#FreakshowFriday

Chapter 8: Torture Comes in Various Forms

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When Nathan finds himself on a yacht, he knows that what he's seeing isn't real.

But it was real one day. That's the scary part.

He's been here before, some six months ago. He remembers this space with its dim orange lights and background jazz all too well. He remembers the large table in the middle, where Jamie and Eva Booker sat playing a game of poker with the mafia. He remembers Derek's lingering oppressive presence, his sipping whiskey at the bar.

Now, Nathan's standing here all on his own, but it doesn't make this place any less oppressive.

He curses under his breath.

Above him, the lights flicker. His magic scar seems to sting and burn every time they do. Nathan's hand travels to the old wound and he applies a little pressure to it, all to distract himself from that irritating undercurrent of hurt. Before he obtained this scar, he'd never known it was possible to feel pain in dreams. Maybe it actually isn't possible at all.

Because this is, ultimately, the furthest thing from an ordinary dream. Or an ordinary nightmare, for that matter.

This is a form of torture. A magical punishment he still doesn't know how to escape.

But maybe it'll be over fast this time. Maybe he'll be let off easy. Maybe, with some luck, he'll be allowed to wake up in the blink of an eye.

(Though contrary to Linda Carrera's assertion, Nathan has never been a very lucky guy.)

Driven by his desire to make short work of this, Nathan breaks out into a run—just like he did when this was all reality, when this yacht was sinking underneath him and he was shoving his way past panicking crew members in the ensuing chaos, when he was on his way to help Veronika and put a violent end to his criminal career. He knows where he needs to go. The uppermost deck. His final destination on the yacht even now.

Nathan remembers exactly which route to take; his lungs even burn like they did that day. He ascends the main staircase without considering any detours, without contemplating making a run for someplace else. Experience has taught him that would be useless. He tested different escape routes in past iterations of this hellscape, tried getting to Patch's motorboat as well as locking himself in the bathroom he dragged Jamie into, but to no avail. He always ends up where he needs to be. Where the Devil himself awaits.

The closer Nathan gets to the upper deck, the more violent the sea around the yacht becomes, waves toying with the huge ship as if it's nothing but a plastic bag in the wind. His scar's stinging grows more persistent with every step and by the time Nathan's outside, inhaling ashes underneath a pitch-black sky, his breaths come out ragged. He struggles not to double over, for the pain is sharp and cruel, a phantom fire scorching his flesh anew. But it pales in comparison to the terror the creature before him instills.

"Ah, there you are. Such a pleasure to see you here." Derek McLaren sounds as distant and hollow as Bishop Nikulasson's did, though not quite as emotionless. There's a bit of amusement in Derek's tone, mixed with a vicious mocking—a combination that makes Nathan want to start snarling at him to shut up. But he won't do that. His voice isn't steady enough and it would be a waste of effort.

Instead, Nathan focuses on lifting his gaze and looking Derek in the eyes, hoping to show he's not afraid even though he's terrified. Terrified because Derek's eyes are empty, glassy ones, wide-open and forever unblinking. Terrified because the bullet Nathan fired into his skull has left him horribly disfigured and bloody, leaving parts of his brain exposed to the open air in a macabre display for his audience of one. Terrified because every bit of flesh still left on Derek's bones is charred as black as the sky above and everything still smells like salt and blood and flames, even though a dream shouldn't ever have a scent.