Reality ruptures; William has the wit to wonder if they're moving again, if the ground underfoot is being shuffled like a deck of cards, then he doesn't. His vision shatters into shimmering fragments as he's thrown against the nearest wall, limbs feeling like afterthoughts, his entire body vestigial for a moment. It's the pain that brings him back, followed by the sound of someone—him? not him—vomiting.
His head starts to throb. It's an effort to think, like shouting down a crowd. He was wrong. This place wants them dead.
His hand scrabbles up the wall and he fights to find his footing. Not again, in his head, persistent as a moan, sharp as a cry, percussive as an order. He nearly says it himself, when he works his mouth open: what comes out instead is a groan. He turns and there's the guy—the one who'd all but prowled the area around Ruth's limp body. The one William had been avoiding.
No. Like needles darting in and out. No. For some reason he expects more blood—wouldn't be surprised if the walls fucking bled—as the man scratches at his own eyes. “Don't—” he says. Does he say it? He drowns in the moment, floating and burning and speared in place.
The claws flash through the air and he stumbles backward. Part of him just wants to scream. That's what it feels like this is building to—the voices in his head twisting into a howl. “Your hands,” he says weakly. “Your—they're—” Panic takes hold and he frantically pats himself down. Eyes, knuckles, head.
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His head starts to throb. It's an effort to think, like shouting down a crowd. He was wrong. This place wants them dead.
His hand scrabbles up the wall and he fights to find his footing. Not again, in his head, persistent as a moan, sharp as a cry, percussive as an order. He nearly says it himself, when he works his mouth open: what comes out instead is a groan. He turns and there's the guy—the one who'd all but prowled the area around Ruth's limp body. The one William had been avoiding.
No. Like needles darting in and out. No. For some reason he expects more blood—wouldn't be surprised if the walls fucking bled—as the man scratches at his own eyes. “Don't—” he says. Does he say it? He drowns in the moment, floating and burning and speared in place.
The claws flash through the air and he stumbles backward. Part of him just wants to scream. That's what it feels like this is building to—the voices in his head twisting into a howl. “Your hands,” he says weakly. “Your—they're—” Panic takes hold and he frantically pats himself down. Eyes, knuckles, head.