IMMOLATION - Book I of the Shadowblade Series

Blackness.

Only...blackness.

It was everywhere. It was all she could see, all she could feel. It had a milky texture, sloshing around her feet and streaming from her hands. It was the ground and air and sky, around her and in her all at once.

She turned in place, looking for anyone – or anything. Distant whispering tickled her eardrums, dozens of voices talking simultaneously on the edge of her auricular grasp.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

“Is anyone there?” She walked a few paces, her feet touching an invisible ground. “Where am I?”

Something shifted in the distance. Her tired eyes squinted in an attempt to focus. It was a puddle of inky pitch, rippling though there was no wind. The humble drone of voices condensed into harsh yelling as the small pool took shape. An object rose from it, higher and higher until it resembled the shape of a man.

“Ramona.”

The breath froze in her lungs. She knew that voice. It was the same one every night. And it filled her with dread.

With the grace of a dancer, he raised a foot from the puddle. A shiver raked down her back when his toe touched the firm ground. Then he moved his second foot then the inky puddle followed him, stretching into fluid tentacles that swirled around him as he walked toward her.

“Ramona…” his voice was melodic, “...Ramonaaa…”

The scene was as familiar as his voice. She tried to run, but an invisible force cemented her feet to the floor. He moved closer and closer, tendrils becoming more erratic and violent in their sway. She struggled more. He stepped lighter. She cried out. He laughed.

“You are mine, O Chosen One. I’m coming for you.”

Ice-cold fear chilled her veins as one tendril recoiled. Then it plunged through her heart.

Someone was screaming.

She blinked. The darkness disappeared, dim light showing a dirty hallway. Closed doors lined both walls, and a dull floral carpet lay beneath her bare feet. Sweat beaded down her back, breathing harsh gasps. It was raining outside -- she could hear the storm pounding on the old shingled roof.

“Ramona?”

Half a turn and she was met with the elderly face of her neighbor. The woman stood in her open doorway, clutching the collar of her soft pink robe under her neck.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine–” the word choked her so she cleared her throat. “Just fine, Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“You were screaming.”

If it had been the first time, she might have been embarrassed. Heck, if it had been the fifth time. Instead, her head hung low as she began shuffling in the opposite direction down the hallway. “I’m sorry I woke you. Everything is fine. Please go back to sleep.”

There was no response from the elderly woman, and Ramona knew she was probably wearing a dubious look. But she didn’t glance back to check, just walked through her ajar apartment door.

With a sigh, she pushed the door shut and began securing the locks. I should install a fourth, she thought. Then maybe – just maybe – I won’t be able to get outside while I’m sleeping.

A snort broke from her. Sleeping. Right. I don’t sleep. I nightmare.

Door secure, she walked into her living room and paused just behind the couch. She watched the storm outside the window, heavy rain pelting the glass only to stream, fractured, down to the sill. Lightning flashed.

The reflection of a man appeared in the glass, standing behind her slender form.

An involuntary scream tore from her throat. She whirled around.

No one was there.

Whimpering, she raked her hands through her short hair. “Enough! I’m awake! No more dreams, please.”