Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
The door cracks open, and the red light gleams from within. I take one inexorable step toward it, then another. Something about this time feels different, more ominous. I don’t want to go. But I can’t stop myself.
In the distance, brakes squeal. Through the veil that’s descended over here , I see a car pull to the curb. Julia, maybe, coming back to check on me?
For a moment, I entertain the hope that it’s her. That she hasn’t left me alone to deal with the enormity of the revelation that the monster who attacked us both will soon go free.
But no—whoever’s moving toward me is bigger than Julia. The strange double vision that always accompanies my premonitions has taken over, but I can tell that much. Is it him ? Is he out already? Did he follow her somehow, straight to my door?
Nausea rocks me at the thought of him finding me like this, at his mercy and under the sway of a premonition, unable to fight back. I double over with the force of it, clutching myself. My pulse pounds in my ears, my throat, my chest.
Dimly, I hear a male voice calling my name, asking if I’m all right. Relief sweeps me: It isn’t him, I can tell that much. But the roaring in my ears prevents me from deciphering anything more.
Still, I try to fight free of the magnetic pull of that doorway, of whatever lies on the other side. What if it’s the monster, not here but there, come to make good on his promises? What if this time I see my own undoing, and am helpless to change it?
“Help,” I murmur, although I’m not sure if I’ve said it aloud or just in my own head.
“Rune!” The voice is closer now. I blink, trying to see who it belongs to, but all I can make out is a shadow moving toward me in the real world, even as I retreat further and further in the direction of the doorway. If this new arrival means me harm, I am so screwed.
Then again, maybe I’m screwed anyway. Because the door is open wide, and something is sucking at me, pulling me in. I glance down and see tiny, red waves lapping at my feet.
It’s an undertow, somehow reaching from that world into this one. And it’s strong.
It knocks me off my feet, sweeping me through the doorway. I cling to the frame as I pass through, fighting to hang on, but it’s no good. The current rips the wood from my fingers, and then I’m washed through into the room beyond. Only this time, it’s not empty.
This time, it’s filled with an ocean of blood.
I shriek, a sound that rings in my ears and reverberates off the walls, and try to flee. But the blood’s rising higher and higher, and the current is powerful. There’s no getting away. I strain against it, struggling to make it back to the doorway, but it pulls me back, so hard I fall on my bruised butt again. This time, though, I barely notice the pain. I’m too busy scrambling to my feet, drenched in crimson and smelling like a butcher’s back room.
Oh god oh god oh god.
And then, from somewhere inside this nightmare place, a man speaks.
“Our day will come, Rune.”
It’s not the voice of the monster, but it might as well be. It reverberates with power and intention and evil. I recognize it, but how? The lapping of the water and the pound of my own heartbeat in my ears makes it impossible to distinguish who the voice belongs to. All I know is, it means me no good.
I spin in a circle, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, but I’m alone. Just me and a room filled with a rapidly rising sea of blood and an invisible Wizard of Oz-style announcer. The room is small; there’s nowhere for him to hide. Except the walls are retreating, fading back and back and back, and the blood is up to my waist now and oh God ? —
In all the years I’ve had premonitions—which is as long as I can remember—I’ve never experienced anything like this, where someone talks to me directly. Someone I can’t see. It’s always like watching a scene play out, like a snippet from a movie. This time, though, it’s like I’m the one being watched. Like I’m a pawn in someone else’s game.
Horrified by the thought, I struggle to keep my feet as the blood creeps upward, past my chest, my neck, my chin. Whose is it? How many people would have to die to yield so much?
I don’t want to know. But, like it or not, I’m going to have to find out.
If I can’t figure it out, I can’t stop it. And if I can’t stop it, wherever I go, whatever I do, this man’s voice will whisper in my ear.
I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.
The walls of the room have vanished; I’m adrift in a grisly sea, the waves breaking on the horizon. I tilt my head back, struggling to keep my head above the surface, searching for a face to go with the disembodied voice. “Who are you? Where are you? What do you want?”
The voice doesn’t answer. Instead, it devolves into an echoing, reverberating laugh. And in the distance, I see a wave rising, higher than all the rest, a wall of red bearing down on me. I try to paddle, to swim away, but it’s no use.
The rust-and-salt scent of blood fills my lungs as the wave sweeps over me. I go under, choking and sputtering, clawing for the surface. I’m going to drown here, in an ocean of blood. I’ll die on the other side of this door, and my body will be left behind, an empty shell?—
“Rune!”
It’s not the voice from the premonition, but the other one, the one from the real world. It’s full of worry, but also laced with demand: a voice that isn’t used to being ignored.
It’s a lifeline.
I grab for it, this thin thread connecting me to reality like a rope thrown to a swimmer cast overboard. It feels solid in my grip as I haul myself up, hand over hand, my lungs straining for oxygen. My head breaks the surface, and I suck in a deep breath of precious air. My arms and legs churn frantically, desperate to stay afloat.
“Rune! Damn it?—”
But I don’t get to hear the rest of what my savior has to say. Because another wave comes, washing me clear through the doorway and out into the real world. The door clicks shut behind me, and just like that, I’m back on my stoop again.
I blink once, twice, clearing the red haze from my eyes. There’s no blood. No monster, either. Just my garden in the fading light, asters and mums nodding drowsily, my fountain of Cassandra burbling away. And my unlikely companion.
He’s crouching in front of me, his big hands dangling between his knees, as if he’s afraid to touch me. His eyes are fixed on my face, and his hair is an unholy mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it, the way he did earlier today.
I try to tell him I’m fine. That he should leave. That none of this is his problem.
But the world blurs, and for the second time that day, I black out. This time, I fall.
Straight into Donovan’s arms.