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A cocktail materialized in her hand—compliments of the man whose gaze held an edge of hunger. She accepted it without a second thought.
Lost in the rhythm, Anthea danced and drank.
Then, the stranger took her hand and guided her away from the dance floor. Anthea followed, her hips still swaying to the beat.
He leaned in, his scent—a sweet, citrusy cologne—engulfed her as he pushed her against a wall by the restrooms. Lips met hers in a feverish kiss—hungry, devouring. His hands roved freely, hiking up her black dress. Fingers found her center covered by green lace.
Suddenly, Anthea remembered where she was, whom she was with—a total stranger, next to the toilets, in a club. What was she doing? Who was this guy? She wanted air?—
Pulling away, Anthea slurred, “I . . . I need to go home.” Her body swayed under the weight of the alcohol.
The man’s grip tightened on her wrist as he tugged her back. “We were just starting to have fun.”
Anthea yanked her arm free, meeting his stunned expression with a defiant glare. “Fuck off,” she spat.
Releasing her hand, he backed off, deciding it probably wasn’t worth the scene it would cause.
With her heart pounding and her head swirling, Anthea turned on her heel and began weaving through the dancing bodies. Her fingers clumsily darted across her phone screen, the bright display appearing blurry as she tried to order a ride home. After several failed attempts and a chorus of muttered curses, she finally managed to request an Uber—only to accidentally cancel it moments later.
“Fuck!” Anthea raked her hand through her loose brown hair. She ordered another ride while walking further away from the club, but the estimated waiting time was a daunting twenty minutes. The pulsing beat of the club music was fading into a distant hum as she staggered away, her heels tapping a disjointed rhythm on the pavement.
Anthea looked up from her phone—the alleyway she found herself in was desolate.
Then, to her dismay, her Uber canceled once again.
“Unbelievable . . . Fucking hell,” Anthea spat, looking at her screen. She stumbled, catching herself against the grimy brick wall of a nearby building. Her phone slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the hard pavement. “Fuck!” she cursed. Propped against the frigid wall, she waited for the world to stop spinning, the cold November night slowly seeping through her dress, numbing her exposed skin.
She closed her eyes.
She would try again in a moment.
The rustling sound of footsteps pulled her from her temporary reprieve. Opening her eyes, she took in the sight of a man materializing from the dim glow of the nearby street lamp. He was an odd sight, his white linen suit contrasting starkly with the darkness around him. Long, wild hair reflected the pallor of his attire. His hands and face bore the distinct texture of old burn scars.
Despite the unsettling feeling in her gut, Anthea couldn’t help but be drawn to his eyes, an enchanting shade of golden brown—more gold than brown. The eyes had a hypnotic quality, drawing in anyone who looked. Her eyes travelled lower—hanging from the man’s neck was a peculiar pendant, a huge, sharp, claw-like object secured by a frayed leather cord.
As he neared, Anthea caught the mumbling sound of his voice, his words too garbled for her drunken mind to decipher. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on her. Only she could run into a loon on a night like this. A lopsided grin tugged at her lips as she leaned back against the brick wall, closing her eyes once more.
Suddenly, a scarred hand latched onto hers, gripping it in a painful grasp.
“What the hell?!”
“You too will see the light . . .” His voice rose into a robust declaration, “the fire—you will feel it . . . it will consume us all . . . they will come . . . no barriers will stop them?—”
Anthea yanked her hand, trying to free it from his grasp. “I’m not interested, thanks,” she slurred, swaying on her heels as she stumbled sideways.
His hold was firm; he was not letting her go.
The man’s rambling continued, fervent words spilling forth like a broken dam. “. . . dragons will devour all . . . flee . . . hide . . . they will burn your home; they will burn you; just like they burned me?—”
Then he fell silent, his eyes focusing on Anthea for the first time since he had grabbed her. The strange calm that washed over his face was as disconcerting as his previous fervor.
“Anthea?”
Anthea blinked at him, surprise widening her brown eyes as she regarded the man in a new terror. She didn’t know him—she was sure of it.
“Anthea?” he repeated, his voice laced with relief. “I have found you.” The tight grip of his hand around her wrist was like a vice, his excitement reinforcing his hold on her, stopping her renewed struggle for escape. “I . . . I need to give you something,” he continued, his gaze never wavering from her face.
Anthea’s instincts kicked in, and she screamed, calling out for help as she tried to pull herself from his iron grip.
