Grave Visions(104)

My gaze jerked around the room, looking for where the door might have gone. There wasn’t a door. Not anywhere. The bone pile continued to shake as the creature in it pulled itself free.

I was so screwed.

I gripped my dagger tighter. It sang in my hand, but even its ever-ready bloodthirst did little to pierce the fog in my head.

“There is a door.” I told myself, trying to convince myself, Faerie, the drugged state of my mind—I wasn’t sure which—that it was the truth. Despite my words, no door appeared.

A head emerged from under the bones. Blood streamed down the thick, wide face, welling up from the skinned scalp. I recognized the flattened features immediately. Tommy Rawhead.

“You’re dead,” I told the hallucination.

The hobgoblin smiled at me, his long tongue darting out to lick chapped lips.

“You’re not real.”

Real or not, the bones tumbled down around him as he freed himself of the pile. He jumped clear, landing predator-soft on the icy floor. Then he turned, studied the pile of bones he’d emerged from and grabbed two thick leg bones, one in each hand. Lifting them, he swung them in front of him like a pair of bleached-white clubs.

He was a hallucination, conjured by my drug-addled brain. I knew he was. He had to be. I’d seen him die.

Then I’d cannibalized his soul.

Oh crap. Could the drug have found whatever was left of him inside of me? Could it have given it form, life?

No. No, that wasn’t possible. I’d taken his energy until his will alone wasn’t enough to hold him together. But I couldn’t actually absorb his being, just the life force. This was a hallucination. A living nightmare.

That didn’t stop a very real-looking Rawhead from stalking forward, lifting the bone clubs.

My grip on the dagger felt slick, but I didn’t dare switch hands long enough to wipe my palm as the hobgoblin stalked toward me. He was a hallucination given form by the drug and glamour. I knew that. And glamours could be disbelieved.

I dropped my shields.

The pile of bones glowed with the tortured souls still stuck inside. The hobgoblin, on the other hand, had no inner glow, no soul, nothing that should have given him life. He should have vanished with the confirmation that he was nothing but a hallucination, but Rawhead remained just as solid. Just as real. Glamour couldn’t create life, but Faerie had accepted this hallucination as solid, if nothing else. And since it was from my own drug-addled brain, I provided the live feed for his actions and personality.

Which meant I could change it right? Instead of a super-creepy bogeyman determined to rip me apart and suck the marrow from my bones, maybe I could redirect him into something nice. Something harmless. Something fuzzy and cute with a propensity for flower arrangement.

Tommy Rawhead lifted one of the bone clubs over his head.

I scuttled sideways, my concentration shifting to not falling over my own weak legs. The bone whistled through air inches from my shoulder. A miss. But barely. I had to keep moving. To put distance between myself and the glamoured bogeyman.

Rawhead spun, giving chase. And he was faster. A lot faster. Not surprising considering my head still felt a little too heavy.

I couldn’t outrun him—not that I had anywhere to go. Where the hell is that damn door?

I didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. The bones had been in the corner, but now I couldn’t remember which corner in comparison to the door.

There was no way out. I’d have to fight. I’d often heard that the best defense is a good offense. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly trained in fighting. With my recent history, I might have to change that.

Of course, first I had to survive now and not end up getting killed by my own imagination.

Crouching, I shifted my grip on the dagger and waited. Rawhead rushed forward, his bone clubs lifted. I didn’t know much about fighting, but the move looked more crazed barbarian than anything skilled. I guess that was the only good thing about not having a great imagination. Rawhead was limited to what my waking nightmare could conjure.

I waited for the charging figure to draw close. Then I lunged to the side, slashing out with the dagger as I moved. Unlike my hallucination, I had an enchanted dagger that liked to draw blood and was very good at it. So I let the dagger’s mental prodding push me.

The blade sank into flesh, catching momentarily, and then slid free. A hot gush of blood spilled over my hand, and the blade sang in triumph.

But, while the blade guided my arm, it wasn’t watching out for the rest of me. The lunge scored a wound in my opponent, but the impact with his body killed my forward momentum. Instead of sailing straight past him, I came down short, slightly to his side. One of the bone clubs slammed against my calf. It was only a grazing hit—not full impact—but pain exploded along my leg.