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His nightmares were violent and terrible.
A corpse ran steadfast in the hard rain. Long, dark hair matted and plastered to the face of a young woman.
He followed her and vaguely he remembered the chill the downpour would have once given his skin, now pale granite that neither shivered nor goosefleshed.
Ceaselessly the storm beat against the trees, thundering against bark and ceaselessly the dead woman ran. On and on she raced, gulping in sodden breaths, boots sinking deeply into the wet undergrowth. Distantly she spotted the edge of the forest and with a tiring sprint, swung her arms faster with the thought that she was going to make it. Deep within, the small part that was still himself, he dreaded knowing that she was wrong.
Nearby and invisible behind the dense thicket, an impatience rumbled, rolling over itself with an intensity that he met with a snarl. The frustration curled and he felt its maker slink back to their other noiseless companion, bare feet skimming over low, shapeless ferns. He had a misted notion of flaming curls that would still be dancing even in the rainfall. His nostrils flared and he swam in the familiar, heated scent of woodland pines and soil, suddenly finding himself less of a stranger amidst the group.
The woman, almost still a girl, stumbled closer to the roadside and he heard a truck go roaring past. As if he was the wind itself he was suddenly behind her, running slender fingers over the prickled skin of her neck and she shrieked. Her feet found a tangle on the forest floor and brambles caught themselves in the frays of her jeans when she fell. Beneath her ripped shirt he could see her muscles working, sharp shoulder blades rolling as she crawled forward to reach for the break between the trees.
With delight he stepped on her hand and smelled her pain and fright. Then the dream tumbled into a thought, or a feeling, or maybe even a memory. He experienced deep glee knowing that he was no weak man in that moment. Instead he was something created by divinity to be divine and felt the bones beneath his heel grind and heard the howl of agony, nurturing his amusement at the creature beneath his power.
She scratched his ankle, nails breaking away before she began hitting him, crying while she tried to wrench herself free. She made no mark nor inflicted any injury yet he released her with mercy, watching her cradle her bruising hand to her chest with the fascination of a thing that remembered no pain. Before she could trip to her feet the others slipped out from the wilderness, slick with rain and smiling.
He had been right about the dancing curls, stuck to her face in dripping strands yet still like fire against the grey rain. Eyes like rubies looked at him with an easy playfulness while the man beside her crept forward with the practice of a shadow, speaking gently into the wind as he edged towards the weeping woman. His words sounded distant, muffled as the world began to dim.
From far behind the murderer's eyes he watched as there was a flash of a claw-like hand, his hand. It entangled itself in the woman's knots, felt her scalp, her heat and even her heartbeat before he pulled her head back and bit into her neck. Amidst the growing fog of wakefulness he was suddenly overwhelmed by just how much he smelt, how much he heard and how much he tasted. He was sick with the feeling of pleasure and riddled with revolt.
This was not a murder but a hunt and not for the first time, Jamie O'Driscoll awoke with a scream.
