Greywalker - Kat Richardson [106]
“I think otherwise,” he barked and launched through the doorway, ripping open the fine seam between normal and Grey, pushing the glowing boundary wide.
Reality split open with a roar as the Grey rushed over us, slamming the breath from my lungs. I thrust back against it and felt my protection shatter and whirl away into the flood. I gasped for air and fought the icy battering of a storm of shadows and boiling silver mist. The world shuddered and the urge to retch wrenched my innards.
White claws dug into my upper arms and held me upright. I sucked in the thick cold, eyes clenched shut, struggling, and began screaming.
Wygan shook me. “Scream! Scream, my delight, my own. There’s no one to hear but me. No one, no one,” he crooned, his voice moving slow and cold as a half-frozen river, deep under ice, under my skin. “Open your eyes. Open the eyes within and see your pretty new world. See what I am giving you. A gift. A gift so needful.”
I fought to get out of his grip, which seemed to pierce all the way through me in javelins of ice. I felt tears streaking my face, warm tracks in a frozen world. My eyelids ground open against my will.
Wygan held me to the padded wall. His eyes glowed, and red fire and white sparks danced jagged lightning strikes around us in a world of roiling, tormented shadow and coiling mist. His eyes were snakelike. His skin gleamed pearlescent and finely marked with tiny, overlapping fringes. His ice white hair was a sculpted ridge that camouflaged the true shape of a saurian skull. The Grey surged around us like water from a broken dam, and I was drowning.
I stared back at him in strangled silence, my lungs frozen in my chest. I wanted to bolt, to claw, swim, dig my way out of there, but in the prison of his gaze, I could do no more than shake. Half a smile tore his face.
“Fear,” he murmured. His breath smelled of tombs. “I could feed upon you for days. Look at my world. My prison of hunger, cold, unbridgeable distance, without touch, without warmth, but what I can steal. This is my torment, my gift. Look at it!”
He whipped me in front of him, thrusting me into a maelstrom of writhing, tortured shapes and animate cold. Twisting, arctic forms pressed against me, gaping, changing ever and ever into unending nightmares intangible and horrible, stabbing cold fingers of avarice and hunger through me. They devoured me, tore me, inhabited me in mouthless screams. I gasped and sobbed and tried to pull away from them, felt them sucking my thoughts and my life away in unraveling skeins, emptying all thought, even emotion, fear, self-preservation, draining me to bleak despair.
I sagged, and he let me fall to my knees.
“You don’t see it,” Wygan whispered behind me. “You haven’t ascended to your proper place. Worthless fools and incompetents. They discovered you, but could not mold you as I told them to.”
My mind flashed hot images: the apparently crazy man in the alley; the unkillable assailant in my garage; the break-ins . . . I couldn’t get words to form properly, only choking out, “You . . . you?”
As if he could see my thoughts—or had sent them—he laughed, the sound slashing me. “You reentered this world, incomplete, half made. You needed honing to your true shape. But they failed. Cowards. Imbeciles. Faulty tools like Alice, clinging to their own paltry half-lives, petty schemes.” His voice spiked upward into my skull. “Ages waited! And at last!”
He stepped to my side and crouched, a slender reptilian creature cloaked in a clot of gruesome shadow and dancing fury-light. “But you aren’t here as you should be. You haven’t grown to it. Imprisoned, blind, weak! You are no good to me. How can you walk where you can’t see? And I must have you or cannot cross. You must see what I can see but cannot touch. Touch what I can take but cannot feel. I will make you what you ought to be.”
He reached into the mist and hooked a thread of glimmering blue on one white claw. “Your power is too small. You must embrace it, must grow for me. Take this.”