Unfleshed, he drifted through the trees--dark and massive against the skeletal whiteness of the cold bark. His ragged contours shifted, subject to the fickle breeze, while his dripping remnants fed the Earthen soil.

He had little strength here. His substance was no more than a gelid parody. Still, the sight of him--of his skull-like visage and dangling tissues--was enough to chill the spirit of his would-be prey.

His empty eyeholes stared in uncaring disdain at the glitter of this world. Unseeing of the dew-drenched leaves, or the moonbright pastures, he had vision only for that which would satisfy his needs.

The most important of these was hunger. An insatiable hunger, which made no distinction between domination and dining. For was not consumption the ultimate form of dominance?

A hiss of satisfaction curved his gaping mouth in a caricature of a grin, that was somehow far more frightening than its death-head stillness. The creature's cravings took him drifting up a slope, to peer in the windows of an empty house. A snarl sliced the night as sharply as his claws could sometimes rend flesh. His purpose had been thwarted by time and distance--a taunting of memory on the breeze, or perhaps, an enigmatic taste of what was to come.

He floated away from the white dwelling, to seek better feeding grounds. Another place where he would have solidity, and mass, and the ability to consume that which he most craved.

But, as he melted into the forest darkness, the black eyeholes cast a backwards glance--a glitter of awareness momentarily brightening them with a silvered-purple glint. The white house, the trees, the promise of future success--all were lodged in the wisps of his memory. And the formidable retentive abilities of his kind were legend. Offend him once, and he would never forget. He would come again, at another time, in another place, to claim you as his own.

Somewhere in this place lay the promise of a rare delicacy. The flavour of a prize that was as difficult to catch, as it was pleasurable to consume.

The creature's salivation fed the dripping residue of his already leaking tissues. The taint of his brightly-aura'd prize lay on the breeze, on the old wood of the dwelling, on the grass heads that shivered beneath his feet. If its prey had visited here so frequently as to leave its imprint upon this place, then it would come again.

It would come, but it would not leave.

The storm raged, rattling the old glass in its wooden frame. The wind pillaged the grounds, eating the soil and gravel, then flinging them back against the house, to pellet the shivering windows in a harsh staccato beat.

Trevor took a long look at the drooping ceiling, the peeling wallpaper, and the downhill cant to the lounge floor. Peter, what have you done? he thought. Turning quickly to hide his expression, he peered out the window at the dark night. "And you say Katy agreed?" Trev forgot to hide the sceptical note in his voice.

It made Peter squirm. Somewhat defensively, Peter told him, "Of course she would've loved to see the place beforehand, but when I told her about the auction, she said okay." He grinned as he remembered the other, less mentionable, things Katy had whispered. "She trusts my judgement."

Trevor gave a sarcastic snort. "Judgement has nothing to do with it. She just likes your--"

Another blast of grit hit against the glass. Trevor jumped back, letting the curtain drop. Lowering his voice to a hollow moan, he told Peter, "Someone's rapping at your window--"

"Someone's going to rap at the side of your head if you don't shut up," Peter said, grinning. It was his turn to move the curtain aside, and stare out the window. His smile faded. "Seriously, Trev--what do you think?"

"I think I hate it when you say, 'seriously, Trev'. It always means you're actually going to listen to my opinion--and if I don't get it right you'll be worrying about it for days."

"Bullshit."

"'Bullshit' nothing. You know what your problem is?"

"You?"

Trevor grinned. "Close. But I'm a complication, not a problem."

Peter hid his amusement behind a snort of disgust. "You're both. Anyway, I didn't ask for your opinion--"

"Yes, you did!" Trevor interrupted. "Don't you remember, 'Trev, what d'you think'?"

"Of this place, you moron--not me!"

Trevor flopped down in one of Peter's big wing chairs. Its fraternal twin nestled closer to the smoking fireplace. Trev opted for breathing space over warmth. He sighed. "Okay, Pete--I'm ready. Do your worst. Bring on your questions." Trevor looked around the room, seeing the moisture marks in the plaster, borer holes in the wood, and numerous small repairs that he knew Peter wouldn't have noticed. A note of amusement crept back into his voice as he added, "Only one thing--"

"Only what?" Peter asked, raising his eyes to the heavens in a bid for patience. He knew it was a gesture that always annoyed Trevor.

"Only--do I have to tell you the truth?"

Now that Peter was about to get Trevor's opinion, he wasn't sure he wanted it. When another blast of grit shuddered the glass, Peter used it as an excuse to look out at the storm. As always, his eyes seemed to wander of their own accord toward that weird stand of trees at the bottom of the slope. Trevor joined him, welcoming anything that would distract Peter from an honest appraisal of his new purchase.

"Those have got to be the ugliest trees I've ever seen!" Trevor put his face against the glass, straining to get a better look at the monstrosities in the distance.

"They're ancient," Peter told him, his voice mingling a hint of awe with an undertone of proprietorial pride.

Trevor snorted. "So's my grandmother." He looked out the window again, frowned and flopped the curtain in Peter's face. "If they're half as old as they look, they must've been planted by Cro-Magnon man."