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My heart aches. I want to soothe them. I wish I could sit up right now, shove back the covers, and go to them. Promise them that everything is going to be all right. They’re safe. I’m safe. Anything else that remains is just something we’ll have to get through. Together.
But as my vision turns blacker around the edges, and I feel my awareness leaving my body, I vaguely recall that I’m the thing they fear. I’m the reason they’re arguing.
Once I remember that, I stop fighting for consciousness and let myself slip back into dreams.
It’s easier that way.
Time passes. I wake a few more times, but never fully—only enough to realize I’m still alive, that my burning skin has not melted me into a Sable-sized puddle, nor have my bones crumbled to dust under the pressure and pain. Sometimes there are voices, and sometimes there’s only silence. But every time I come back to that state of semi-consciousness, I sense something gathering in the room around me. It’s so faint at first that I don’t realize it’s happening, until the third or fourth time I open my eyes and catch sight of a huge, dark cloud hovering over me.
The cloud is more than smoke or condensation. It’s a heavy, terrifying presence that strengthens every time I drift out of dreams. It seems almost… intelligent. Sentient. It weighs on me, whispering insidious things, and I don’t know if it’s real or something horrific following me from the madness inside my mind.
In one of my more lucid moments, I blink away dark spots in my vision as raised voices filter into my ears.
Don’t fight, I think weakly and try to raise a hand. I’m alone in the room though, with only this vicious cloud for company. At least I think I am, because honestly, I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep.
Yes. Fight. Kill them all.
The whisper hisses through the room. At first, I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside my own mind or from somewhere else. Then I realize with a dawning sense of horror that the sentiment came from the presence above me.
Panic and fear surge through me. The cloud reacts, undulating as if it’s laughing at my discomfort. God, am I dreaming again? Please let this be a dream.
Kill them, it whispers again. Destroy them. Destroy the abominations.
Abominations. The dark cloud thinks that the shifters are abominations.
Like the witches do.
I shove at the cloud, my leaden hands waving uselessly in the air overhead. I can’t speak—I can’t even open my mouth—but I shriek at it in my head. Get the hell away from me!
This thing, whatever it is, is no less dangerous than the witches who want all shifters dead, or even my Uncle Clint who wanted me to hurt because it gave him power.
The presence laughs in my head, a dissonant, terrifying sound like a million voices raised in jarring disharmony. It presses me into the blankets and lords its power over me, like my uncle used to do when he yanked my hair or held me down to nick my skin with the tip of his knife. Both of them looking for any chance to prove just how weak I am in comparison to them.
But I’m not weak. I promised myself when I ran from Clint that I would never allow myself to be weak again. I’d never give up without a fight.
I resist the darkness, pushing harder, trying to force it away.
Kill them! The cloud roars in my ears, a voice that seems to be both inside my head and outside of it at the same time.
No! I buck wildly, my heels digging into the mattress as my body strains. But still, the cloud is untouchable. Immovable.
With a wild hiss, the blackness surges down toward me. It slams into me with devastating force, and I think this is it. This is the moment I die.
Then I jolt awake.
2
Ridge
I’ve counted every single imperfection marring the wood floor in this bedroom over the past three days.
I did it methodically. Picked a section of floor and scoured it, counting each knot, scratch, and burn before moving on to the next. There’s a fucking lot of imperfections too. Whoever built this cabin back in the early days of the North Pack, they found a whole copse of knotted, mottled trees to use. And to be honest, it does give the place more character. Kinda like how Sable’s scars tell her story too.
On the other hand, there are so many imperfections in the floor that I only make it through three sections before I lose count. My mind’s too overloaded to hang on to more information than necessary, especially with numbers involved. No big deal—I just start all over again. I have time to pass, and I need other things to occupy my mind.
It’s a lot fucking easier to count knots in the wood than to watch Sable go through her transformation.
She’s been barely conscious. Sometimes, she’s so deathly calm and still that I slide my fingers beneath her small nose just to make sure she’s breathing. At other times, she’s so agitated she thrashes like a drowning woman, clutching the blankets as if they’re the only thing keeping her afloat.
