One:
The Beginning
I could only stare at my odd surroundings—from the skeleton of a creature hanging from the ceiling to the bookshelves lining the walls to the multitude of transparent jars and oddities scattered around the room. This had to be a dream because my last memory was lying in my bed, shifting around and being frustrated that I couldn't get comfortable.
I had had weird dreams before.
In one of them, T-Rexes and Velociraptors had chased my brother and me through an empty mall; in another, I had been dressed as a stereotypical Sherlock Holmes, bouncing on huge inflatable cartoon characters at a carnival to escape my pursuer. The weirdest had probably been when I had been in a grocery store staring at my brand of magenta pink toilet paper with navy blue stripes on it…right before a car had busted through the wall in front of me.
"This must be one of those dreams," I mused quietly, heading toward a table that had its surface entirely dedicated to transparent jars with things floating in them. Not the typical bunch-of-eyeballs-in-a-jar, but seriously sick looking…things—body parts, misshapen embryos, a collection of preserved experiments I assumed.
Moving on, I stopped before the closest bookshelf and tilted my head to as far as I could to the right, I read the titles out of curiosity, or tried to. The words kept blurring when I tried to focus on them. Straightening my head, I frowned and grabbed an emerald green book, one with gold lettering, and it burned me!
Immediately, I withdrew my stinging right hand, holding my wrist with my left hand. "Fuc-shiii-daaamnnit!" I hissed, cutting off the ending of my curses, remembering I'd promised not to do that anymore.
How did I get hurt in a dream? That had never happened to me before! The dinosaurs had never gotten to me or my brother; when I had jumped off the huge inflatable cartoon characters, I had landed on the ground safely and easily like I'd floated down; and when the car had run through the wall, neither the car nor a piece of the wall had hit me.
What was going on?
"Those books are ensorcelled specifically for your protection, and the protection of those who do not study magic," commented a calm observer in a casual, detached tour guide manner.
Stiffening, my head sharply swiveled in the direction of the voice and I saw a hooded black-robed wizard standing at least two tables away, leaning on his wooden staff, watching me. He looked like a Ring Wraith that had stepped out of a scene from Lord of the Rings.
I raised my eyebrows in a sarcastic fashion to throw him off. "That explains a lot," I muttered more to myself than to him. The creepy experiments in the jars, the bookshelves, the skull on the table, the skeleton of a creature hanging from the ceiling by strings—only a twisted wizard would do and possess such weird things. Obviously, this guy was not one of the good guys. Good guys didn't wear black robes or have magical books that burned people's hands.
"Who are you?" he asked softly. His voice, although still smooth, had a raspy ending to the question as if his throat had gone dry.
I opened my mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly, sucking in my lips suspiciously. After a few moments of consideration, I slowly asked, "What happens if I tell you my name?" In the books I'd read involving dark wizards, they could use a person's name to control someone, invade their thoughts, or kill them.
"If you tell me your name…you tell me your name and I will give you mine," he answered as if fate had ordained it.
The response seemed honest and straightforward enough…but the day that magicians didn't speak in riddles was the day that they didn't have an underlying motive or tricks up their sleeves.
"Lillith," I lied casually. "My name is Lillith."
He returned the favor as politely with a nod of his hooded head. "Andreas."
I couldn't help it; my lips quirked into a wry, amused smirk. We were BSing each other so badly that the air in the room should have been intolerable. The thought made me chuckle as I stared at the black-robed wizard, careful not to take my eyes off him, my smile fading. My eyes darted down to my burned hand before I glanced back where the wizard was no longer. Not good!
"Allow me." Andrea's voice came from my right side and, when I looked over in utter astonishment, he was reaching for my right hand.
I flinched at his proximity. He could have gutted me or cast a spell on me and I would've been none the wiser! "You need some chains or a bell," I commented with a displeased scowl as I allowed him to gently but firmly pull my right hand away toward him and away from my chest where I'd been cradling it defensively, protectively.
We both stared down at my right hand. It was worse than I'd originally anticipated. The tips of my fingers were a dark magenta, almost red, and clear liquid seeped from the burns. He wrapped his hand around my wrist.
"How did you get in here?" he inquired, saying a magic word that sounded like 'she rack' and a circular crystal atop his staff lit up. Then, when my eyes flickered up, I realized Andreas wasn't looking at the wound, but at my face and I knew what he intended. He was going to break my wrist.
"Oh shit!" I breathed, trying to yank my wrist away. His grip tightened painfully and I actually felt my wrist pop.
"How did you get into the Tower?" Andreas demanded, his voice no longer cool and collected but low and dangerous.
In a moment of desperation, I tried Austin Power's Judo Chop to the black-robed wizard's throat and actually managed to hit him. He gagged reflexively, releasing my hand to cover his throat, and he literally doubled over coughing. I took the opportunity to flee, my arms pumping at my sides, my adrenaline heightening my senses as I weaved through the tables to reach a door I hadn't noticed before.
"This isn't real," I whispered, panicked as I headed for the only visible escape route. "This isn't real, this isn't real! It can't be! It can't be real!"
To my horror, before my fingers could wrap around the doorknob, before I could even get within two feet of the door, something intensely hot and huge slammed against my back. My hair instantly burst into flames as I fell onto the ground on my elbows and knees with an "umph". Screaming bloody murder, I frantically scrambled for the door on all fours as my clothes and chunks of my flesh began sliding off my body. I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, threw it open and—
I woke up in my bed, tangled tightly in my sheets, the scream dying on my lips. Lying there, soaked with sweat, I untangled myself shakily and reached for the lamp on my bedside table, switching it on. My eyes did a quick inventory, and in my heightened state of emotion, my brain couldn't quite comprehend that, yes, I was in my own bedroom in my apartment, and that the danger of the nightmare was no longer a threat. Trembling from the effects of the lingering nightmare and the high of adrenaline, I touched the side of my face with my right hand. My face was burning up, and the rest of my body felt similar.
My fingertips stung. "Ow." Pulling my right hand away from my face, I stared at the deep magenta marks on my fingertips and, feeling violently nauseous and freaked out, I didn't go back to sleep the rest of the night. I was afraid what would happen if I did, and what would happen if I got stuck in that nightmare again.