Greykin Mountain

| 38 | Here

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A twinge in Jackson's ankle woke him from his sleep.

          He sat up and reached down to grip his foot, but then the pain shot up his arm and throbbed in his shoulder.

          With an irritated groan, he tried to massage his shoulder, but the ache grew worse with each moment.

          "What the hell?" he uttered, rubbing harder, but it brought him no relief.

          He lifted his trouser leg to find the wound from earlier had opened; blood trickled down his leg, but there was no sign of anything in his bed that could have caused the cut. Maybe he'd rolled around and caught it on the blanket.

          Jackson laid back down and stared up at the ceiling. He reached under his pillow for his phone to check the time. Half past four. He'd only been asleep for about two hours, but it felt as though it had been twice that.

          With a tired sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

          But then he was running through the woods.

          Panting, snarling, heading towards a river shimmering in the moonlight.

          He was on all fours, kicking the snow up as his paws carried him forward. Where he was heading, he wasn't sure, but he knew he had to keep running.

          And run, he did.

          Jackson ran, and ran, and ran.

          But when he crossed the river, the water showed him something he wasn't quite sure what to make of.

          His pecan-brown fur was matted and torn. Chunks were missing, revealing rotten, bleeding flesh beneath. And his eyes...they were as red as blood. His maw was torn, his ears shredded, and black ooze seeped through his jagged teeth.

          And he wasn't alone.

          From the darkness, he watched several rotting wolves sprint beside him. They growled, groaned, and roared, their revolting stench burning the insides of his nose.

          His once-still heart started racing, his limbs began to shake, and as his breaths stifled, he tried to stop. But when he slowed, the rotten wolves around him sharply turned their heads to glare—

          Jackson opened his eyes, gasping for air as though he really had been running just now. But he was still in his bed, in his room, in the castle. He wasn't out in the woods. There were no cadejo here. And he was fine.

          He stared at his human hands—he checked them several times for rotting wounds and seeping black ooze, but there was nothing.

          What the hell was that dream about? Was The Herald trying to tell him something else, and if so, what? Why was he running through the forest with cadejo?

          "Here...."

          A bitter shiver ran down Jackson's spine.

          "It's here...."

          The voice was closer.

          He felt a cold breath against the back of his neck.

          But when he turned to look, there wasn't anyone there.

          "Here..."