 
"Is this love?"
 
The empty one queries this aloud to himself, drawing one filed-sharp claw along the red leather straps binding Aaron's legs to the table. Like bloodied serpents, the leather straps coil around the captive's ankles, knees, and thighs, caressing his pale Northlanders' skin. Midnight-hided leather adders, twin to the crimson ones, hold the arms and chest; echoing the room itself, radiant swan-white straps criss-cross the body and throat.
 
The coydog sighs happily, basking the caress of the White Room's awareness against his own. As always, it is a very solicitous place. Its clean ivory presence wonders, Are the bindings sufficient? Do they please you aesthetically?
 
Yes, the hollow one decides. This is love.
 
The bone knife is in his hand again, turning comfortably in his grip like a worrystone. Its eagerness thrums through him, begging him to plunge it into the flatface's soft, pale, unbroken flesh. Patience, Delve coos to the weapon, cradling it close to his chest. One more thing.
 
With the infinite patience of the void, Delve crouches beside his well-bound guest. He draws the dagger's blade across the man's bare skin, playfully, almost lovingly, without leaving a mark. Every now and then, he rises to check a knot in the bindings, or to survey the items assembled on the shelves. An exotic dildo here, a length of heavy chain there. A few virgin candles. Knives of all shapes, sizes, and kinds. Innumerable torturer's treasures.
 
Delve's big, droopy-tipped ears twitch as his captive begins to cough. Turning around, he discovers that Aaron's eyes are open again. A happy smile brightens the coydog's countenance, and he pulls up a chair, sitting down beside Aaron's pinioned body in order to look down at his face.
 
The captive's eyes swim into focus and fix on their captors' face. No fear breaks through the emotionless mask on Aaron's face; like any Paradise City native, he knows better. The young man's eyes move from Delve's face to his own limbs. Automatically, without thought, Aaron pulls, testing the binds.
 
"Did she do that, Aaron?" Delve wants to know.
 
A crack appears in the captive's poker face. "What?"
 
"Did she test the ropes you tied her in when she woke up, Aaron?" Delve rises, pacing to the other side of the table. "I think this is how you did it, innit, buddy? I know you used GHB in a drink, not diazepam in a rig, but close enough, I think."
 
"I don't... oh my God." Terror shatters the pretense of ignorance. Wide blue eyes lock to Delve's own, disarmed and sickened. "How the fuck?"
 
Ignoring his captive, Delve continues: "But she struggled, then, didn't she, buddy? She struggled, and begged. But you're not going to beg, are you, Aaron? Eh, buddy?" Delve hisses, moving back to his chair.
 
Aaron emits a low, horrified moan, squeezing his eyes shut, repeating, "No one knows. No one knows. No one knows..."
 
The empty one rolls his eyes, reaching out to slap Aaron's cheek. The flow of noise immediately stops.
 
"Don't lie to yourself, Aaron. It's not very attractive."
 
Passing the bone knife from one hand to the other, the coydog drags it along the other man's abdomen casually, raising a line of tiny crimson droplets.
 
"Like I told you before," Delve continues sunnily, "I'm allergic to pollen."
 
Aaron, frightened and confused, fails to respond, stunned by the revelation that his secret doings aren't so secret anymore.
 
"You should have taken the park shortcut, sweetheart."
 
Flipping the bone knife back into his left hand, Delve presses its tip into the space between Aaron's collarbones, dragging downward over the chest and abdomen.
 
Time for buddy to reap what he's sown.
 
---
 
In reverent silence, Delve kneels beneath the ancient live oak. He leans forward, kissing the great old tree's gnarly bark. Then, with sacred solemnity, the coydog nestles his offering gently into the waiting nook between the oak's roots.
 
Delve rises to his full height before making a formal bow at the waist. He shivers a little, feeling the opioidic caress of the Ghost Tree's approval and gratitude.
 
The wind curls and whistles through the Ghost Tree's branches, setting Delve's offerings dancing and swaying through the red-golden gaze of the sunset.
 
Note to self, Delve decides. Flat-face ribs make pretty wind-chimes.
 
Abandoning the bony remains of Aaron Keenan to their enshrined rest, Delve begins the long walk toward home, idly gnawing a rather large marrow-bone. Spiritual duty discharged, his busy mind is preoccupied with how to prepare the "wild game" in his freezer...
 
---
 
"I'm telling you, damn it, they went into this door!"
 
Seth Greenberg sighed in frustration. At first, this had sounded like a promising lead. But, as was often the case, the witness turned out to have none too sound a grasp on reality.
 
"Look, I'm not trying to insult you, ma'am," the detective replied carefully, "but there's just no way the perpetrator used that door. Are you certain it was this alley?"
 
The lizard that stood before him hardly reached the detective's broad chest, but this seemed not to intimidate her -- she gave an aggravated hiss, blue tongue flicking irritably, and stomped away down the alley.
 
"Yes, Goddamnit, I'm sure! You fuckin' blue-backs never believe me about this! I've seen the asshole do it twice now! I guess I have to just fucking show you!"
 
Before Seth could stop her, the lizard-woman's clawed hand wrapped around the battered, black iron handle of the old door. It swung open outwards to reveal a brick wall, and nothing else.
 
Seth, walking up to stand behind the woman, heaved a resigned sigh, shaking his head. All anger dispersed, the skink-woman stared at the brick wall in shock.
 
"Ma'am, this building used to be a ... well, a brothel. When the site was... repurposed, they blocked off this door so that johns who didn't get the closure notice couldn't just saunter in anytime they felt like it."
 
No response. The woman's eyes, wide in disbelief, darted from the useless door to the detective's face.
 
"So you see, he just couldn't have gone that way. There's just no way..."
 
Guiding the silent woman gently out of the alleyway, Seth's train of thought was interrupted by a sudden collision with another pedestrian. Startled, the detective stepped back, turning to face the other man with an apology on his lips.
 
The other pedestrian, a thin young coydog bent down under the weight of a rather large backpack, shook his head, cutting off Seth's instinctive response. "My bad," he said with a friendly smile. Seth nodded agreeably, waving the man on his way, before turning back to the alley and the woman, only to find that his witness had vanished into thin air.
 
"Great," Seth sighed in frustration. "There's an hour wasted. Gator's going to love this one." Walking back to his car, he shook his head. Saw a man drag an unconscious body into a door that opens on a solid wall. Right, lady. What's next -- I'm pregnant by aliens?
 
Putting the car in gear, Seth pulled out of his parking space. The radio crackled, demanding his immediate attention. Preoccupied with his job, Seth paid no attention at all to the coydog with his heavy backpack, whistling to himself as he walked north along Scorpion Way.
 
Alone once more, unheard and unwitnessed, a gentle breeze gushed through the alleyway like a sigh.
 
The door pulled itself shut.