"I hurt him. I hurt the son of a bitch."
Tears tracked down her cheeks as she stumbled toward the house. Her vision wavered. She thought she heard someone shouting, a threatening growl, a slam. Shapes and sounds melted together into one dark void.
While the mist smoked across the deck, it slithered over the bed where Brad slept. Chilled him. Trapped him. He turned in his sleep, reached out for warmth and comfort. Reached for Zoe.
But he was alone.
In the dark. The forest was dank with rot and alive with a bitter wind. He couldn't see the path, only the monstrous shapes of the trees, gnarled and twisted into nightmares. The thorns from wild briars ripped at his flesh, bit into his hands like greedy teeth.
He could smell his own blood, his own panic sweat. And something wilder.
He was being hunted.
There was sly movement in the brush, shadows. Not just hunted, he thought as he fought his way clear of the briars. Taunted. Whatever it was wanted his fear as much as it wanted his death.
He had to get out, get away, before what stalked him tired of the game. When it did, it would leap out and tear him to pieces.
Save yourself. There was a whisper in his brain, soft, soothing, as he stumbled into a clearing. This is not your fight. Go home .
Of course. That was it. He should go home. Dazed, disoriented, he stumbled toward a faint glow of light. Began to run toward it as he heard the howl of the predator behind him.
The glow was a door, and Brad's breath shuddered out in relief as he sprinted toward it. He would make it. He had to make it. He wrenched the door open even as he felt the hot breath of what pursued him at the back of his neck.
Light showered through the dark. And color, and movement. He stood in the doorway of his New York offices, his breath heaving from the run. Blood from his wounded hands fell onto the polished oak of the floor.
Through the wide triple windows, he saw the skyline, all those gleaming spears that rose into the morning sky.
A young blonde in a sharp black suit walked by, shot him a sunny smile. "Welcome back, Mr. Vane."
"Yes." His lips felt stiff. Why was it so cold in here? "Thanks."
Michael, his assistant, hurried up to him. He wore red suspenders over a blue shirt and carried a thick appointment book. "I have your schedule for the day, Mr. Vane. Coffee's on your desk. We'd better get started."
"I should…" He could smell the coffee, and Michael's aftershave. He heard a phone ringing. Confused, he lifted his hand, watched the blood drip from the puncture in his palm. "I'm bleeding."
"Oh, we'll take care of that. You just need to come in. All the way in."
"No." He swayed. Nausea roiled in his belly, sweat poured down his face with the effort. "I don't." Gripping the doorjamb for balance, he looked behind him, and into the dark. "This isn't real. This is just more bull—"
He broke off as he heard Zoe scream.
Whirling, he shoved away from the door.
"You'll die out there," Michael shouted after him, seconds before the door slammed. A bullet shot.
Brad plunged into the dark, calling for Zoe. He couldn't see, though he tore frantically through briars, he couldn't see anything but that unrelieved veil of black.
He couldn't find her, would never find her. And what was in the dark would kill them both because he hadn't held on to her.
She only wants your money. A rich father for her bastard son.
"That is such crap." Exhausted, sick, he fell to his knees. He was letting himself get roped in, letting himself believe the lies.
It had to stop.
He threw back his head, bunched his fists. "It's not real. It's not happening. Goddamn it, I am home. And so is she."
He woke, gulping in air, with the last tendrils of the mist fading and Moe standing on the foot of the bed, snarling like a wolf.