Chapter 21Three ugly, jagged scratches wove their way down his back. They ached, were angry and puckered. He prodded them gently with a fingertip, hissing as their agony increased. They weren’t deep, not by any means, resembling scratches more than anything else, the ugly sort that bled little, then scabbed over. He tried to tell himself they were made by one of the cats, or perhaps even Danvers, in the middle of the night. The more rational part of his brain, however, dashed the notion. The cats rarely shared their bed, choosing to look about the house during the nighttime hours, and Danvers always stayed at the foot.
It lashed out at me in the dream. As I climbed to my feet it swiped me across the back and then I…Westley shuddered. He struggled with deciding which was worse, the rake of
