Claimed by Dread

Chapter One

Katy

The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash.

No shade. No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the stones.

I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.

My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench.

The nuts were torqued down by some mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway vibration had fused them to the studs.

Either way, the wrench handle grew slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like it had been oiled.

I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried again.

The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed.

I adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it.

My arms shook. Not the fine tremor of fatigue -- a deep, structural quiver that started in my shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists.

Shaking that meant my body was running out of things to burn.

Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins.

Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in damp curls against her neck.

She watched me with a small, tight frown that didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.

“Are we going to be late?” she asked.

“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.

“Does it hurt your hands?”

“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Not long. Almost done.”

Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me.

The heat was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting -- a slow, nauseating roll through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over.

I planted my feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.

I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air.

The second came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades and along my spine.

The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.

The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something give -- not the nut, but the jack.

It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch.

I jerked back, heart hammering, and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself.

The metal burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I could feel besides the heat and the fear.

Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful -- the tone she used when she was scared but trying not to show it.

“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost done.”

I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting.

I crouched beside it, my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm.

The metal was hot enough to raise a blister.

I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my forehead.

Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage, wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled.

My shoulders screamed. The nut turned -- a quarter inch, then nothing.

I repositioned, pulled again. Another quarter.

The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more than the last.

The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked and nothing changed.

One nut left. The last one.

I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had into the turn.

My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade -- a hard, sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s brightness.

The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas. Breathe. Just breathe.

Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in my ears.

“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out strained and hollow. “One second.”

The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like they’d been filled with wet sand.

The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with fine dust.

Almost done.

Except I knew wasn’t almost done.

* * *

The sound reached me before I saw the source -- gravel crunching under wide tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.

The engine cut. The driver’s door opened.

The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall -- though he was that, well over six feet -- but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym.

Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that had seen actual use.

And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.

I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up -- one step sideways, placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.

He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing.

Hands at his sides, visible, relaxed. His eyes -- steel blue, I registered distantly -- moved over me in a single pass that felt nothing like being looked at.

Precise. Evaluating. Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my stance I couldn’t hide anymore.

Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less thorough.

“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”

I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.

“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

Didn’t soften it with a please or cushion it with reassurance.

He turned, walked to his passenger door, and pulled it open.

Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint smell of leather and clean air underneath.

The vents were already running, aimed at the seat.

I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around it.

He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame, and waited. The patience in him carried its own force -- steady, unhurried, taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.

A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”

She slid off the running board and took my hand.

Her fingers were small and hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there.

The cold hit us in layers -- first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy.

Ellie made a small sound, almost a whimper, and pressed against my side.

Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough to reach, far enough to leave space.

He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse point.

His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow, then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead.

The touch lasted three seconds, maybe four.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”

“When did you last have water?” he asked.

“This morning. In the car.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Lightheaded?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that hadn’t decided about him yet.