Night of the Tiger (Hades' Carnival) Read online

  Aimee suddenly realized she’d moved her hands. She was no longer frozen in place. Somehow, the lament of the beasts had broken the spell she’d been under. Not taking her eyes off the devil in front of her, she lowered her hands from her ears and took a step backward. Something crunched beneath her foot, but she didn’t look down, telling herself it was stone, not bits of bone from others who had been lured to this place.

  She had to escape.

  He smiled at her, sweeping out his arms to encompass the creatures around him. “There is no escape, sweet Aimee. Unless I allow it.” His taunting smile had anger bubbling up inside her, shoving aside some of the fear surrounding her.

  He wouldn’t allow. This was her dream. Hers. She was in control here.

  Like Dorothy in the Land of Oz, she closed her eyes and concentrated on being tucked safely back in her bed. She even thought about clicking her heels together even though she was barefoot and there wasn’t a pair of ruby slippers in sight. Everything went silent and she breathed a sigh of relief before opening her eyes again.

  She screamed. Or rather she tried to. Sheer terror tightened her vocal cords, making her scream sound more like the squeak of a mouse. And that’s what she felt like—a small, brown mouse in the presence of a great, hungry cat.

  Hades’ cruel smile mocked her attempt to escape. He leaned forward, his breath hot on her face. “This isn’t Oz, and you most certainly aren’t Dorothy.”

  Oh, crap, he can read my thoughts. There was no other way he could have known about her Wizard of Oz reference. No wonder he’d laughed when she’d thought that evil should be ugly. He knew exactly what he looked like.

  He brushed his finger over her jaw and down her neck, leaving a sizzling brand on her flesh as he went. She flinched, but didn’t cry out.

  “So brave.” Lowering his hand, he studied her. “How much courage will you have when the beast comes for you? Will you trade your life for his?”

  “What beast?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but the question was past her lips before she could stop it.

  Hades shrugged. “Who knows? Only you can decide that. You hold the fate of the beast in your hands.” He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing tight. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. His touch burned. A whisper of singed flesh assailed her nostrils. “Such small hands. Weak.”

  Cruel pleasure lit his dark eyes. “You will be the new lady of the beast, at least for one of them.” He laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was filled with a cruel expectation that froze her from the inside out. Even the demons ringed around them shrank back at the sound.

  “I don’t understand.” There was something important happening here. Something she needed to know. She gave herself a mental shake, dismissing the thought. The only thing she needed to be concerned about at this moment was getting out of this nightmare.

  “That’s right,” he crooned as he released her fingers. She pulled her stinging hands close to her chest, cradling them there as he continued. “You just have to worry about yourself. Serve up the beast to save yourself, and everything will be just fine.” Hades leaned down and stared directly into her eyes.

  Flames jumped in the depths of his pupils. Or maybe it was his irises. His eyes were so black it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Aimee could see her death reflected there.

  It was a horrible, never-ending torture. Her flesh burned from her body, only to regenerate and burn yet again. Over and over, it went on for all eternity. She could smell her scorched skin, hear the sizzle of her hair before it went up in smoke, feel the flames eating her internal organs and continuing on all the way to her bones until all that was left was ash.

  “That’s right,” he whispered in her ear like a lover, his hot breath searing the delicate skin. “That is your fate if you don’t give me what I want.” He took a step back and glared down at her. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  The air thickened, becoming too hot to breathe. Aimee coughed and began to choke as it filled her lungs. Her head swam and she fell to her knees. Her vision dimmed. Voices filled her head, promising torture and death. She had to get up. She couldn’t stay here. She didn’t belong in this antechamber of Hell.

  Desperately, she pushed herself up, only to stumble and fall again. Her hand skidded on the damp earth and her face hit the ground. It was less stifling here, the air not quite so hot. She dug her fingers into the cool dirt and hauled herself forward. It was only a few inches, but it was a start.

  It would be so easy to lay her head down on the ground, to just give in to the forces surrounding her, to accept her fate. She could hear the hiss of voices behind her encouraging her to quit fighting, to accept the inevitable.

  But Aimee had never been a quitter, and she saw no reason to start now.

  Anger washed over her in waves. How dare they do this to her? How dare he do this to her? She wouldn’t even say his name, not even in her mind. She sensed that to do so would give him even more power over her, and she needed whatever edge she could get.

  She dug her fingers into the ground and pulled with all her might, ignoring the burning in her lungs and the fatigue seeping into her muscles. Her thin gown was no match for the rough ground beneath her. Fabric tore as rocks and debris dug into her tender skin.

  Not that way.

  Aimee stilled. The voice was feminine and light. Kind. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. This was a trick. It had to be.

  No trick. Follow my voice.

  Even though she didn’t fully trust the voice, she turned toward it. Any chance of escape was better than none. Immediately, a draft of fresh air struck her face. She sucked in a huge breath. The air was sweet. Clean. Adrenaline rushed through Aimee’s veins as she sensed the way out. Grabbing the nearest rock, she hauled herself to her knees.

  The demons watched her from their various perches, their eyes glowing with anticipation and hunger. Some clung to stones, others sat in crevices, while two hung from the ceiling, saliva dripping from six-inch fangs.

  Why didn’t they attack her?

  They can’t. You are the key.

  The key? The key to what?

  Hurry!

  The voice sounded worried, and that was all the impetus Aimee needed to get moving. Digging deep, she found the last vestiges of her strength and pushed to her feet, stumbling forward. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel. See her body still lying in her bed. She raced toward it.

  The chant of the demons swelled behind her, almost shoving her onward. She gathered the last of her strength and leapt toward the light, propelling herself forward. Her feet left the ground in a rush and she fell, her body plummeting downward, air racing around her limbs.

  Aimee screamed.

  She bolted upright in bed, her cry of terror echoing off the walls of her bedroom. Lightning flashed, and for a brief second she thought she saw a pair of red eyes staring at her from the corner of her room by the open window.

  Frantic, she scrambled for the lamp on her nightstand. She smacked the base, almost knocking it over. Swearing under her breath, she fumbled with the switch and finally managed to turn it on. The room was suddenly bathed in a soft glow that drove back the shadows.

  “It was just a dream,” she assured herself. “Nothing more than a dream. You’ve had them before.”

  That was nothing less than the truth. What she didn’t want to admit to herself was they were getting worse, more realistic each time she had one. It was as though she’d been having the same one for months. It just kept expanding, getting longer and more detailed each time she had it.

  At first it had simply consisted of a sense of being watched. That had escalated to her being lost in an underground cave. She’d seen her first demon several weeks ago. But tonight was something else altogether. Tonight’s nightmare had topped them all.

  Still shaking, Aimee slid her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. Her gown clung to her skin, and sweat plastered he
r hair to her skull. Shivering, she stood. She needed a hot shower. Then she needed to strip the bed and remake it with clean, fresh sheets.

  Not that she expected to get any more sleep tonight.

  Glancing at the clock radio, she sighed when she saw it was just after three in the morning. There was nothing she could do about the time. She’d take a nap later today if she needed one. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  The shower beckoned and she stood, praying her trembling legs would support her. She shivered as the cold air blowing in through her open window hit her damp skin. She stumbled to the window and closed it, cutting off the breeze.

  Her gaze went to the woods behind her home, silent and dark. Another shiver skated down her spine. “There’s nothing out there,” she assured herself. She’d grown up here. Knew every inch of the house and the land. Damned if she’d let a few dreams make her afraid in her own home.

  She tore her gaze away and headed toward the bathroom, wincing as a pain shot through her right foot and up her calf. “What the heck?”

  Aimee limped into the bathroom and flicked on the strong overhead light. Her pale face stared back at her from the mirror. Her skin was pasty white, making the scars on her left cheekbone stand out even more than usual. Her green eyes appeared huge, tinged with remnants of fear. But it was the seeping wound on her forehead and the light burns on her chin and neck that froze her in place.

  She reached up to touch her face. It was then she saw the red marks on her fingers from where the devil in her dream had held her hands.

  “This isn’t possible.” Her breathing grew shallow and fast. Darkness threatened to swamp her, and she began to sway.

  “No!” She reared away from the mirror. Her back hit the wall with a thud, and Aimee slowly slid to the floor. She lowered her head, tucked it between her knees and took several deep breaths. No way did she want to pass out. She would be helpless, vulnerable. Staring down at her feet, she noticed they were bruised.

  She shook her head. “Impossible. It was just a dream. Nothing more.” As she stared at her feet, the bruises slowly began to disappear. Startled, she grabbed the edge of the vanity and pulled herself upright. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she watched as the gash on her forehead and the burn marks slowly faded away. Her hands returned to normal.

  “I am not crazy. I am not crazy.” She repeated the mantra over and over as she turned on the taps in the shower and adjusted the water temperature. When it was as hot as she could bear it, she stripped off her nightgown and stepped beneath the spray.

  She shivered hard, her teeth chattering. It took several minutes, but finally the heat began to seep into her frozen flesh, warming her and washing away the remnants of her nightmare.

  She didn’t close the shower curtains. Tonight was beginning to seem too much like a bad horror movie. And everyone knew what happened to the heroine in those kinds of movies when she was stupid enough to take a shower with the curtain closed.

  It might be cowardly, and a tad paranoid, but there was no way she was letting herself be any more vulnerable than she had to be. It was easier to wipe up the water that spattered onto the floor than to take a shower with the curtain closed.

  With it open, the air circulating around her never fully warmed. Aimee didn’t linger. Washing quickly, she soaped herself from her scalp to her feet. Usually, she enjoyed taking a shower, letting the water cascade over her body. But not tonight. Tonight she just wanted to be scrubbed clean as fast as possible.

  When she was done, she flicked off the water and stepped out onto the tile floor. The cold seeped into the bottoms of her feet. She grabbed a towel and rubbed it over her wet hair, squeezing out the excess water. When she was satisfied the ends of her hair wouldn’t drip, she wrapped the towel around her body. She grabbed another one off the rod by the sink and began to clean up the mess on the floor.

  The mirror was coated in steam, which was fine with her. She didn’t want to see her fear reflected back at her. When the floor was dry, she tossed the wet towels into the laundry hamper. She’d be doing several loads of sheets and blankets later this morning and would throw in the towels as well.

  Padding back to her bedroom, she went straight to her dresser drawer and pulled out socks and underwear. It was all plain white cotton and totally utilitarian, but it was comfortable and it matched. There was no one else to see her underwear, so she pleased herself. She grabbed a pair of gray baggy sweatpants and a white T-shirt and finished dressing.

  It was only when she was fully clothed that she faced the bed. The sheets and comforter were a tangled mess. She’d have to wash all of it before it went back on the bed.

  “Just do it,” she admonished herself. The dream was over. Nothing could hurt her. She refused to believe the wounds she’d seen on her body were anything more than an extension of her imagination. She had a very vivid one. One that helped her make a living.

  Images flashed in her brain—the unholy demons, the cave, the skeletons and him. “Damn it!” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes for a brief moment, knowing there was only one way to free herself from the remnants of her nightmare.

  Whirling around, she stomped down the hallway in her stocking feet, leaving the mangled bed behind her. She thought about going downstairs and starting a pot of coffee, but her studio beckoned. She pushed open the door to her office and went straight to her drafting table. A lot of artists used computer programs to create their art. She was no different and used technology for a lot of her work, but when possible, Aimee preferred to do it the old-fashioned way with pencils, pen and ink.

  She automatically turned on all the lights before sitting on her stool. The blank sheet of paper called to her, and she grabbed her T-square and began marking out a grid. Her fingers flew as the familiar task took over. She’d done this hundreds of times—no, thousands of times.

  Grabbing a pencil, she began to sketch as the story unfolded in her head. “What was it he called you?” She closed her eyes and let herself remember. “Lady of the beast.”

  Aimee made a note to do some research later today. For now, she needed to get the details down while they were fresh in her mind. Letting the world around her fall away, she immersed herself in the drawings unfolding before her as her fingers flew across the paper. The cave and all its hellish denizens were soon depicted down to the minutest detail.

  The voice of the woman popped back into her head. What was it she’d said? “You are the key,” Aimee muttered. The key to what? Who was the woman and why had she helped?

  She kept sketching, letting her fingers fly across the pages in broad strokes. Images tumbled from her mind onto the paper. She didn’t hear the clock ticking on the wall behind her, nor the squeaks and groans of the house as the wind whipped around it, trying to find a crevice to slip inside.

  Her fingers began to cramp, and Aimee finally set her pencil down and flexed her hand to work out the kinks. She straightened and groaned as the muscles in her back protested. Blinking, she stared around the room, surprised that it was filled with sunlight.

  She glanced at the large, round clock mounted on the wall above her desk and was startled to see it was just after eleven. She’d been working for a little more than seven hours straight. Standing was quite a feat as her muscles were stiff, silently objecting to her ill treatment.

  Pages of artwork were scattered across her drafting table. There were more pages on the floor. Aimee ignored them. She knew what was there. As a graphic artist, she was used to drawing the pictures that went with someone else’s story. But this was different. It was the best work she’d ever done, also the most disturbing.

  It was pure dumb luck that a comic-company executive had seen some of her sketches hanging in a local gift shop about ten years ago and sought her out with a job offer. Since then, she’d worked with many different writers, helping to create comics and graphic novels that sold around the world. The Internet and her computer allowed her to work from home. That was importa
nt to Aimee.

  But the drawings she’d created late at night and into the early morning these past few months were not for work. They were personal. She’d decided to create a comic of her own based on her nightmares. “Might as well be of some use,” she told the sketches before turning her back on them and leaving her office behind.

  Maybe she’d call it Lady of the Beast. It was catchy and had a sense of power about it. She hoped that by putting her fears and dreams down on paper she’d somehow be able to exorcise them from her life. So far it hadn’t worked, but she wasn’t giving up.

  She stopped at the doorway to her room and stared at the mess that was her bed. It was time to get back to real life. Striding forward, she grabbed a corner of her comforter, yanked it off and dropped it on the floor in a heap. She stripped the bed and gathered all the soiled linens, as well as the wet towels from the bathroom, before trotting downstairs.

  Not pausing in the kitchen, Aimee went straight to the laundry room and dumped all the linens on the floor. She sorted through them and stuffed a load of sheets and towels in the washer. After setting it to the proper cycle, she padded to the kitchen.

  “Coffee,” she muttered as she dug out the can of dark roast from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Her stomach growled in protest as she filled the pot with water and scooped out spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the filter. She flicked the switch on the side of the coffeemaker and opened the cupboard door as the machine began to gurgle. Her stomach growled again as she searched the near-empty cupboard.

  “I’ve got to go grocery shopping,” she muttered, shoving aside a few bottles of dried spices to get to a box in the back. The cupboards were all but bare. They always got that way before she made herself go to town. She’d grown up just outside the small community of Salvation, North Carolina, but she’d never felt as though she were a part of it, had always felt as though she were on the outside looking in.

  Aimee grabbed the box of crackers and set it on the counter before rummaging in the refrigerator. A half-empty bottle of ketchup and some mayonnaise long past the expiry date were not appetizing in the least. She gave a crow of triumph when she came up with a jar of peanut butter. There wasn’t much there, but there was enough to spread on the dozen or so crackers she’d found.