Screw werewolves.
By midnight I was out of complaints, and we were nearly out of whiskey,
which was probably a bad sign for the morning.
I remorsefully dragged myself upstairs and into bed, but I tossed and
turned. Nightmares flooded my mind.
I was alone in the twisting halls of Bentham. The lights flickered, and the
sound of footsteps followed me around every bend.
The Ripper was coming.
I raced from level to level, but no matter how many stairways I
descended, the glowing numbers of the cells stayed the same.
One door was always open. Number 37. Every time I checked, no one was
inside.
I searched the empty cell. “Where are you, you fucker?” I screamed.
Kahanov’s breath traced over the back of my neck. “In your room, right
beside you.”
Gasping, I sat up in bed, chest heaving. I pressed my eyes closed and tried
to calm my breath, but when I opened them again, it was no better. I felt like
I’d run a marathon, and sweat covered my skin.
Just a dream, I thought, slumping back down onto the soaked mattress.
Another nightmare.
The echoes of the sorcerer’s voice in my mind made my skin prickle, and
an ominous sensation of being watched crept along my spine.
Had the sorcerer been scrying on me?
I was wearing my charm, so he shouldn’t have been able to watch me. I
went to touch my necklace, but my arm didn’t move. It was leaden and
useless, like I’d been sleeping on it.
I looked frantically around the room. Dim light from the waning gibbous
moon filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the furniture.
Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then a slender
shadow moved along the walls, and my stomach knotted as trepidation