Though I had an alarm clock set, a gentle knock hurls me awake instead — not that I'd slept much during the night. For a heartbeat, I wondered why my bed felt so much softer, why a waterfall flowed into in the crevice of snow-covered mountains the distance . . . and then it all poured back in. Along with a throbbing, relentless headache.

I flop back onto my pillows, letting my racing heart and mind collect themselves – hoping that I had merely imagined the knock. But after a second, patient one, I scramble out of bed – biting back the pinching soreness of my ankle – towards the door.

I open it to Lady Beneviento standing on the other side.

Either she likes surprises, or is completely unaware of its effectiveness, because she spares a soft giggle as my eyes widen and my mouth gapes. At least she doesn't have Angie with her.

Upon habit ingrained in me by the castle, I curtsey to her. "Good morning, Lady Beneviento. I-I apologize if I kept you waiting –"

"No," she says in that quiet, honey-laced voice. Smooth and soft, like silk. "I thought I'd fetch you myself; see how you're acclimating."

I try to smooth the wrinkles in my skirt, then try to flatten my tousled hair. "I appreciate that, Lady Beneviento. Um, it was a difficult first night, if I'm to be honest. But I am confident I will adjust in no time."

I hadn't really noticed how . . . pretty, the dollmaker is – even with a rather hideous growth that seems to have completely swallowed her right eye. Some part of me relates it to some kind of birth defect – one the lord herself seems too aware of, as pieces of her obsidian hair have been combed over to try and hide the vicious disfiguration. I think back to when she was at Lady Dimitrescu's ball – how the mask she wore hid only the right side of her face. I try my best not to stare, focusing more on her pale pink lips.

"Um, w-what would you have me do today, My Lady?"

Again, that kind, gentle smile. I haven't seen one like that in a while, let alone on the alluring mouth of a village Lord. It's almost disturbingly alien. "I would wish for you to join me for breakfast."

I blink.

Color flushes Donna's cheeks, but she folds her hands in her front and lifts her chin. "I don't have many visitors often, nor do I keep servants around. I like my privacy. So, you'll be understanding if I would ask of your company."

I blink again. My mouth flapping open and closed like a fish on a jetty until I'm able to form words, "Yes. Of course."

"I understand if it's a bit foreign but, as I've said, I like my privacy. Though it does get a little lonely here from time to time."

"Would you like me to make you breakfast, My Lady?"

She gives a timid wave. "Please, just call me Donna. And perhaps we could make something . . . together. I have a new recipe I've been wanting to try."

Still, I stare at her as though she had ten heads. I came here expecting to work – even if she wanted her privacy, fine, I was ready for something to do, even if it ground my fingers to the bone.

I certainly didn't expect to be invited to breakfast and tea. And I certainly don't know how to react, other than to say yes in risk of drawing out a cruel retribution. "Y-Yes ma'me. Um, let me just wash up and change."

"Of course. The kitchen will be in the basement. You can take the elevator down." And she leaves without another word.

I close the door, nothing short of baffled. Am I really about to have – what would be considered – a private breakfast with Donna Beneviento? Meals with Bela were different, and they didn't even happen that often after I'd received my own room. I never had many meals with Lady Dimitrescu herself, and frankly, I didn't want to. I'm more afraid I'd end up as said meal.

I set up the bath as quickly as I am allowed, near tempted to linger in the luxurious heat of the tub for the rest of the day, but better I stay on Donna's good side than to have her chop me into bits as her next doll should I upset her.

She's a lord for a reason. And I don't really want to find out why.

Deftly, I scrub myself clean and dress in an appropriate set of clothes. With the thought of work still in mind, I decide on a pair of black leggings and a sea-green flannel shirt that matches my eyes. I slip my socked feet into my black leather boots, and braid my hair about my head – smiling at the breeze that tickles the back of my neck. It's always a relief when my hair is off my neck; less bothersome.

I close my door behind me and step up to the railing, peering down into the foyer below. The glittering sunlight through the windows illuminates dust floating in an out; a strange sense of calm blanketing the space.

This place feels like . . . like a home. Despite its size and lack of life, there's a cozy atmosphere that feels embedded within the walls. Like each room is made to host family and friends; to lounge across each available furniture, curled by a fire or enjoying delicious meals.

I take the stairs down and try my best to follow my intuition to find the elevator. I decide to take the hallway closest to the stairs, following blindly and happening upon the contraption by pure luck. Though I don't like the idea of getting into that tiny, iron-clad space, there are no other options to getting to the basement. I try to occupy myself by peering at the toes of my boots.

After losing another long minute of my life, I'm striding across the balmy lower level as I blindly meander my way around the manor's basement. My boots click hollowly across the concrete lined floor, the sound of a dull radio just breaching the shell of my ear. I have to meander through a study and end up following the smell of bread to the kitchen.

Donna wasn't lying when she said I'd join her for breakfast.

A long, wooden, rectangular table protrudes from the right-most wall, set with three low-backed stools, and laden with fruits, juices, pastries, and breakfast meats. It reaches to the middle of the room, with the sink a few feet from its end. And standing at the sink . . . Though Donna is occupied with kneading dough in a large bowl, her white apron contrasting with her black gown, I knew she'd sensed my arrival from the moment I cleared the elevator at the other side of the hall.

She looks over her shoulder at me the moment I step through the threshold and spares a timid but welcoming smile. "I've already prepped some bread and muffins. Help yourself to any drink in the fridge." The corners of her mouth turn up. "I'm afraid I don't have much wine."

I give a terse nod as I saunter towards the table. "That's fine. I don't drink anyway."

Not since I'd seen the effects it has on my mother, and men.

I bite back my grunt of annoyance when I note the three seats, and Angie stiffly occupying the one directly across from me. I duck my head as pots and pans and herbs and clumps of garlic dangle from above the table, helping myself to a blueberry muffin with crystalized sugar.

Normally, my mind would try to process – and be weary – of the fact that a Lord of Mother Miranda is cooking in her own kitchen . . . and has made me food.

If I were to die here, only the Dimitrescu family would know. And even then, perhaps only Bela would care; besides Lacy and Luiza, and Elena if they were to find out. I hope they're doing okay.

"Where are your other servants, Lady Donna?"

The lump of dough hits the flour-coated countertop with a noticeable thump. Without breaking her concentration on her kneading, the dollmaker says, "I told you, I like my privacy. Hence why Mother Miranda gave me such a secluded area."

"This house belonged to your family?"

"It did. More specifically my father. I inherited it after their passing."

I bite my lip with an apologetic wince despite her back to me. "I'm, sorry for your loss."

A shrug of those delicate shoulders. Her voice is tight when she says, "Nothing can change the past."

Before I can push further, Angie suddenly bursts to life, but stays in her seat – thank the Black God. She begins with that wretched laughter in this small room. "I don't like many people coming into my home. It's just, too much interaction; always coming to me for this or for that. I like the quiet of the house. I like having only my friends."

As she's talking, Angie's head and eyes are flicking this way and that, as if she were following a fly around the room. I do my best to ignore the sporadic movements, especially when her lifeless eyes fall upon me, and she slows her speech on certain words.

My head throbs, and I eye the silver teapot steaming in the center of the table. A cup of tea . . . "At least here it makes more sense." I direct to Donna. "Having so little staff at Castle Dimitrescu is . . . unnerving."

Not to mention the screams I've sometimes heard in the hall, like wandering ghosts; or the mutations that might be growing just a few feet beneath the castle; and of the fact that I might be developing feelings for a mutated daughter of a serial killer.

The thought reminds me of the potential abilities Donna might have. If that growth on her right eye is any indication.

Thankfully, the Lord speaks next, "I apologize for the drastic downsizing, Erika. But I do hope that you'll be able to make yourself comfortable." She finally turns to me as she wipes her hands on a cloth, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. "Tea?"

The florescent light dances along the curve of the silver teapot. I keep my eager nod to a restrained dip of my chin.

"But you will find," Angie goes on, as Donna pours a cup for me, "a form of regaining independence with us compared to Dimitrescu. She's so far up her own ass, isn't she?" The porcelain doll's cackling grates along my bones.

I splash some milk in the tea, watching the light and dark eddy together. "I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself, Miss Donna. I don't want to wake up with my head severed from my body."

Another crow's laugh from Angie. "She's so narcissistic that she can't – or won't – even see the holes in her so-called "plan" to get Mother Miranda off of your back."

I narrow my brows at Angie in irritation, and warning. I've had the same thought myself. If Mother Miranda does find out about this, plan – this deal – what's to stop her from coming to the estate and slicing my neck open?

I set down my teaspoon and sip, nearly sighing at the rush of heat and smoky, rich flavor. "That is something I've thought of myself. What am I to do if she finds out about this? What are you and Lady Dimitrescu going to do? Would this be seen as some kind of . . . mutiny?"

"You sound as if you're already preparing for the worst?" Angie croons, Donna with her back to me once more as she begins to roll out the dough.

I glare at the porcelain doll. "Nothing happens around this village without Mother Miranda hearing about it. She's a ruler for a reason." I look to Donna, "You didn't answer my question; that is, if I'm allowed to know."

Another shrug of those shoulders, then Angie is suddenly sitting on the table, so close to my face that I flinch, grabbing my spoon as if it were a bludgeoning weapon. "Even if she does find out, we can just lie and say we wanted you for our servant too!"

"And that won't give more suspicion?" I take a few more sips, that headache already lessening, and dare to scoop some fruit onto my plate from a glass bowl nearby.

"Who cares? It's like we're playing a game of hide and seek!" Angie cackles. "We keep you away for a week, Miranda goes searching about this way and that, and then by the time she comes here, you'll already be gone and back to the castle."

My heart skips a beat. "And that's if she doesn't find out ahead of time?"

"Even if she were to come here, we could just hide you around the house." The doll sounds as if she's grinning ear to ear, despite her rigid mouth. "Or, since you happen to be so brave and bold, we could just face her with the lie of wanting you for our service. It wouldn't be too out of the ordinary."

"You're really okay with this? With lying to your village head?" I ask, my temper riding a tight rope with the doll's lack of personal space. I gently elbow her a few inches away from me, stabbing a piece of melon with my fork.

"What do you care about what happens to us anyways?" Angie asks, her head twitching from side to side. "Not like you can control the outcome of it."

"But I can do my best to prevent it."

"Again, why do you care? You've seen some of the things Lady Dimitrescu can do. The things she's done. We can take care of ourselves just fine." Angie's voice has enough emphasis that I know her thoughts – or Donna's thoughts – are turning towards the death of her parents. I'm about to say something to change the subject, but suddenly Angie says, "Had I'd known you were such a control freak, I probably would've just given you menial chores."

I slap my hand on the table, near rising from my stool. "I am not a control freak!"

Angie snorts. "Pleeease, after your father passed, you became the head of the family. You provided for them, you controlled their money, you controlled your sister, you even controlled your mother into believing she was nothing more than the garbage we dispose."

"You weren't there." I growl, slamming my hand against the table hard enough to rattle its contents. "She is a worthless piece of shit; you didn't see the things I did – that Lacy did. Nor were you there when she smashed my hand in the door, or when she left my little sister out in the fucking cold! I took care of my family."

Angie answers with unnerving calm, "But you don't have to take care of us. Instead, we're taking care of you."

"I'm trying to survive all of you." I grit.

"Just as your father taught you." Angie chirps. I look to Donna – who is still working on the dough, only how it's rolled thin. I see a pie pan next to her. Her back is still turned. "Didn't you ever once question why your father was teaching you such things?"

"He was teaching me how to defend myself." I swallow.

"He was teaching you how to kill." Again, I can practically hear the smile in Angie's tone. As if she savored the very word like Dimitrescu savors her wine. "And you've done it."

"I've hunted for my family, yes."

"No, no, no," Angie croons, "not that kind of kill."

The world slows, and my blood suddenly fills my ears, hollowing all sound but my heartbeat. And that seems to have slowed too.

"You've killed men before." Angie says slowly. Or is that my perception . . .? "And you liked it. You enjoyed it."

My mind tries to scramble for words. "I . . . I –"

"You did what you had to do, yes. But you enjoyed it. You enjoyed taking the lives of those who were unfit to live in this world."

"I was defending myself." My voice quivers, my entire body trembling. I try to remember how to breathe as that door in my mind begins to rattle, sounding every lock and chain I've put on it since that winter.

Another spin-chilling cackle from the porcelain doll. "Be that as it may, but you relished in the slaughter. You relished in that control."

"No! I was –!"

"You enjoy killing just. As much. As we do." Angie finally relinquishes and sits back on her wooden butt on the table. "Face it: your heart is as black as ours."

I take a few shallow breathes, not tearing my gaze from the doll, my fear eddying into something more dangerous. "I did what I had to do to survive."

Darkness.

Creaking wood.

The tearing of my dress.

Splinters digging into my spine.

Blood. There was so much blood.

"Of course. Of course." Angie says, "At least you stood a chance. Your sister might not be so lucky."

A sharp pain twists in my gut. "What?"

My rage flickers again, slowing, slowing, slowing the world down.

"Your sister was always under your mother's thumb, wasn't she? Always enjoyed the life of a high-class lady. Gowns and tea and parties and smiles. It suits her well, but it never suited you, did it? It was a hindrance on your 'survival.'" Angie says. "You were always your father's daughter. And it ended up benefiting you, didn't it?"

I can feel myself being pulled from my body. Inch by inch.

"You little sister is prettier than you; and you know that. She'll be the belle of the village when she gets to your age. I pray you'll be able to get through to her by that time. Teach her the things that meant something to your father. Lest she winds up among the pigs and shit. A precious thing like her will look very, very good."

Red explodes in my vision, and I can't breathe fast enough, can't think above the roar in my head. One heartbeat, I am staring after her—the next, I have Angie's head in my hand.

I hurl her with all my strength.

All my considerable, mortal strength.

I barely see her body as it flies through the air, fast as a shooting star, so fast that even a village Lord can't detect it —

And I slam Angie's head into the edge of the counter.

She screams – or perhaps Donna screams – as the crack of her porcelain head sounds throughout the room.

Something stirs in my chest, and I can feel my lips pull into a hideous grin as my anger pulls my hand back up, and I slam her head again.

More pieces break and chip, their hitting the floor similar to the patter of rain on a rooftop. The doll's hands reach up as if to tear through my wrists, but I don't feel it.

I don't care. Not as I grip one arm, bending it at the elbow, and yank. It falls to the floor with a hollow clack, and I continue to slam Angie's head onto the counter, bits of her face splashing past me like droplets of ivory blood.

Her face is near destroyed, her hollow head gaping and vacant, when I hear a little sound.

A whimper. So fearful and agonizing that it makes me stop. Makes me thin of Lacy.

For a moment, the world slows and bends.

All I see is Donna, so frail and small, pressing herself against the kitchen counter. All I see are her delicate hands – white from leftover flour – covering her mouth in horror. Her only visible eye is wide enough to show white all around, her brow dipping in anger and sadness.

And as tears form and spill from that crystal-grey eye, as her rasping inhale of breath, of pain and agony at my actions, fills the home, the world . . .

I feel like I'm staring at my little sister.

She makes no move towards me. We only stare at each other.

Predator and prey. I don't know which one I am.

I flick my eyes to the near demolished doll head in my hand, her veil crinkled, and her face nearly hollowed out. I look back to Donna, slowly starting to fall back into my body. Slowly staring to realize what I've done.

Then I see something carved behind Angie's right shoulder, revealed by the veil I've suffocated in my grip. Slowly, so slowly, I angle the doll to read the inscription.

It's written in lovely, but masculine handwriting; carved with the upmost care.

To Donna,

Love Daddy

My stomach twists, and the shock snaps be back into my body, back to feeling everything. My own shame and heartbreak, my burning wrists where Angie had clawed at me, the warmth of the doll's head still in my hands, and awareness of the jagged bits and pieces now sprinkled about my feet.

Her father . . . this was a gift from her father.

I look back to Donna, and beholds something in my face that makes her own shift.

My brain tries to scramble for words. For anything to help make this moment pass.

But I don't.

I can't.

So I run.

The ground races by beneath my pounding feet, the chilled autumn air stinging my lungs. As I run, I can feel my body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. I knew I'd pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full sprint.

I've made it to the elevator without issue, my body and blood singing and pulsing. I would've clawed my way out of that confounded contraption it was so slow.

I step out into the gravesite, the headstone seemingly looming like a figure in the mist.

A piercing, agonized scream comes from behind me. I hesitate, taking a moment to breathe, to debate. I glance skyward.

What am I going to do?

I've fucked up. I've so royally fucked up!

Another piercing scream.

With no other choice, and a gamble on a miracle, I dart for the gully of rock walls and trees. If I can just make it to the gate, perhaps I can buy myself some time to think, to accept as I make my way back to Castle Dimitrescu.

The thought of dealing with Alcina and her daughters seeps more favorable than bracing for whatever the hell Donna has in store for me.

Gods, I fucked up.

I run on, listening to the soft beat of booted feet as they pound the dirt. Darkness creeps in around me, spreading its fingers through the trees, working to smear them into a single black blur.

My only concern is having left whatever weapons I'd been spared to bring to the estate. I can make do with some rocks and branches, but a blade would've been much better.

I sneeze against the pollen shoving its way into my nose, tumbling a step but quickly regaining my balance.

I wonder – an icy–watery sensation rushing through my veins with the thought – if Donna doesn't need to physically follow me. Could she follow someone . . . through the dolls? Mentally stick to them like parasites? What if she has eyes on everything in this valley? I try not to think of the dolls I'd seen scattered about Potter's Field.

I shake off the convulsive shudder that rattles its way through my shoulders. It's not impossible.

Maybe the stillness is just my imagination. After all, this are still woods in the loosest definition. They are supposed to be placid. Serene. Maybe I just missed the sounds of the castle. Besides everything dies in the fall anyway, right? All the little crickets had chirped their last sometime back in the early season.

Still I can't help feeling that there should have been some sounds. Like a foraging squirrel. Or a rabbit or something.

I slow to a stop, this time so I can catch my breath. I lean forward, clasping my knees, my own huffing all but reverberating in the silence. I glance over my shoulder at the darkening stretch of trail behind me.

Black, like a ribbon of ink.

But something else feels wrong, and it isn't just the stillness.

Since I have stopped running, the air around me seems to compress, to grow denser. I can't explain it, but it feels as through the atmosphere itself, unnatural in its calmness, is beginning to move in on me, to close in tight.

My nerves prickle. Along my neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end.

As I turn and look around at all the black trees with their skeletal arms tangled in a silent fight for space, I can't help the sudden feeling that, somewhere among them, something is watching me, waiting for me to move again.

The birds are I'd encountered here yesterday are gone now. Which is weird, since birds are creatures of habit. Of routine.

I listen . . . Nothing.

The silence grows, feeding on itself until it becomes a dull roar in my ears.

I continue down the trail, though at a slower, quieter jog. Just when I start to think that listening to the eerie nothing might be worse than actually hearing something, a hushed sound – a fast whoosh – breaks through from the line of trees to my right.

I jump, an ice pick of fear stabbing me through my heart so that, for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Whatever it was had been big.

As big as a person.

"Who's there?" I choke.

Another loud, gathered crack splinters the silence.

I whirl. It had come from the trees directly across the trail.

It comes again from behind. I hear the pop of a branch and the crush of dry leaves.

I spin in a circle, and despite the cascade of sudden nose, the rustling and crackling, I cannot sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.

But I do here the sound of a bell. A single chime, quickly overpowered by an onslaught of sporadic ringing. As if someone were holding it, and ringing it randomly.

It's way off in the distance, but growing louder with each passing minute I waste.

I feel my throat constrict and my chest tighten. My heartbeat speeds to triple time. I turn and break once more into a run, taking the trail as hard and as fast as my legs can carry me. My palms, cold and sweaty, tighten into fists.

Whatever it is, it follows me.

Out of the corner of one eye, I think I see the edge of a dark something.

Then there is another to my left.

Figures, tall and long, rush through the shadowed, haloed wall of trees on either side of me. Their movements too fast. Impossibly fast.

And as I speed up, so did the dappled forms.

They seemed to multiply as, out of my periphery, I spot yet another.

This one glides away from the others to rush along the group of trees directly beside me.

It moves through the trees. Through undergrowth, dashing over the dry ground – a rippling form.

I risk a quick glance ahead, but see nothing; only blackness and tangled branches and stillness.

But that's impossible!

I can't help it, I'm hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so nightmarish that I'm losing my grasp on what's real.

I can't outrun them, whatever or whoever they are. I can't gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a small ball is beginning to knot itself in my side. I block out the pain, pushing through the pain.

Run.

Run.

Run!

"Run." I hear someone hiss. A man.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It comes from the line of trees beside me.

I try to cry for help, but can't find the breath, able only to choke out a low sob. I can't stop to scream, but I can't keep going like this, either.

Branches and bushes and prickled weeds slice at my face, my legs, my ankles. Were it not for the adrenaline, the pain in my bandaged ankle would be near blinding.

My lungs sting from the cold while my sides ache with stiffening pain. Dizziness wafts in around my temples, but I can't stop now. I know that if I can just clear the gate, I will make it. I'll be all right.

But then, the world begins to bend in alarming ways. I squeeze my eyes tight and try to breathe through my mouth, ordering myself not to become sick.

No . . . no, not like this.

A crow balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million black feathers. Trees come to life, their roots gripping my ankles, and their sap – their blood – splashes down over my boots.

This can't be . . . was, was the tea laced with something? This isn't your normal onset of exhaustion. Gods, how could I have been so foolish?!

A large tree slams its root in front of me, blocking my path. With seconds to prepare, I clasp a hand on to the root and as I vault over, I feel the stabbing reward of a thick splinter as it enters my palm. My feet hit the dust and dirt pathway beyond. I teeter forward from my weight and slam to my knees.

Ants begin to crawl out of the cuts on my hands and I can't shake them free. They're climbing up my arms, my neck.

Someone is screaming – a long high-pitched sound that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me.

I sob as I pick myself up again, stumbling, scrambling, running even as my body begs me to stop.

The stones on either side of me rattle; a bellowing roar like a behemoth beast filling my ears. Whispers and hisses. Someone laughs, and then another, and another, and another until they are swirling around me. The sounds morph into a high-pitched screams.

Then I hear movement behind me.

I don't dare turn around, but I don't know what to do. I am trapped. Stone walls surround me.

I will my body to keep moving in spite of my screaming muscles, the torturous ache in my lungs.

Then again, I hear the sound of that bell.

A constant sporadic sound. And I don't know where it's coming from. I can't tell if it's in front of me, to the side – whatever drug I had ingested, it's spiked my anxiety so much that I can't even refer to my lowest level of my father's training.

Those figures I'd seen are gone, but still there is someone, or something behind me, and I can't see them.

As I stumble and fall and trip on the rocks, in the background and all around me, I'm hearing the bell chiming. And something is moving around in the woods behind me.

That sporadic bell sound is getting louder, and louder, and louder. Whatever it is, they're gaining on me. Sticks and branches break behind me, as if something is coming up to me.

Until it feels as if that bell is right behind my head –

The gate!

Straight ahead. There! I can see it.

"Erika."

The sound of the voice whisks by me, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around my feet.

I heard it, though. My name. Someone had whispered my name.

That, at last, stops me and brings me stuttering to a halt at the front of the gate. I wheel around, eyes scanning. I gasp for breath, sucking air in huge gulps. I wipe my running nose with my sleeve, not caring.

Looking down the foggy path, with pulsing trees and crawling humanoids, I don't see anything.

And then this tall, dark figure emerges from the fog, like a wraith.

Its face looks like it had been crafted from dried, weatherworn wood, its skin pale and wrinkled, yet pulled so tight it ripped its lips apart. Too-long teeth are held by blackened gums, slitted holes for nostrils, and its eyes . . . Its eyes are nothing more than swirling pits of milky white—the white of death, the white of sickness, the white of clean-picked corpses.

Ragged, dark robes hang from its spindly body of veins and bones, as dried and solid and horrific as the texture of its face. Its too-long fingers click against each other; long, course hair hangs from its head, as stiff as a broom's, its head angling to the left as it studies me.

As soon as it steps out of the fog, I can see a bell tied to its waist.

And with every step it takes, it violently rings the bell, causing the sound I'd heard.

Time slows down. Fear pulses through my veins and yet I stand hypnotized.

It slowly starts to approach me. The bell ringing with each step it takes.

Coming closer, and closer, and closer.

If I could sob, if I could scream, I would have. Though tears still slide down my raw cheeks.

In one blinking movement, the figure lunges at me, jaw unhinging.

Teeth bared, claws outstretched, it unleashes an ungodly sound, something between a woman's death screech and a demon's howl.

It happens too fast for me to form my own scream, too fast for my raised arms to do any good. Its claws rain down. A shrieking torrent of jet scales engulfs the light.

Its form loosens into violet smoke.

I whirl to try and lunge for the lock on the gate, but there's a sharp pain in the back of my head and I collapse to the ground.

My hand barely an inch from the gate.