Kali can feel eyes on her.
She doesn't want to look.
She can still feel the talons sinking into her shoulder blades, cutting into her and holding her in place even as her mind screams at her to move.
She can still see the empty, endless pools of darkness in front of her whenever she closes her eyes.
The owl, her talons dug deep into her back, forcing her to keep her eyes open, even as light tears through her and rips her brain to shreds.
But it's not Hannibal that's watching her. Or his owl, Stergata.
It's Alana, and she's worried.
And she's afraid.
Chayvetz is perched on the table's edge, watching her, his fragile wings fanning softly through the air. Far enough away from Will's side of the table that he wouldn't be able to reach him if he suddenly decided to struggle against the handcuffs restraining him.
She can feel his gaze burning into her fur like fire. It's almost physically painful to see the thoughts swirling through his head.
Even with her eyes closed, even facing away, she can't hide from them. The Shadows. They're twisting and swirling and dancing in front of her in endless currents of golden dust, painting pictures against the insides of her eyelids.
Anger. Because he blames himself for not seeing the signs earlier. Horror.
Marmoset screams shatter the world around her. A golden face streaming with tears. Golden hands clawing at her fur, shrieking, fighting to escape. Teeth clamping down over white fur as blood stains it red.
Imagined. That's all it is. He wasn't there. He doesn't know. He thinks he does, but he doesn't .
But she doesn't, either.
She doesn't realize that she has opened her mouth until a roar bursts past her teeth in a deafening screech.
She can't take it anymore.
The chains are heavy across her back, but all she can feel are those talons , all she can see are those dark eyes staring into her soul and tearing it apart piece by piece in the flashing light and she can't take it anymore .
She digs her claws into the floor, and her entire body spasms as she struggled against the chains holding her down. She's screaming at the top of her lungs, and Alana and her butterfly have leapt away, to their feet, to the air, and she's thrashing desperately, sure that she can smell Hannibal Lecter and his daemon.
And as soon as the thought hits her, she knows its true. Their stench is coating her tongue and filling her nose and she can't even breathe for the fear of it. She knows she's just imagining it. She knows it's not real. She knows the claws digging into her back, the own leaning over her and forcing her to stare into its eyes—she knows it's just a memory.
But that doesn't change the fact that Abigail and Senteron are dead.
And that realization breaks her.
She wants to scream until her throat is raw and bleeding, but orderlies come in to take them away before she can.
Will is dragged to his feet—he's been sitting in his chair calmly the entire time, because he's lost himself in his mind and the Shadows dancing just out of reach, and her rage and agony is for both of them—and pain pierces through both of them at once as a needle is inserted into his arm.
Images of her teeth ripping into the throat of the collie standing just a few feet away, blood and gold spilling out onto the floor from the gaping wound.
More images. More Shadows thrown against the walls of her eyes. She can't unsee them. They're terrified of her.
She feels it before she smells it.
Something alien pressing against her fur, cloying and thickening the air around her.
The world is already fading around her to smudged blurs of color before she realizes that it's cedar wood they're pushing toward her with a long pole across the floor.
By the time her legs weaken beneath her and drop her to the floor, her mind is already adrift, lost in the silence.
For once, the Shadows can't reach her, and even as her last waking breath is a snarl, she's grateful.
She won't be tormented by ghosts while she sleeps. At least, not right now.
And that's all she can ask for.