TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇᴇɴ. ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴍᴇ

The fire in my room crackles and spits embers like tiny curses. I splay my hands over the flames, letting them tickle my fingertips before pulling them back, my skin tingling with the illusion of warmth. It's the only heat in this place, aside from the sick twist in my stomach and the way my skin crawls at the thought of who might walk through the door next.

The young demon boy had been kind enough—or perhaps just obedient enough—to light the fire for me. I'm not allowed matches. Too dangerous. Not that the irony is lost on me.

I tried questioning him while he was here, trying to piece together the puzzle of my captivity. But he just shook his head and murmured with an apologetic finality: "There are no exits out of this place. You leave with Crowley... or you leave in a body bag."

I didn't speak after that. There didn't seem to be much point.

He left. Hours passed. Silence settled over the room like dust, and I sat, staring into the fire, calculating how fast it would take me to burn this place to the ground if I started with the drapes.

Now, I lean against the high-backed armchair the demon had dragged in. It smells faintly of old smoke and something older still—like forgotten things. The heat from the fire seeps into my bones, heavy and drowsy. My eyes droop. And then the room slips from me.

I'm standing barefoot in a sun-drenched clearing. The grass tickles the soles of my feet. Light streams through the canopy, so bright it hurts my eyes. The peace is... wrong. Off.

I look around, my body tight with unease. Where am I?

A voice, sharp and distant, calls to me.

"Hello, Aderyn Lunette."

I spin.

A man stands a few feet away. He has sky-blue eyes—too blue, too knowing—and the kind of face that looks like it's seen too much and regretted none of it. His expression is unreadable, carved into a tight frown. The breeze ruffles his long trench coat.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice thinner than I'd like. "What are you doing in my dream?"

"I'm here to tell you something. Something you need to know."

He steps closer. There's a hush to the forest now, like the air itself is listening.

"You need to get out of here. Run. As far and fast as you can. Something is coming. And it isn't coming to play nice."

I stare at him, throat tight. "What do you mean? Who are you?"

He turns, panic flickering across his face. "I have to go. Time's almost up," he pauses and straightens suddenly. Fear crosses over his face, "He's here. Run Aderyn, run-"

When I jolt awake, my breath catches in my throat.

Crowley sits across from me in a matching armchair, legs elegantly crossed, a tumbler of something dark in his hand. He's watching me like a cat watches a cornered mouse—no rush, all confidence.

"I forget how fragile you humans are," he says, swirling his drink lazily. "All that sleeping. What a pity, really. There are so many other things I could spend a night doing to you."

His voice is velvet laced with poison. Dangerous. Seductive. Lethal.

I sit up, brushing hair out of my eyes, jaw tight. "Why are you in here?"

He smirks. "Well, I do own the place."

I glare. "And the air I breathe? That too?"

"Technically?" he sips his drink, "Yes."