Jeff. Her first, oddball, thought was that he’d gotten her voice message. Her second thought was that it was weird that he and his bay stallion wore some sort of leather armor, and though Cara couldn’t be certain, she thought they were both even larger than the first horse and rider.
The blond horseman grinned at Jeff as his stallion reared on its hind legs. Jeff’s “No!” rang out, but with an ear-shattering scream, the white beast came down on the arrow-pierced guy’s head. Bits of bone and gore sprayed the animal’s legs, a light pole, the front of some old lady’s dress.
Cara cried out, but neither man seemed to notice. Jeff swung his sword at the blond, who drew a blade of his own.
Stark terror coursed through her, making her tremble as she backed away. Desperate to avoid their attention, she eased down the sidewalk. All around her, the normal world was eerily silent except for the violent sounds of battle; curses, metal striking metal, the snorts and screams of stallions drawing blood.
Cara risked a glance back, but the sight of the horses dancing in the dead man’s remains as they slashed at each other with teeth and hooves curdled her stomach.
Nausea sluiced through her, bringing her to a halt in an alley between a tea shop and a bakery. Her dinner of pork pie, mash, and carrots was in serious jeopardy. Swallowing repeatedly to keep it all down, she forced her feet to move again.
Once her stomach was stable, she ran in an uncontrolled, blind sprint. She had no idea how far she’d gone when she rounded a corner and nearly bowled over a man with a walking cane. Already on edge, vision blurred by panic and unshed tears, she overcorrected, whirling into the street and slamming into a car.
The driver honked, and though Cara had nearly been turned into roadkill, she laughed. Sure, it was hysterical laughter, but the world was moving again.
“You all right, missy?” A middle-aged man stepped off the curb and came toward her, eyeing her with concern. Eyeing her as if the only thing wrong with the universe was her.
Not even close. Her smile was as shaky as her voice. “Yes. Thank you.”
He nodded and continued on. Everyone continued on. As if nothing had happened. Her cell phone rang, startling her enough to jump.
It was her therapist. Perfect timing. “Larena. It’s good to hear from you.”
“Sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. I got your message, though, and I can tell you what I think the black dog and cage mean.”
“Dog and cage?” Cara’s brain was still skipping like an old record, and it took a moment to translate Larena’s words. “Oh, right. I asked you about the dream.” Larena might be a therapist, but she’d also become a friend. A totally unconventional one, but it worked for Cara, and Larena was the only one she trusted with all her deepest and darkest.
Well, not all. Larena didn’t know the extent of Cara’s unnatural ability. People—even friends and family—had a tendency to keep you at arm’s length when you were a freak.
“Are you all right? You don’t sound so good.”
Cara dragged her hand through her tangled hair. “I—” just saw a man killed, two knights appeared out of thin air, and time stopped. But other than that, I’m fine! Someone must have slipped acid into her tea at dinner. That was the only explanation. But what could explain all the other stuff that had happened at her house?
Insanity, a chipper voice in her head chimed in. That would explain it.
“It’s nothing a hot bath won’t cure. Okay, so what’s up? Larena?” she prompted, when her friend hesitated.
“You said the dog was growling. That could mean you’ve got some sort of inner turmoil going on. You feel caged and trapped. The fact that it’s a black dog suggests danger.”
Danger. No kidding. Larena’s words drew her sharply back into focus. She’d come here chasing a freaking dream, and had gotten herself into a nightmare.
A rowdy group of twenty-something men exited the pub behind Cara, and she moved aside to avoid being trampled. “What about horses? And knights fighting? Any significance to that?”
“Ah… I’m not sure. I’d have to research it,” Larena said. “Maybe you should make an appointment.”
One of the men bumped her, didn’t acknowledge it with either a “Sorry,” or a “Screw you,” and Cara glared. The jerk… oh… oh, Jesus. She lurched backward, nearly dropping the phone.
Stubby black horns pushed up out of the man’s dark hair, and he had no skin. Only exposed muscle and bone was visible in places his clothing didn’t cover. Cara blinked, and the man appeared normal again, laughing with his buddies and disappearing into another pub.
“Cara? Hey, you there?”
“Yeah,” she croaked. She closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. Time was moving and no one looked like a demon. Life was good. “Sorry. I’m just tired. I’ll call for an appointment next week.”
“Do that. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Cara shoved the phone into her bag and got her bearings. The B&B was only a few blocks away, thank God. Drizzle had begun to fall, her head was pounding, and her nerves were shot. Time for a sleeping pill and twelve hours of shut-eye. Maybe tomorrow all of this would prove to be one big nightmare. In fact…
She clicked the photo icon on her camera to view the pictures. She wasn’t sure if she hoped to see the now-dead man or not. Confirmation that the battle she’d seen had been real, or confirmation that she was crazy? Seriously, which was more preferable?
Holding her breath, she waited for the last photo she’d taken to pop onto the screen, and nearly cried with relief when the picture revealed only a street full of cars, buses, and people. No bleeding man with an arrow sticking out of his chest. No Jeff dressed like a Dark Ages warrior.
She tucked her cell in her jacket pocket, and by the time she’d walked the six blocks to the B&B Cara had convinced herself that nothing she’d seen was real, that she wasn’t loony, and that she was never drinking anything she hadn’t poured with her own hands again. Inside the nineteenth-century home, Cara waved to the sweet fifty-something lady who owned it and mounted the stairs to her room. It was tempting to fall into bed with her clothes on, but she managed to peel out of her jeans and sweater. Wearing nothing but her underwear—she rarely wore a bra—she dug through her suitcase for her pajamas.
Straightening, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
And screamed.
In the center of her chest, between her breasts where the arrow-pierced man had touched her, was a brand. Welted, bright crimson lines formed a shield and sword… the tip of which lay over her heart.
It had all been real.
“Damn you, brother,” Ares breathed. “Damn you.” Ares widened his stance and raised his sword—broken off at the tip—and braced for another round of who-can-hurt-who-the-most. Fortunately, his armor and weapons had rehardened now that Ares’s agimortus was no longer nearby. For a few tense moments, he’d been sure his sword would shatter under Reseph’s blows, or worse, that his brother would land a lucky stroke that would cut through his weakened armor as if Ares were wearing nothing more protective than a Hanes wife-beater and tighty-whiteys.
Reseph grinned, revealing blood-streaked teeth. “Touchy. When’s the last time you got laid? Just wait until your Seal breaks… demon females will fall at your feet in worship.”
Ares gripped the sword hilt tighter. He’d known that the destruction of a Seal would be catastrophic, but he truly wasn’t prepared for the evil that had been unleashed—especially not in Reseph.
“You can fight this,” Ares said. “Let me take you to Reaver—”