Page 3 of Blood of the Fairest

The next time the men speak, they're further away from me, clearly examining the grave.

"This'll do nicely," Lip Smacker proclaims.

"Someone's even left a shovel behind for us to use. The Matron has blessed this day!"

"Indeed. Pass me that mead again, would you?"

Wakey wakey, Verena, I urge. Time to rise and shine and rejoin the land of the living.

Still nothing.

Fuck it. Clearly, whatever they've prescribed me is keeping me under for a while. I'll just have to get away from the Three Stooges and find something more entertaining to dream about until I naturally wake up.

Peeking out under the blanket and over the edge of the wooden wagon, I get a better glimpse of the murderers. They all look a couple of years younger than me—and from what I can see, all three of them are surprisingly good-looking. They're distracted where they stand gathered around an open grave.

But speaking of distracted, as soon as I see the cemetery we're in, my mouth drops open.

I'm surrounded by glass headstones. Some are clear. Others are stained or etched. Even more are wreathed in flowers or sculpted into the shapes of people or animals. There's so much glistening glass, it's mesmerizing.

Dozens of tombstones catch the light of the sun now peeking through the grey clouds overhead, flooding the cemetery with a kaleidoscope of colors.

It's the most breathtakingly eerie post-death memorial I've ever seen.

I want to keep staring, but I'm on the verge of one of those classic buried-alive nightmares, so I get a move on.

Sliding quietly off the edge of the wagon, I stand and immediately curse my subconscious for putting me in this heavy-ass long-sleeved purple velvet dress. Not only is it impractical, but I'm also barefoot—and my toes are already freezing.

Is it possible to get frostbite in a dream? Yet another question for Christopher Nolan.

I'm fully expecting dream-world logic to kick in any second, allowing me to fly away or manifest a completely different scene.

So imagine my surprise when I've only taken a few silent steps toward the road before one of the men yells something.

Just as I turn back to see if I've been spotted, the air is crushed from my lungs as I'm tackled to the cold, hard ground.

Ouch.

Wait. Why did that hurt so much in a dream?

This asshole is trying to pin me down, shouting at the others as they race over. He twists away from my knee before it can connect with his groin, so I bridge my hips and roll as hard as I can.

That throws the man off-balance just enough that I can wrench one arm free. I slam my elbow into his face, feeling a sickening crunch.

"Fuck!" he shouts.

I squirm free, but before I can fully get to my feet, another murderer is toppling me. This time, I try to catch myself on one of the glass headstones on the way down—but the glass is broken and slices across my palm, deep and stinging.

I cry out because that also hurts in a far too real way.

What the hell is happening to me?

"Goddess-damned she-demon!" the broken-nosed one shouts. "Must've sold her soul to Death himself to come back and torture us even more!"

"Fuck off! Let me go!" I shout, tears from the pain and adrenaline heating my eyes.

"Hold still," Lip Smacker, the one crushing me now, spits in my face.

He's grappling with my hands to try and pin me again. Suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of how cold and solid the ground beneath me feels. How labored my breathing has become.