—heat at his throat, pain that smoothed into pleasure, hot and dizzying as sex?—
“Jack!”
—betterthan sex?—
“JACK FUCKING HAZEL!”
Something brushed against his face. The tickle of a lover’s lips, the first caress of flower petals in spring.
And then came the pain, hot and disorienting. It dragged him straight from ecstasy and back into that frozen, dark room. His cheeks stung, throat burned.
That overwhelming arousal he’d felt only moments ago faded as he glimpsed the figure standing only inches from him, empty-eyed and staring. Droplets of blood stained its pale lips, dotted the gaunt hollows in its face. A smile, smug and self-satisfied, too wide to be human, unfurled across lips thin as string.
Jack’s guts twisted into knots. At his side, Boris bellowed something incoherent—a command, a plea for help, a wordless acknowledgment of terror, Jack didn’t know—and swung the floor lamp, missing the figure’s hip by mere inches.
It wobbled, lurched away.
Boris jabbed the lamp like a spear. Glass shattered. The shade connected with solid flesh, crumpled from the force. “Get the fuck outta here!”
Jack slumped against the headboard, heart thundering, headswimming, unable to fight the heaviness in his limbs. His bones had been replaced with lead. His blood had turned to ice. At his throat, his pulse burned hot as a brand.
Beside him, shoulders squared, lamp in hand, Boris lunged and struck the dark, swaying figure. Glass crunched beneath his feet.
Something flew from his hand. Tiny particles arced into a spray of sand, of snow.
No, Jack realized abruptly.Salt.
His eyelids slid shut. He fought to open them again. Needed to see what happened next.
But it was just Boris, a lamp, and a handful of salt against something that had dragged Jack straight out of his own body and into a realm of pleasure that he couldn’t fully comprehend, even now. What hope did they have? Why watch as his friend (someday, somehow, maybe more) was desiccated in front of him, sliced into ribbons of meat by teeth and claws? Why watch when he couldn’t even move his lips, let alone lift his head?
There was no winning the fight against his eyelids. Jack knew this, and still he struggled to keep them open as Boris snarled and growled and yelped, socks sliding against the carpet. The television flickered, bright light piercing the darkness as Jack peered through his lashes at the scene before him.
Dying was supposed to be peaceful, wasn’t it? That must be why he couldn’t bring himself to shout, to do anything more than watch as Boris tried and failed to defend them.
A hand closed over his ankle andtugged, wet and slippery andwarm. Jack slid from the edge of the bed and dropped unceremoniously to the carpet, rough beneath his cheek.
“Shit,” Boris hissed. Another gust of frigid air swept over them.
With a groan, Jack forced his eyes open. A socked foot narrowly sidestepped his outstretched hand.
“C’mon, Jack, c’mon,” Boris said, voice increasingly frantic. He struck again with the lamp, then leapt backwards with ayelp. The cord dragged over Jack’s fingertips, smooth and plasticky.
Then he dropped into blackness.
He woketo pounding at his door.
“Jack!” Boris yelled. A hand thumped against wood.
Jack groaned, rolled to face the clock. 3:47 AM. Not even daylight yet.
His neck ached, a pain so deep that it pierced straight into his throat. His temples throbbed.
He sat up, stumbled toward the door in only his undershirt and boxers.Must’ve had too much to drink, he reasoned.Haven’t sobered up yet.
But he didn’t remember drinking anything. Not with Carla, and certainly not with Boris.
The lock clicked. Before Jack could turn the knob, the door crashed open. A frantic, disheveled Boris barged inside, caught Jack by his shoulders.
