Sleep was not a mercy. It was a trade.
Anah had forced them both to drink a thick, black, bitter tea. It smelled of anise and damp, turned-over earth, and it had hit Bruce's system like a tranquilizer dart. It wasn't the gentle, quieting "lock" of the amulet; this was a chemical bludgeon. It was a cage.
He was in his bed, but he wasn't asleep. He was paralyzed. He was floating in a dark, heavy, drugged void, somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. He could feel the cheap cotton of his sheets. He could hear the house settle, the groan of old wood. He could hear Anah in the kitchen, her low, grating, warding-off hum a constant, sleepless vibration.
She was a warden. And this house... this was a prison.
He was terrified. But the terror was a distant, cold thing. The tea had blunted him. He couldn't feel the raw, adrenalized panic from the woods. He couldn't even feel the fascination from when he'd shattered the cup.
He could only feel one thing.
The mark.
The brand on his left shoulder blade. It was awake. The hum was gone. The roar was gone. But the mark... it was itching. It was a low, persistent, crawling tingle, as if a new and complex set_ of nerves had just grown in, connecting his brain to... to something else. It wasn't just a patch of skin. It was an organ. And it was listening.
He was listening, too. Lying there, pinned by the tea, his mind drifted back into the dark...
THUMP-THUMP.
The sound was not in the house. It was in his head.
Oh, God, no. Not again.
The nightmare. The vast, cold, starless void. He was floating. He had no body. And he saw it... the distant, blood-red, monstrous heart, pulsing with its slow, cosmic, lonely beat.
THUMP-THUMP.
It was calling to him. And the hunger... the cold, joyful, awful hunger... it was back. It was a hollow, gravitational pull in his non-existent stomach. He was being drawn toward it, a moth to a sun-sized flame.
THUMP-THUMP.
He was close now. He could feel the heat of it. He wanted... he wanted...
SNARL.
The sound was not the heart. The sound was not the void.
The sound was in his room.
Bruce's mental eyes snapped open. He was back. He was in his bed. He was still paralyzed. The nightmare of the red heart was gone, shattered by that sound.
But he was not alone.
The moonlight, which had been a faint, grey comfort, was gone. It was being eclipsed.
Something was standing in the center of his room.
It was... a wolf.
It was huge. Taller than his desk. Its shoulders were broad and powerful, and its head was low, its muzzle pointed right at him.
But it was not a wolf.
It was... spectral. It was made of... light. A cold, pale, blue light, the color of moonlight on snow. It was translucent, and yet it felt solid. It was a thing of mist and ancient, cold energy, its edges shimmering, its form constantly, subtly shifting, as if it were made of a barely-contained fog.
It made no sound. Its paws, massive and clawed, rested on his floorboards, but they made no impression. It was just... there.
Bruce's heart, which had been slowed by the tea, slammed against his ribs. The hunger was gone, replaced by a new, sharp, ice-cold terror. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He was trapped, paralyzed, staring at a ghost-wolf in his bedroom.
A Hunter. One of Anah's "Heralds." It found me.
He tried to push. He tried to find the power that had shattered the cup. He tried to scream for Anah. He was locked in his own body.
The wolf took a step closer. Its movement was liquid, a silent, fluid, impossible glide.
It stopped at the foot of his bed.
And it looked at him.
Its eyes... they were the worst part. They were not the eyes of a beast. They were not red, like the heart, or black, like Dickson had claimed his were. They were an intelligent, piercing, ancient blue. They were the color of a glacier's core. And they were old. They were so old.
They were not looking at his face.
The wolf's head was tilted. Its gaze was fixed, with an intelligent, unnerving intensity, on his left shoulder. It was looking through his shirt. It was staring at the mark.
Bruce felt the tingle on his shoulder spike, as if in response. As if it recognized this... this thing.
The wolf... it did not feel evil. It did not feel hungry.
It felt... cold. It felt... ancient. It felt like judgement. Like purpose.
It let out a low, soundless snarl. It was not at him. It was at... the room. At the shadows. As if it were a guard dog, clearing its territory. It was a warning.
Its ancient, icy-blue eyes met his.
And it radiated a single, powerful, unspoken thought. It was not a voice. It was a feeling... an impression pushed directly into Bruce's mind.
So. It is you.
The wolf held his gaze for one... two... three... eternal seconds. It gave a short, sharp nod. A nod of... acknowledgement. Of approval.
It was a sentinel. It was a guardian.
It was the first "Good Spirit."
And then, as silently as it had arrived, it... dissolved. It didn't fade. It didn't walk away. Its solid, misty form just... unraveled. It broke apart into a thousand tiny, blue, cold motes of light, like dust in a moonbeam. They hung in the air for a second, a glittering constellation... and then they were extinguished, one by one, as if the shadows in the room had rushed in to swallow them.
He was alone.
He was truly alone. The drugged, heavy silence of the house returned, heavier than before.
Bruce lay paralyzed, staring at the empty space where the thing had been. His heart was a frantic drum. He had no idea if he had been dreaming. He had no idea if he was awake.
He just knew... he was no longer just being hunted.
He was being watched.