The real estate agent followed Randall closely around the house. “So, Mr. Randall, what do you think?”

Randall looked out the bay window of the living room. The house was perfect, exactly what he was looking for. It needed work; the house was old, and the decor was horrendously out of date – the colors of the room he stood in made him feel as if he were inside a kiwi fruit – but beneath the surface, it was an elegant beauty and Randall wanted it. It had more rooms than he would ever need, with wandering hallways and twisting stairwells and closets in the oddest corners... Perfect.

“I want it.”

The agent clapped his hands together. “Great! Well, I’m going to suggest we put in an offer about five grand under what the seller’s—”

“No,” Randall said. “I don’t want to play games. Pay whatever they want.” He had the money, but he was short on patience, these days.

“Oh... okay. So... if you’ll come over here and sign a few papers, I can put in the bid this afternoon.”

“Fine.”

The agent opened his briefcase and drew out a form in triplicate. Laying it on the kitchen counter, he pointed to an empty line at the bottom. “Right here, then initial... here.”

Randall took a pen from inside his jacket and uncapped it, then signed his name with a practiced flourish.

The agent watched him, clearly impressed. “William, eh? What’s the ‘C’ for?”

“I prefer ‘Mr. Randall,’” Randall said, his tone icing over. “When can I expect to hear from you?”

The agent swallowed and collected the form. “Uh... probably pretty soon. This place has been on the market for a while – no one wants to take on the maintenance.”

Randall nodded. He had contractors he used at the club who would be able to begin work immediately. The house could be ready in... maybe in a month, if he worked diligently.

He strode down the steps toward his car, leaving the agent to lock up the house. Randall wanted to begin filling the big, empty house with warm little mice as soon as he could. To do that, he had some... watching... to do.

###

Randall sat back in his chair, his eyes on the dance floor. He sipped at an iced pomegranate tea, wanting his faculties clear tonight. He was getting better at choosing his mice; he had three at home now who were coming along nicely. Two were already letting him blindfold them; last night, the third had shivered pleasingly beneath a gentle stroke of his claws. That one would be ready for real pain, soon.

Randall was learning. He was learning to take it slow; to give the mice a home, someplace warm and dry and reasonably comfortable, someplace they could wander and discover and come to know. But he was also learning not to let them get too comfortable there. They needed a low, background hum of danger, to keep them primed and in the right frame of mind. Randall didn’t want his mice thinking of him as their host, or lover, or guardian. They needed to be reminded, all the time, that they were prey, not guests. He wanted an edge of real fear mixed in with the desire.

They were mice, after all, and he was the cat.

But, the main thing he had learned, at long last, was to pick the right mouse. That poor fellow in the hotel room had helped him put together the last pieces of the puzzle: A sensualist, someone who could appreciate physical experience, in all its varied forms.

It was a new kind of chase, that didn’t involve running through darkened streets, but it was just as satisfying. Here, in this city, in these debauched dance clubs, he could find them now: little mice who danced without drinking first, because they moved unselfconsciously, the music taking their minds away as far as they needed to go. Mice who closed their eyes when sweat started to run down their temples, enjoying the feel of heat and moisture on their skin; then wiped it away and licked their fingers, just to taste the salt. Mice who parted their lips when someone danced close to them, and gasped softly when bodies brushed against theirs; mice who shook out their long hair just to feel it tickle their necks and shoulders; mice who smiled when cold condensation from their drinks dripped onto their skin and made them shiver.

Randall was looking at one, now. He was dark-haired, slender and graceful, like a boy Randall had known once. He danced like the music was his own heartbeat. His bare, wiry arms bore the haphazard scars of a life on the streets, bruises speckling his skin and a gang tattoo twining up one forearm, but his eyes held the lonely desperation of one who had not been loved nearly as well as he needed to be.

Ah, he was perfect.

Randall could take him home, make him one of his mice. The new mouse would be quick and cautious, used to stealing and hiding to survive, but the details of his present life would fade away quickly – because the mouse would want them to. There was no memory in this life worth keeping, nothing to treasure and save.

The mouse would deny that he wanted to be hurt, even to himself, but once Randall showed him the art of a skillful cat, he would change his mind. The mouse would squirm and squeal and bleed, but he would moan in pleasure and come hard. He would run away, but then he would crawl back, begging for more.

Randall shifted in his chair, his cock growing uncomfortably stiff at the mental images. He watched the boy dance, watched his eyes open and close with languid slowness, watched him move his limbs and twist his body just for the feel of the stretch in his muscles. Yes, he liked that.

He drained his drink and tipped the bartender, then slid off his chair with leonine grace. Shaking out his long, blond hair, he wove his way to the dance floor, closing his eyes as the music took him in. Drawing up close to the dark-haired boy, he let the satin of his shirt brush the boy’s skin.

Sure enough, the boy opened his eyes and his lips parted in pleasure at the touch. Seeing Randall there, seeing his green eyes staring into his, he smiled and accepted the wordless invitation to dance.

They moved together for a long time, until Randall at last leaned in to speak in the boy’s ear. “What’s your name?”

He felt the boy draw a breath before answering – exertion or hesitation?

“Davey,” he said.

Davey. He drew his sharp nails lightly up Davey’s arms, letting him know that they spoke the same language of touch and response, pleasure and pain. “Davey, come home with me.”

The brown eyes gazed at him, considering. Then he blinked, and a slow smile curved over his lips. “All right.”

Randall put his arm around Davey’s waist and led him off the dance floor. The chase was over. Now it was time to play.

Davey. His little Davey-mouse.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Randall heard an echo. But it wasn’t the echo he usually heard, a cry of terror and pain in the darkness. This time, the echo was of laughter, warm and soft, and it brought back a memory of a perfect moment – perfect beauty, perfect joy...

Perfect.