Laughter chased Zac through muddied fields. No matter where he turned or how fast he ran, the laughter followed.

He slipped, his hands slammed into the ground to catch him. He stared at the red and silver swirled on his palms. The field was soaked with blood, not water. So much blood. And the laughter was getting closer.

He scrambled and clawed at the bloodied ground, but got nowhere. 

He looked up, desperate. Shadowy figures, tall and strong, stared down at him from faceless shadows. Hands clawed at his back, his arms, leaving burning trails along his flesh. He screamed, begged, tugged at cobweb wisp robes pleading for help.

The shadows jerked the hem of their robes out of his hands, and turned away. The muck and blood didn’t slow them down one bit. 

The laughter continued, mixed with screams. He knew those voices. He tried to stand, to dredge up some kind of strength from somewhere. 

Zac finally crawled to his feet and turned to face the laughter. It came closer, closer, and the world became flame and blood.

His own face stared back at him, washed with blood, eyes blank, and laughing. Always, always laughing.

He lunged at the creature he always knew he would become.

It batted him aside without trying. He crashed hard into a metal grate, felt the iron burn into his flesh. He staggered forward, only to be shoved back, pressed into burning steel. He screamed, and bloody earth filled his mouth, his throat, his lungs. He choked and gasped and screamed.

And the creature he became laughed.

Zac screamed awake, thrashed upright but couldn’t free himself. Something pulled against his movement, holding him down. He fought against the bindings, only managing to tangle himself tighter. His chest burned where steel cable had pressed, maybe still pressed he couldn’t see.

He strained every muscle just to lift one arm, felt something tear, heard the ripping of cloth. His left arm came free. He scrambled at his chest, pulling and tearing until he could sit up, heart a jackhammer against tender ribs, breath coming in short, painful pants.

Light exploded around him. Zac threw his arm up over his eyes, tensed for the attack.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Small, slender, soft. A woman’s hand. The scientist, back for more experiments? Back to calmly take notes as he screamed in pain?

No. No more.

Zac grabbed the hand, squeezed with enough force to press bone to bone. 

A soft gasp. Pained.

“Zac. Let go.”

He knew that voice. His hand flexed open, his body obeying the command even as his mind began to clear. He wasn’t strapped to a steel table. He wasn’t surrounded by enemies. He pried his eyes back open, to see Skye kneeling next to him, one hand slightly extended. She looked different. Her hair was short, now, although just as gleaming white. And she’d traded the charcoal gray armored bodysuit for a thick, fluffy sweater in bright colors. She looked her age, but her eyes still gleamed with Death’s power. 

“You awake?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.

“Nightmare?” she asked.

He looked away, shamed to realize he’d hurt her. He saw that he was in a small, cozy room with a dresser, bed, and window showing either twilight or dawn. He couldn’t tell which. How long had he slept?

“It’s Sunday morning, around 6 AM,” Skye informed him helpfully. “You’ve slept almost exactly 24 hours. Not the longest healing sleep I’ve ever seen, but close. How do you feel?”

Awful.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I apologize, I did not intend to impose on your parents’ good will. I realize your mother did not want me to stay.”

“What makes you think that?” Skye asked, her voice genuinely baffled.

“She said no, when I asked for a place to rest. And then I just passed out,” Zac sighed. “You did explain that I had no choice in that? She understands how healing sleep works?"

“She does and I did which is why you’re not on an IV right now, although I think she was half a step from carving a syringe out of bone just in case. Mom didn’t say no to you staying here, Zac. She said no to the couch. You asked to crash on the couch. Remember?”

“Uh. Well. Yes?”

Zac thought that had been a reasonable enough request. Was it not?

Skye waved around at the room. “We don’t make injured guests sleep on couches when we have a perfectly good guest room waiting. That’s all she meant. You must not have heard the rest of her answer.” Skye sighed. “Although. I might as well have given you my room and stayed in here. We might have to switch, I dunno.”

Zac narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Couldn’t sleep in there. Kept hearing that sound, when they kicked in the door. I. They tried to clean up the bloodstain, where Dad got hit but... I swear I could smell the blood.” Skye laughed, but not from mirth. “I ended up being the one on the couch. Which is fine. I’ve been living on Murg’s couch or in hotels for the past year. At least this one is my own couch, you know? With the blanket Dad crocheted over the back and everything. So that’s great. I’m home. And.”

“And how long have you been awake?” Zac asked softly.

“Couple hours.” Skye shrugged. “Got more sleep than I usually do, anyway. So. Breakfast? Mom’s up. She wanted to check on you but I said a familiar face might be better.”

Honestly the thought of food nauseated him. He still smelled the blood from his nightmare. Or maybe it was just the blood still stuck to his skin from the mall. He looked down at himself and realized there was no way he could present himself in front of a lady in such a state.

“I don’t need anything,” he insisted, earning a doubtful look and a raised eyebrow from Skye. “Well, maybe something small, but first could I trouble you for the use of a shower?”

“Oh!” Skye smacked her forehead. “Of course, I’m an idiot, I’m sorry.” She pointed to a door on the same wall as the bed. “There’s a guest bath in there, with towels and everything. Use whatever you need.” She dropped a small bundle of cloth on the bed. “Here’s some clothes Dad picked up. He had to guess at your size. You look like a medium? I hope a sweatsuit is okay.”

Anything that wasn’t a blood soaked, ripped pair of jeans was perfection itself. He would have to thank Skye’s parents for their thoughtfulness and tolerance. And find out some way to repay them for the utter mess he’d made of their guest bed. He winced when he realized not only were the sheets filthy with grime and blood, he’d ripped several of them in his panic.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Skye said, either seeing or feeling his embarrassment. “Take as long as you need. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready. It’s just down the hall.”

Zac nodded and kept his eyes firmly on his hands until she’d left. 

Zac turned the water in the shower as hot as it would go and let the water flow over his head for a while. The heat stung his skin but he didn’t care. He needed the extra warmth after the cold of his nightmares. He needed it to wash the grime and blood and sweat from his skin and hair. No amount of soap was going to remove the memory of hands on him, holding him down, hurting him just because they could. Only time could do that. But the water helped chase the last traces of nightmare out of his mind and let him convince himself the laughter wasn’t ringing in his ears anymore.

Once he felt reasonably clean, Zac dried and checked his reflection in the mirror.

The healing sleep had dealt with the worst of his injuries, the bruises and the cracked ribs and a litany of hurts he didn’t want to think about. The iron burns were a faint mark against his flesh instead of the livid burns, though it would be a few days before those faded entirely. He studied his wrists critically. The chains had burned deep; it looked like he’d be carrying scars for a while. Looked like he was living in long sleeves, or investing in some really good make up.

For the moment, the borrowed clothing would cover him well enough. The material was soft and warm and pleasant to the touch. His hand brushed across the logo of the university he had called home for decades. Was it still safe to call it home? Where else could he go?

Zac shook his head and banished those thoughts. He could deal with the future after he spoke with the Rowans. He should at least thank them for the aid and shelter they had given him. He would decide what to do after that.