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My breathing becomes shallow as I spin to look all around me. I’m surrounded by the same skyscraper trees that give no light or leeway, and there’s nothing in view for miles. I have the urge to walk, but where the hell am I supposed to go? Which way?What do I do?
My eyes drop to the dirt path below me that runs from left to right. If I follow it, maybe I’ll find out where I am.
I start walking to the right, telling myself this isn’t real. I’m dreaming again, that’s all. I got really fucking high and now I’m dreaming.
“Wake the fuck up, Willow,” I whisper. “Wake up. Wake up.” But the words are useless. And perhaps this isn’t a dream because my shin is burning. It’s a pain I’ve never felt before, and it causes me to stop walking. I lower into a squat, yanking up my pajama pants to check my shin, and there’s a large gash. It’s not deep, but there’s blood dripping down to my bare foot.
I work hard to swallow, then look around for something to stop the bleeding, but nothing here will stop it. I need to find help. Fast.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I must be dreaming, and if this is a dream, I can control it, right? I can find a way out—a wacky way that will take me back to reality.
I almost laugh at the thought until I hear a low growl ahead. My stomach drops as I freeze, eyes widening as the growling becomes louder.
Slowly, I look up to where the noise is coming from, and fear paralyzes every fiber inside me. Ahead is a wolf with all black fur. All its sharp teeth and even its magenta gums are revealed because it’s snarling so hard. The wolf’s hazel eyes bore into mine and it takes a step closer, lowering to its haunches, ready to pounce.
Every part of me wants to scream, but if I scream, it will attack me.But this is a dream. It’s not real. I can get out of this. I stagger to a stand, and the wolf growls louder, then barks.
“Easy,” I whisper, my voice shaking as I hold my hands in front of me. “Please just…go away.”
The wolf moves closer, barking again, gnashing its teeth, and the warmth drains from my body. “Please,” I whisper.It’s not real. This isn’t real…is it? Please, God, tell me this isn’t real.
My heart is beating twice its rhythm, I’m so scared.
I take a step back as the wolf moves closer. If I run, he’ll run after me. If I keep standing here, he’ll attack me. I look down at my leg again. The blood is dripping between my toes, mixing with the black dirt.
My best bet is to run. Fuck my leg. Fuck this dream. I can’t just stand here and get mauled. I have to do something, so I pivot and run, allowing the adrenaline to course through me. My run is weak, and I feel myself limping, but I don’t care.
The wolf barks again. It’s coming after me.
I dash through the trees, glancing over my shoulder at the wolf. Branches scratch my cheeks and leaves slap me in the eyes, but Irun, run, run, my heart beating madly, my mouth going dry.
My shin sears with pain as I glance back, and the wolf continues snarling at me. Looking back was my mistake because as soon as I face forward again, my ankle catches onto something, and I fall.
I land flat on my stomach, roll over, and scoot backwards. The wolf’s paws pound into the earth and then it leaps forward, landing right above me.
“No!” I whimper as it cages me between its legs.
It growls in my face, its damp snout touching my nose, and I close my eyes, pleading silently.
Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. Please don’t…
“Cerberus!”
My breath hitches when I hear the voice, and immediately the wolf’s snout is off mine. I open my eyes, keeping my body perfectly still as the wolf runs away.
My heart gallops in my chest as I listen to sticks breaking, footsteps approaching. I hear the panting of the wolf again, and before I know it, it’s standing right beside me, wagging its tail. And then a man appears only a couple steps away, dressed in all black.
Eleven
WILLOW
A flat blackcap is on the man’s head, creating a shadow over his eyes. Worn black leather gloves are on his hands, which are at his sides, and he stands only a few feet away, wearing a creaseless black trench coat. I have a feeling he’s staring at me, but I can’t tell due to the brim of his hat being so low.
“Who are you?” the man asks, voice gruff.
His voice. I know that voice. I just heard it moments ago, in my apartment. It’s deep, an English accent—a dialect I’m not familiar with. I’ve heard many people with all kinds of accents, thanks to my line of work, but not his. His is different and hard to forget—a voice that has haunted my dreams and played tricks with my mind.
I try to find the words to speak, but my tongue feels like a dead fish in my mouth.
