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nadiathesaintDespite her best efforts, Nadia eventually fell asleep. And dreamed.
Last night, she’d dreamed about the things her possessed friends had done. Tonight, her subconscious was offering up some of the things they hadn’t gotten around to doing before she’d been rescued. So it was actually something of a relief when the dreams changed.
She was at a school dance, but she wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Neither were most of the dancers.
The dancers were strange for anywhere except possibly Fandom. They were every shape and size, every color. Some had fur and horns, some had scales and claws, some looked mostly human, some looked anything but. They pranced and jigged in a dizzying square dance around her and the people beside her, under the flickering light of a disco ball. The leader of the dance was a buxom woman in the tackiest red dress Nadia had ever seen, with wicked looking crimson nails who called out steps and orders in a heavy Russian accent.
Her voice was like a series of needles stabbing into Nadia, and as the dancers revolved around her, she saw her own monsters mixed into the crowd.
The Asian doctor from the Russian labs--the only face she remembered from her youth before the man, Vaughn, had come for her.
The trusted man from the orphanage--the one who had attacked her friend the night she’d run away.
Drug dealers and police officers from Buenos Aires.
Snow monsters.
Sloane.
And there were Pippi and Walter, locked in a kiss as they danced passed.
“No!” she screamed at them--at all of them. “Stop it. Please, stop, just go away!”
The dance leader laughed, a heavy, mocking tone at odds with her seemingly youthful look. “Your time. It is running out, Timmy.”
Nadia frowned--Timmy?--and turned.
She recognized him, sort of, from school and knew they’d met at least once. But if the woman on stage hadn’t said his name, she wouldn’t have known it. He stood in the center of the group, ignoring the dancers, his attention torn between the woman on the stage and another woman, older, kinder looking, but more fragile, who slumped in a wheelchair at his side. He held a sword at his side, but he didn’t raise it. When he spoke, it was almost too soft for Nadia to hear.
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
”No!”
The single word was shouted with such pain and authority from so many people: the older man who stood on the other side of the woman in the wheel chair; the thick necked biker guy and his plain faced girlfriend; the young, lovely Asian girl who stood next to Tim. Everyone in the circle, Nadia included, screamed it out, except for one, a waifish-looking woman with blonde hair tinged in green, as though she’d spent too much time in a chlorinated pool. She began to softly sing.
Woe and despair to the house of Desmond. . . .
The woman on stage laughed again and stepped down to the dance floor. She moved between the frantic dancers without apparent effort, never getting hit, never blocked from view as they seemed to ebb and flow around her. As she reached the circle’s center, the roof of the large room groaned, and then lifted.
A quaint little cottage stepped into the room on spindly chicken legs and lifted one foot over Nadia’s head. She put up her arms as though she could somehow hold back its weight as it stepped down upon her. . . .
Last night, she’d dreamed about the things her possessed friends had done. Tonight, her subconscious was offering up some of the things they hadn’t gotten around to doing before she’d been rescued. So it was actually something of a relief when the dreams changed.
She was at a school dance, but she wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Neither were most of the dancers.
The dancers were strange for anywhere except possibly Fandom. They were every shape and size, every color. Some had fur and horns, some had scales and claws, some looked mostly human, some looked anything but. They pranced and jigged in a dizzying square dance around her and the people beside her, under the flickering light of a disco ball. The leader of the dance was a buxom woman in the tackiest red dress Nadia had ever seen, with wicked looking crimson nails who called out steps and orders in a heavy Russian accent.
Her voice was like a series of needles stabbing into Nadia, and as the dancers revolved around her, she saw her own monsters mixed into the crowd.
The Asian doctor from the Russian labs--the only face she remembered from her youth before the man, Vaughn, had come for her.
The trusted man from the orphanage--the one who had attacked her friend the night she’d run away.
Drug dealers and police officers from Buenos Aires.
Snow monsters.
Sloane.
And there were Pippi and Walter, locked in a kiss as they danced passed.
“No!” she screamed at them--at all of them. “Stop it. Please, stop, just go away!”
The dance leader laughed, a heavy, mocking tone at odds with her seemingly youthful look. “Your time. It is running out, Timmy.”
Nadia frowned--Timmy?--and turned.
She recognized him, sort of, from school and knew they’d met at least once. But if the woman on stage hadn’t said his name, she wouldn’t have known it. He stood in the center of the group, ignoring the dancers, his attention torn between the woman on the stage and another woman, older, kinder looking, but more fragile, who slumped in a wheelchair at his side. He held a sword at his side, but he didn’t raise it. When he spoke, it was almost too soft for Nadia to hear.
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
”No!”
The single word was shouted with such pain and authority from so many people: the older man who stood on the other side of the woman in the wheel chair; the thick necked biker guy and his plain faced girlfriend; the young, lovely Asian girl who stood next to Tim. Everyone in the circle, Nadia included, screamed it out, except for one, a waifish-looking woman with blonde hair tinged in green, as though she’d spent too much time in a chlorinated pool. She began to softly sing.
Woe and despair to the house of Desmond. . . .
The woman on stage laughed again and stepped down to the dance floor. She moved between the frantic dancers without apparent effort, never getting hit, never blocked from view as they seemed to ebb and flow around her. As she reached the circle’s center, the roof of the large room groaned, and then lifted.
A quaint little cottage stepped into the room on spindly chicken legs and lifted one foot over Nadia’s head. She put up her arms as though she could somehow hold back its weight as it stepped down upon her. . . .
