Munching on one bitter end, Lyra wandered into her living room, plopping down on the sofa. She had seven hours to shower, eat and catch a few winks of sleep before she had to be back at the lab. She had showered, now was eating, but she didn’t think she could sleep. She didn’t want to admit it, but the dead body had freaked her out. However much she wanted to fight with Caine about the police protection, she was thankful for it. A police cruiser was sitting outside her house. His orders were to remain there until she went back to work. He was even supposed to fol ow her as she drove.
Popping the last of the celery stalk into her mouth, Lyra rested her head on the back of the sofa cushions. She needed to quiet her mind. Maybe if she had someone to talk to about everything she could turn her thoughts off and get some sleep.
“Gran? Are you there?”
Resounding silence. Eleanore obviously was stil upset with her.
“I need someone to talk to.”
More silence.
“Fine,” Lyra huffed. “But I stil talked to you even after you turned my first boyfriend into a Chihuahua.”
Her answer was a brisk wind blowing through the room, rustling the green curtains at her front bay window. Fol owed by theyip, yip, yip of a smal dog.
Shaking her head, Lyra laid down on the sofa. She nestled her head onto another fluffy pil ow and shut her eyes. Fatigue was taking its tol on her body. With a final thought of Theron floating through her mind like a cloud scudding through a summer sky, Lyra rol ed easily into unconsciousness. And dreamed of shadows.
She was there in Theron’s dream, hispetite sorcière; across the dark, deserted street from where he was hunkering down in the shadows, hiding from what he knew would come.
Dressed in a long, gauzy green dress, Lyra looked pale and perfect, silhouetted against the harsh light of the streetlamp overhead. He wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her in protection. Unable to move, he remained glued to the spot, utterly impotent.
Lyra twirled around in the glow of the light, as if waiting for someone. She seemed to be searching the shadows. Theron feared what she would see there. Nothing good ever came out of the shadows. He knew firsthand.
He saw it before she did, slithering in the dark across the cracked concrete. Eyes of red glowed in the black, causing shivers to rack his body. Had he seen those eyes before?
Something about the presence seemed familiar to him. Or it could have been that he felt the same icy dread he’d felt all those years ago when he invoked that dark spel creep across him now. He’d also brought something through from the other side that day.
Turning toward the blackened street, Lyra must’ve sensed something approaching. Her eyes widened and, even from his distance, Theron could hear her sudden intake of breath and the quickening of her heartbeat. Fear flashed across her features.
Opening his mouth, he tried to cal out to her. But his voice sounded dead, as if it had no substance to carry through the air. He tried to move, but found his limbs leaden and impossible to lift. The thing moved out of the shadows toward Lyra. One part vampire, one part lycan in beast form and something else entirely. Something black and wet and completely alien dragged on the cement behind it as it stepped into the pool of lamplight.
She screamed and pawed at the air, trying to protect herself from the approaching creature. Her cries for help final y prompted him to action.
Forcing his legs to move, Theron came out of his hiding spot and crossed the street toward Lyra. But it was like walking through water. Viscous and thick, the air pushed back at him as he moved—almost like swimming—to the other side.
He yel ed her name. She turned toward him, seeing him for the first time and smiled, as if there weren’t a disfigured creature descending upon her.
Reaching out, he tried to grasp her arm to pul her to him, to safety. An inch away, his fingertips brushed against the sleeve of her dress. He almost had her. Stretching and reaching he swiped at her arm. He grasped nothing but air. Lyra had vanished. Only curling wisps of black smoke remained.
“No!” he screamed.
Panting, Theron bolted from sleep, sitting straight up like a board. Sweat dripped down his face and he wiped at it with a trembling hand. Reaching for the glass of water on the table beside the bed, he guzzled it down, bringing some relief to his parched throat.
Hard and painful, his heart was stil thumping like a drum.
He rubbed at his chest. It felt as if his ribs were going to crack open. Taking in huge mouthfuls of air, Theron tried to regulate his breathing. Panic was very close to settling in and making a home for itself. It had been years since his nightmares had seemed so real. Wriggling his fingers, he swore he could feel the remnants of the thick black smoke on his skin. Like tree sap, it seemed to stick to his hand in tiny black dots.
Jumping off the bed, he wandered into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the faucet. He stuck his hand under the scalding water and tried to scrub away the lingering results of his dream. At first the dark marks wouldn’t come off. It wasn’t until Theron rubbed so hard that his skin came off, and he was raw and red, that the dots began to fade. Blood droplets dripped into the sink from his chafed skin.
He watched as one red rivulet swirled over the white porcelain toward the drain. It was an omen.
Deep down inside he knew this was the face of things to come. Blood. Pain. Death. And Lyra at the center of it.
As he wrapped his hand in a cloth towel, Theron vowed that as long as he was in Necropolis he would watch over Lyra.
Something was coming. Something malicious and malevolent that had its mind on the little witch.
He would do whatever it took to keep her from harm.