Page 147 of Winterveil

Her father’s eyes were red slits and his breath was a waft of cold. He unhinged his jaw and swallowed her whole.

Klaudia woke in a frigid sweat, scream stuck in her throat. As the scene bled away, darkness retreating, her surroundings came into focus. Four walls, sleek metal. A vital monitor beeping at her bedside. Bedside? Klaudia looked down. Her body was covered in a white sheet.

An IV needle was buried in the crook of her elbow and held in place with medical tape. Sensation returned to her, a slow burn of pain. Shakily, and careful not to dislodge the IV, Klaudia raised her arms. They were both bandaged from elbow to wrist. Pricks of blood showed through the gauze.

She was more bewildered than afraid. She began to peel back one of the bandages, wincing. She had not managed to reveal what was beneath before she heard a voice from the corner.

“Be careful with that.”

Dr. Iver. Klaudia struggled into a sitting position.

He approached the bed and stood over her. There was a pitying look on his face.

“I told you I didn’t relish this,” he said. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson now.”

Klaudia stared up at Dr. Iver in confusion. Then all of a sudden it was not Dr. Iver anymore. It was that gaping maw, that serpent, that cannibal Titan. Blood and black paint streaked her vision.

She scrambled backward against the pillows, breath coming in gasps. Panic tightened her throat. She had to get out—to get free—but pain shot up from her wrists and she fell against the pillows, choking on a sob.

Dr. Iver regarded her with sympathy. “Don’t move too quickly. The psychosomatic effects of the Dreamscape will linger.”

Dreamscape? She didn’t understand. The real world and the memory—the dream—warred for dominance over her mind. Klaudia squeezed her eyes shut but all she saw was the flash of teeth.

“I do wish you hadn’t tried to run. All this could have been avoided. Your punishment. Mr. Joyce-Young’s betrayal.”

Julian. The scene returned to her with the heat of a lightning strike. His hand, slipping out of hers. Him vanishing down the corridor with his father, not even sparing a glance back.

How could she ever have trusted him? Worse, how could she have ever believed she might have had some sort of hold on him? He had seemed so sincere in his smiles, his flattery; his touch had been so warm and gentle. He had allowed her to imagine a different life for herself. Allowed her to imagine she was a different girl, worthy of mundane joys and uncomplicated affection.

The cold image she had spent years cultivating, the way she had hardened her heart—and still she had been fooled by pretty words and coy glances. There was no timeline in which someone like Julian Joyce-Young III could truly care for someone like her. No set of conditions that would make it possible. Klaudia had thought that she knew better. That she had some secret intuition that pretty girls did not.

A single tear ran a path down her cheek. Klaudia raised her hand to wipe it and felt another rush of pain from her wrist.

Wincing, she tried to peel back the bandage again. This time, Dr. Iver didn’t stop her.

She managed to tug it down far enough to see the dark stain of dried blood. Panic and confusion warred in her. Ignoring the burning sensation, Klaudia tore off the bandages entirely—first the one on her right wrist, then on her left.

Two long, matching gashes sliced her arms. They had been stitched up with black thread, but it lent them an even more horrifying quality, allowing her to imagine their cruelty and depth. Klaudia stared at them, uncomprehending.

“I needed some way to explain your absence to the student body,” Dr. Iver said. “And a way to diminish your credibility, should you try and reveal the truth.”

Finally she understood. Dr. Iver had constructed a narrative that would prevent her from being believed, from ever being taken seriously again. He would tell the school—tell the world—that she was unstable, unreliable. Crazy. Who would trust a girl like that? Who would want her as an ally, a friend?

Dr. Iver reached over and patted her shoulder. “Rest up, Klaudia,” he said. “Your professors are expecting you back in class tomorrow.”

She wanted to ask about Nadiya, about Giselle—had they been tortured, too? But Klaudia realized that she already knew the answer. Nadiya was Dr. Iver’s ward, his surrogate daughter. And Giselle—no one else in the world had an ability like hers. They would not be harmed; they were too valuable.

For all Klaudia had done to make herself indispensable—a player in the game, not a pawn—she had failed. She had not been able to overcome her name, her blood. She had thought she could make her mind into a weapon, but it didn’t matter when she was still trapped in the prison of her body.

She would never not be her father’s daughter.

Dr. Iver turned and she watched his retreating back until he vanished through a steel door, with a hiss of smoke. She was in the subbasement, she realized. Contained. Alone.

Her vision darkened and the scene before her rippled. The dream world layered over the real one. The last thing she saw was her father’s jaw unhinging as he reared up and devoured her.

Forty-Seven

Spring 2037