Night of the Tiger (Hades' Carnival) (3 page)

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 her 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 important 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.

After she’d emptied both the cracker box and peanut butter jar, she poured a cup of coffee and sipped the dark brew as she made a grocery list. Opening the refrigerator, she peered inside. It was almost empty and about as appealing as her cupboards.

She dumped a block of blue cheese that she was almost certain was supposed to be mozzarella into the garbage. Several bottles of condiments followed. Her grocery list grew with each passing second. She’d go to the post office while she was in town and check the mail too. She was expecting some art supplies she’d ordered online a couple weeks ago as well as a check for the last graphic novel she’d illustrated.

The nightmare hovered in the back of her mind, but Aimee shoved it aside. With the sun shining in through the windows and the mundane chores of life surrounding her, it was easy to convince herself the happenings of last night were nothing more than a dream.

Chapter Two

A week later

Wind skittered over the parched ground, pushing dried leaves in front of it. Dust whipped up, swirling in an exotic dance before being dispersed by the cool breeze. A rabbit hopped across the clearing, stopped, lifted its pink nose and sniffed the air. A deer froze at the edge of the woods, sensing everything was not as it should be.

Evil.

On the wind and moving steadily closer. The rabbit bounded quickly into the woods. The deer bolted, racing deep into the forest, not looking back. The birds took flight, while the smaller woodland creatures burrowed into their dens and hidey-holes. Crows cawed raucously, flapping their wings as they soared above the clearing.

The sound of a truck interrupted their chatter. Another quickly followed it. Voices rang out as a convoy of vehicles flanked either side of the large clearing. Metal clanked as equipment was unloaded. Canvas flapped in the wind as tents were raised.

Shade’s Carnival has come to Salvation, North Carolina.

Aimee sighed as she climbed out of the low-slung, vintage red Mustang. This was the last place she wanted to be tonight, but her friend had insisted.

“It’ll be fun,” she muttered, mocking what her friend, Sandra Travers, had said. Aimee would rather have a root canal.

“I heard that.” Sandra closed the car door with a thunk and leaned her arms on top of the roof, peering over it. “I know that you prefer to be a hermit, but honestly, Aimee, even you’ve never been quite this bad before.”

“I know. I’ve just been preoccupied lately. With work,” she added before Sandra could ask.

Aimee knew there was no defense against her friend’s accusations. There was no denying she didn’t like being out in public, much preferred being at home in her art studio. Even as a child, she’d spent all her time with her colored pencils, sketch books and oil paints. In school, she’d constantly doodled when she should have been concentrating on her social studies or math assignments.