The End of the Dream

Chapter 16

Your head pounded sickeningly.

For a moment, you thought it was merely a hangover. Not that you had even had that much to drink; not enough to be any more than tipsy at worst, you had thought. But you couldn't be certain of the limits of your new physical form.

Then your memory clicked back into place with a stomach-lurching rush.

You remembered the party. You didn't remember making it back to your room. Because you hadn't—you'd met that stranger along the way, who had, apparently, knocked you out and kidnapped you.

Motherfucker.

The initial flare of irritation drained away, replaced by an icy chill crawling down your spine. As you glanced around, you realised how serious the situation was.

The room was completely cloaked in plastic sheeting, a dead, empty space apart from the gurney you were strapped down on. There were cuffs around your wrists and ankles, thick leather reinforced with chains and padlocks.

You strained against them. The metal clanked softly, but there was very little give. Not enough for you to work with.

It was a kill room.

You breathed out heavily through your nose, scrabbling to keep your breaths deep and even. Don't panic. Don't panic, ignore the fear chewing through your gut like acid.

Everyone kept saying you were as good as the crystal now. Fused with it, all those reality-bending, near unlimited powers yours to command. In theory. But this reality was defined by belief, and the instinctive, pervasive belief smothering your entire nervous system said that you were in fucking trouble.

The conviction only heightened when the stranger from last night stepped into the room, twirling a butterfly knife between his fingers.

Your blood ran cold.

"Who are you?" you demanded. "Why am I here, what do you want?"

"What I want," he said, rolling the words smoothly, toying with them as much as he did the knife, "is to see your skin split open and your blood pouring to the floor, the light dim from your eyes, and a death rattle choking your lungs." He paused to breathe deeply, savouring the mere thought. "Unfortunately, however, Mark wants you alive."

You swallowed. Your heart felt like it was going to pound out of your chest.

"You're working for Mark?"

He smiled, baring his teeth. "We came to an agreement on this one matter."

The man stepped closer, out of the shadows. Though you couldn't see his eyes, hidden behind his dark glasses, his gaze felt cruel and hungry.

"You may call me Murdock." He introduced himself like an afterthought. You supposed most people did not survive to recall his name; it was hardly relevant information for those he intended to murder.

"How did you even get into the house?"

Gradually, he paced around your gurney with slow, purposeful footfalls. Each echoed in the empty room, ringing out like a death knell.

"It is always open to new egos, did you not know?" Murdock laughed with empty amusement. "They may hide it from Mark, but for someone like myself, some stray, lost soul—" he emphasised each word with irony "—all I needed to do was knock, and that bumbling, pink-moustached fool let me right in."

Shit. During the party, most likely. Everyone had let their guards down.

The tip of the knife ghosted along your collarbone, and you flinched.