She had to be drunk, she thought, staring in disbelief at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was green, the scars lacing up the left side of her face stood out white as cobwebs. She was just as drunk as drunk could be. How in the hell did that happen?

She rinsed her mouth twice, cleaned the sink, and then sat, exhausted, on the lid of the toilet and closed her eyes. She’d been drunk before. She didn’t remember it being anything like this. She must have tied one on like a Russian sailor. She—

The television was on. She could hear voices floating up the stairs and…and yes, that was the stark double-bong that cut Law & Order into sound bites.

Daria’s brow furrowed, although she couldn’t quite get her eyes to open. She hated Law & Order. Hated it in all its many incarnations. Dan had watched it all the time, even episodes he’d already seen. He’d been addicted to it or something. Since he’d left, Daria didn’t even watch the channels it came on.

Did the cop come home with her last night?

Alarmed, Daria realized she had vague memories of taking someone through every room in her house…answering questions…demonstrating appliances…

Uneasily, Daria slipped one hand between her thighs, gripping herself through her clothes, drawing comfort from the feel of all those layers of denim and cotton. She didn’t think she’d slept with him. She couldn’t imagine wanting to take a total stranger to bed, but then, she couldn’t imagine getting shit-faced with a cop and then showing him how the blender worked and apparently she’d done that.

Daria got up, splashed a little more water on her face, and went to see if there was someone in her house.

Gosh, she was being calm about this. Why was she being so calm? Having a total stranger in the house was a big deal, dammit.

Again, the quasi-memory of the man’s face suggested itself, frozen like a photograph. She could still hear echoes of his voice, even though she couldn’t quite make out the words. He had told her something very important, though, and then he had asked her questions.

Tell me about your planet’s defense array.

That couldn’t have been one of them. What the hell kind of question was that?

Daria started down the stairs and had made it past four of them when Law & Order abruptly fell silent. She stopped where she was and listened to whoever was in her house listening back at her.

Why wasn’t she panicking? She panicked pretty easy these days. She could remember panicking when the UPS guy came by unexpectedly. Why wasn’t she panicking when someone she couldn’t remember inviting home was sitting on her couch watching her TV? But just knowing she’d ought to be freaking out couldn’t seem to make it happen. Daria felt only a distant concern. She also felt a little foolish, just standing there on the stairs and staring at the coat rack in the corner of the foyer.

There were bills on the floor by the front door. She remembered going out to the post office and getting bills. She’d dropped them on the floor. She hadn’t picked them up. Somehow, that was the most disturbing thing of all.

“Hello?” Daria called, her voice shaking.

She heard the rustle of a large body rising off the couch, as well as the lighter and perfectly-recognizable thump of Grendel jumping off a lap. The cat ran up to her, huge belly swaying, and pushed against her ankles, meowing excitedly. That only made her more uneasy; who was Grendel snuggling with down there?

“Hello?” she said again, gripping the stair-rail tightly in both hands.

Three heavy footfalls carried the unseen person across the carpet and then there was a click as he stepped off onto the hardwood. Boots? She couldn’t think of any boots that clicked, and it was too heavy a sound to be made by a lady in heels. Funny, it almost made her think of a dog.

“Lindaria Cleavon,” a man said. It was a low voice, concerned, with a strange accent. Very strange. “I do not think you are ready to be open.”

“Open?” she echoed, her floating mind momentarily flummoxed. She had a mental image of a neon sign sputtering on her forehead, like a restaurant, or a bar. The bar where she’d gotten so drunk, perhaps.

There was a pause. He said, “Eyes…open…” And in a firmer voice, “Return to the room of sleeping.”

“Awake,” Daria heard herself say. “You don’t think I’m ready to be awake. I should return to the bedroom.” Vertigo swept through her, graying her vision and freezing her blood. She had spent the whole night doing that. Correcting him. She came another two steps down towards his voice.

Why had he stopped just beyond the stairwell wall? Why hadn’t he come out where she could see him?

“Lindaria Cleavon!” Not just firm now, now he was warning her. “Return at once to the bedroom!”

She gripped the frame of the stairwell and navigated onto the last step, craning her neck around the wall to see him.

Even standing on the stair, he was taller than her. Their eyes were not quite level, and yes, his really were that stark, unblinking raptor-gold. His hair was black and way too long for a cop’s, growing well past his shoulders. He looked like he hadn’t seen a comb, bath, or bed in at least a week. Weird thing: there was a week’s worth of stubble everywhere on his jaw but on his chin. That was as smooth as her own.

Still, the overall impression she got was still ‘cop’. After a few puzzled seconds, she realized why. He was wearing some sort of vaguely-military-looking uniform. It was black with goldish trim, strangely shiny, and there were oval-shaped pips on his collar and to one side of his belt buckle. Only one thing spoiled this professional picture. He wore no shoes. He wore no socks either, which gave Daria a very good look at his three talon-tipped toes. That was what had made the clicking sound on her floors. He had talons on his toes. All three of his toes. All six, if you counted both feet.

‘I’m still drunk,’ Daria thought, studying the cop’s feet. ‘Or I’m high. I’m tripping out on acid or something. Or I’ve lost my mind.’

Could you just wake up one day and be crazy?

“Lindaria Cleavon,” the cop began, and took her firmly by the elbow. His hand had only three fingers, and some whopping big claws, and it was dry and warm and oddly thick-feeling. It also gave her the impression of phenomenal strength. “You are not ready to be awake.”

“Nobody calls me Lindaria anymore,” she said. “I’m Daria. Just Daria.”

Those brilliant, avian eyes closed and opened, like the shutter of a camera clicking on her words. “Daria,” he repeated. “You are not ready to be awake. Return at once—”

“You’re missing your show. Who are you?”

He had started to look around at the television, but at her question, he turned back and gave her a narrow stare. She got the feeling he’d already told her.

He placed one three-fingered hand over his chest—she was being way too calm about those fingers—and slowly said, “Tagen Pahnee,” and then regarded her with faint lines of concern between his inhuman eyes.

“What’s the matter with me? Did you get me high?” She felt no fear at the idea, only an indignant sort of curiosity.

The man, Tagen, frowned. Without answering, he stepped up and lifted her into his arms as easily as if she were a small child. He started up the stairs. “This is not the time for you to be awake,” he said. “You are going to make yourself sick.”

“I’ve already been sick,” she pointed out. She thought about it, and added, “I’m going to be sick again.”

Tagen stopped in the bedroom doorway and looked closely at her. “Now?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled at him. “Right now.”

Tagen executed a smart about-face and took her into the bathroom. No sooner had he set her on her feet than she was doubled over the sink again, retching sour bile.

He held her hair for her. Who was this guy?