Forsaken (The Netherworlde Series) by Sara Reinke Page B

peripheral vision, he could see his shadow move, just like the night before. Like thin streams of ink, it seemed to trickle across the floorboards, and if he was imagining things, then the dog must have been too, because it began to bark now, trying to lunge against the restraint of its leash.
    “Barton, cut it out,” Sam exclaimed, but when this did no good, she looked at Jason sheepishly. “Hang on. I’ll be right back. Just let me put him upstairs.”
    The dog barked in further protest and she snapped at it roughly a couple more times as they disappeared outside. Jason blinked, feeling momentarily dizzy, as if he’d just snapped out of a sleepwalking episode. He looked down and his shadow was normal, any hint of the movement he thought he’d spied not apparent in the least against the backwash of sunshine.
    What’s wrong with me? he thought, forking his fingers through his hair and uttering a shaky sigh.
    They’re drawn to fear, he remembered the man from his dream, Sitri, telling him. Eidolons, I mean. They feed off it. It makes them stronger.
    Eidolon. That was what Sitri called the thing in his dream, the oily ichor that had covered his body, stolen inside him. That was exactly what his shadow had looked like, the strange pseudopods he’d thought he’d seen creeping out both last night and only moments earlier.
    It’s just my imagination, he thought, crossing the room and ducking into the men’s restroom. I had a bad dream, that’s all, and now I’m imagining things. Shit like that doesn’t happen, not like in my nightmares. It’s not real. It’s not possible.
    “It’s not real,” he whispered aloud.
    The bathroom was pitch-black, with no windows to offer even a hint of light. Jason fumbled, found, then flipped the switch a time or two, with no luck. Either the power remained off downstairs or the overhead bulb had burned out.
    Hand outstretched, Jason groped until he found a dented metal waste can that had been forgotten. He propped this between the door and jamb to keep it open a brief but illuminating margin. By the faint glow seeping in from the front doorway, he could see the sink now, the cracked mirror listing at an awkward angle above it.
    Jesus, he thought with a grimace. Smells like something died in here.
    A dank sort of stench permeated the entire bathroom, as if the toilets had backed up at some point and been left untended. Opening the door hadn’t helped in the least. It still smelled thick and damp, nearly overwhelming.
    He turned the water on and shied back as the faucet uttered a loud hiss, followed by a series of sputters, like a car engine struggling to find its rhythm on an icy morning. When water finally spewed from the tap in a clear stream, he cupped his hands beneath it and leaned over, dousing his face. He splashed himself again, then again and again, until the front of his T-shirt was wet and the floor beneath him was splattered.
    “It’s not real,” he told himself again. “It’s not real.”
    When he looked up again and into the mirror and saw an enormous hulking humanoid figure standing behind him, he whirled around with a startled, frightened cry. A heavy hand clamped against his throat, slamming him backward, splintering the mirror at the impact with his head. Jason gagged vainly for breath around the sudden crushing force shoved against his windpipe. The stink of sewage was suddenly overwhelming, and when he slapped at his attacker’s arm, to his surprise he didn’t feel skin or the sleeve of a shirt. Instead, his fingers sank into wet, spongy dirt, as if whatever was in the room with him, whatever had him pinned, had been formed out of the ground, out of the thick sludge lining the sewer drains beneath the building, and wasn’t human at all.
    Jason’s eyes rolled back into his skull and that terrible, nearly leaden coldness that he hadn’t been able to shake all morning suddenly engulfed him. The splash of light from the ajar door faded, and he felt