Thirteen
I’m clawing my way through dark water with a serpentine beast chasing me. I can see the edge of the pool, but my arms move in slow motion. The serpent is catching up. I know it; I can sense it. My fingers reach for the edge of the pool, almost there, almost there. They graze the edge—and something bites down on my ankle, tugging me back into the depths. I scream in pain and terror, my voice lost in a stream of bubbles. A hand wraps around my wrist and tugs upward. With a great splash, I’m pulled from the water. As I lie dripping wet on the stone floor, looking up at my rescuer, I realize that this is just another nightmare. With the realization, the pain fades away. The edges of the dream become fuzzy, and the person kneeling beside me comes into focus.
“Piker’s Inn on Ratafia I
