growling. Something with eyes that flashed red and sharp teeth that snapped at the air in front of her, coming so close she felt the breeze of it on her eyelashes. Claws raked her side, pulling the blow at the last second so she could roll away with her shirt flapping in shreds. Pain stung her, but she was still able to get her hands up to push away the thing on top of her.
Too dark here to see more than shadows. All she could do was twist and turn, getting an arm up to keep the snapping jaws from getting at her throat. Monica screamed, anticipating the crunch of teeth on her forearm, but it didn’t come. She kicked upward and out, connecting.
The thing, which smelled of grass and dirt, growled but didn’t retreat. It fell on top of her again, crushing her into the ground. She felt hair and limbs and another press of teeth, but by then she’d fought her knife free of the belt sheath. No hesitation, Monica slashed upward. Her aim was off, but she still connected. Her knife stuck and she pulled it free. This time, the thing howled and backed off.
She needed light, but back here close to the exterior wall, she was in a giant blind spot. Her head spun from hitting the ground, and bright sparks of pain made everything a blur anyway, but she did see a shape, a head and a half taller than she was. She smelled blood. She slashed again, her grip weaker this time, but the thing smacked her knife from her hand.
Whatever it was hit her in the face, not claws but a curled...fist? A hand? All she knew was the crisp feeling of hair on her face and the solid thunk of flesh on hers. The blow drove Monica to her knees. She rolled, and the next hit her shoulder hard enough to drive her face forward into the ground again.
This time, she didn’t get up.
* * *
She was in the cave again. Pitch-black. The stink of death. Rattle of bones. Carl was dead; she’d seen him in the last flare of her light before it had been smashed. Her husband was dead, and she would be next, unless she fought.
She fought.
Fists and feet and teeth. Her knife. Slashing. Blood, pain, screaming.
Everything blurred.
* * *
She woke up screaming, throat raw. Something held her down and she writhed, fighting it until she realized it was the soft weight of a comforter. She’d been sweating beneath it, wearing only panties and the tank top she’d gone out in earlier. Her hair had come free of the elastic and tangled over her shoulders.
For the first few seconds, Monica still didn’t know where she was. Then it came to her—the bungalow at DiNero’s menagerie. She’d gone out, then she’d heard something...the peacocks, screaming. She swallowed hard at the thought of the beautiful birds being torn apart.
She’d gone to find out what had happened. Something had attacked her. She had to get up.
She winced and cried out softly when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her head pounded, the back of it tender and swollen where she’d hit the ground. A stinging line on her throat had come from the thing’s teeth, she remembered that much. Another set of four slashes on her side hurt, too, but they’d been cleaned and bandaged, so she couldn’t see how bad they were. They didn’t feel deep enough to be terribly serious, she thought and wondered why on earth she hadn’t been torn to ribbons.
The thing had been big and strong and angry, and yet it had not actually tried to kill her. It couldn’t have. She’d have been dead if it had. She was certain of it.
As it was, her entire body ached. When she got up and went into the bathroom, her reflection showed a pattern of bruises already gone black. She eased up the tank top to look at the bandages, which had been expertly applied. Gauze and medical tape, not adhesive bandages. The edges glistened with antibiotic ointment. She pulled her shirt back down and turned to go back to the bedroom—and let out a shriek.
She’d punched Jordan twice, first in the nose and then in the throat, before she could stop herself. He stumbled back with a shout, and Monica muttered a stricken apology.
He watched her warily, his eyes watering. She hadn’t made him bleed—at least there was that. She might’ve laughed at the look on his face if everything didn’t hurt so bad and if she weren’t so freaked out by what had happened. That and the dream. Always the dream.
A strangled sob had forced itself out of her throat before she could stop it. She found herself pressed against him, though if she’d reached for him or he’d pulled her close, she didn’t know. What she did know was that his hand stroking her hair felt good, as did his arms around her. Even the pressure of his body on her aching bruises lessened the pain.
When he picked her up and carried her to the bed, she expected him to lay her down, but instead Jordan sat on the edge of it and held her on his lap. Monica was no small woman and had never been fond of being made to feel delicate, but something in the way he cradled her only made her bury her face against the side of his neck.
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