Chet Williamson - Reign

"Well, goodnight then," he said, and let himself out, noticing, as he left, that Dennis didn't look up to see him go.

Back in his suite, Donna was still in the bed. When he climbed in next to her, she smiled at him apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said. "That wasn't like me. I feel so stupid."

"It's okay," he told her. "I understand." Instead of immediately resuming their lovemaking, he simply put an arm around her and let her cuddle against him. "This whole place is on edge. You should've seen John when he heard you yell."

"Ohmigod, John heard me?"

"Yeah. He was in the hall."

"It's going to be lovely to face him tomorrow."

"Not like he doesn't know about us."

"I know, but I don't think he's ever really approved. He still treats me like a daughter, even after all these years."

"Better like a daughter than like a slave to ole' massah Dennis. ..”

The last word fell off into such despair that Donna propped herself on her elbow and looked at Sid's face in the dim light. "What is it?"

"Dennis. There's something very wrong. Remember when you thought he was putting the moves on you upstairs?" She nodded. "Well, I don't think you were imagining it. I think he tried to – hell, maybe he even did – seduce Terri too."

"My God. John told me Terri was arguing with Dennis in the lobby. So that's what it was about. No wonder Ann stayed out sick."

"That's not the worst of it. Dennis has come up with this alter ego – his Mister Hyde who's doing all these rotten things. It's the Emperor."

"What?"

"The Emperor Frederick. The character. It's… split off from him, see? So when Dennis does something bad, like try and seduce you, or try and screw Terri Deems when he's seeing her mother, it's not him, but the Emperor who did it."

"He told you this?"

"He's got it all worked out in his head. It's scary as hell, Donna. I think he really believes it too. I don't know whether it's guilt over Robin's death or what, but something's driven him half crazy. Maybe all crazy."

"But when I saw him – upstairs – and he was in his costume, that was before Robin died."

Sid shook his head and sighed. "I don't know. I don't get it at all."

"Sid, you don't think… " She paused, as though she hated to say what was next. "You don't think Dennis could have had anything to do with the deaths, do you?"

"I can't believe that. There's another, more reasonable explanation for everything that happened-Tommy, Harry, even Robin. Dennis couldn't have been responsible for any of those. It was physically impossible. But, goddammit, there's something wrong with him, and he's my friend, and I don't know what to do about it."

"Well, I know one thing you can do – make sure the door's locked, huh?"

"It is, always. That's what comes from living in New York." He kissed her, placed his hand on her stomach, moved it up to her breasts, and was delighted to find that her nipples were hard. "Don't worry," he said, "no one's going to walk in on us. And no more interruptions either. Dennis – and the Emperor – will just have to wait until tomorrow."

They made love then, softly and sweetly, and when they were finished Donna nestled against Sid and went right to sleep. Sid, however, lay awake, thinking about Dennis and about what he might do for his friend. For they were friends, and had been ever since that first company of A Private Empire, when Sid, a chorus member only a year older than Dennis, was overjoyed with Dennis's transformation from a put-upon ingenue into the man who called the shots. At the end of the third week of rehearsals, by which time Dennis was feared by everyone involved with the show except Davis and Ensley themselves, Sid had gone up to Dennis during a break and said, "I like what you're doing – and not just with the role."

Dennis had looked at him dully for a moment, and then, realizing that someone had seen through his dual performances, grinned broadly. That moment began a collaboration and a friendship that had lasted a quarter century, and had been betrayed only once – by Sid in a poolside changing room with Dennis's first wife. It was a mistake Sid had regretted ever since, and ever since he had been unfailingly loyal to Dennis.

He would be loyal to him now. There was no way he could bring himself to share his knowledge with John Steinberg, who, although he loved Dennis too, would have unhesitatingly had him committed to one of those celebrity psycho/drugs/alcohol wards whose graduates graced the covers of People and the tabloids. John was practical enough to do it, and had the power to do it as well. If Dennis was the Emperor, then Steinberg was the power behind the throne. No, Sid would say nothing to him, and hope that Dennis was able to work his problems out for himself before Steinberg noticed anything strange about his sole client.

Ann Deems might help, Sid thought. It had been obvious that she had begun something with Dennis just last week. Coming so soon after Robin's death, it was a wonder that he had not tried to blame that on the Emperor as well. Still, he remembered liking Ann when Dennis had dated her years before, and from what he could see, she had become a good woman. Dennis had seemed in better spirits after having been with her, at least until this snafu with Terri.

And Sid would do what he could too, comfort Dennis, reassure him, be there when he needed to talk. He could work it out, get rid of this fucking inner gremlin or whatever it was that was busting his chops, making him do things that he probably didn't want to do.

Sid tried to drive the thoughts from his mind, and looked down at Donna's sleeping face. He kissed her cheek, then slowly shifted his body, moved out of her embrace, slid his feet onto the floor, and stood up. Then he pulled the covers over her shoulders, turned off the dim light, stepped into the hall, gently closed the bedroom door, and went into his kitchen for a snack.

He was invariably ravenous after making love, but always waited until Donna was sound asleep to raid the refrigerator, and was always back in bed with her before she awoke. Now he got some raisin bran from the shelf, poured milk over it, and sat down at the table. The wooden chair was cold on his bare buttocks, but the room was warm, and he was soon comfortable. He finished the bowlful in five minutes, then drank a small glass of juice, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he went back into the bedroom, Donna was dead.

He didn't realize it at first. He lay down beside her in the dark, moving next to her for her warmth. She had rolled over onto her back, he noticed, so he put his arm around her waist, and his head next to hers so that her hair was against his cheek. It took him several minutes to realize that she wasn't breathing. There was no gentle, regular pulse against his arm, no soft sound of her breath drifting in and out of her lungs, although, in his own soporific state, he still did not equate this with death, merely with something being not quite right.

"Donna?" he whispered, still expecting to hear a slight murmur, but none came. "Honey?"

There was no response, and he knew that something was wrong. Now fully awake, he put his fingers to her face, to reassure himself that she was still breathing. But instead of touching her mouth and upper lip, feeling the blessed puffs of warm, damp air, he touched something soft, cold, only slightly moist.

It was her tongue, protruding from her gaping mouth.

Terror burned through him. He rolled away from her, tumbled onto the floor in a cocoon of sheets and blankets, scuttled wormlike to the wall switch, and flicked it on.

She lay there naked, the flesh of her body white, though her face was mottled blue and purple. A wreath of bruises encircled her throat, and her eyes bulged, as though they had been forced from their sockets.