The sun hung high above the horizon, throwing a spiteful white glare across the windshield. Even behind sunglasses, Cole winced. His head throbbed from the night before—too much alcohol, too little water, absolutely no wisdom.
Regret pulsed with each heartbeat.
Hair of the dog, right?
Someone had said that once. Someone less hungover.
Noise stabbed him without mercy. Car doors slammed. A grocery cart rattled over broken asphalt. A child shrieked like a human alarm. Every sound fused into one relentless wave.
Cole groaned and eased the SUV into a parking spot.
"It's your own fault," Alex said beside him.
Sunlit strands escaped the knot of blonde hair she'd wrangled together. Even off-duty, she carried herself like someone ready to knock out a heavyweight using only spite and training. Her confidence never fully extended inward, though she deserved it.
"Do you have to talk so loud?" Cole whispered. Words triggered landmines in his skull. "Everything inside me is fragile right now."
"I'm not loud. You're fragile."
He slid his sunglasses low enough to glare over the rim. She took it as a challenge. Naturally.
"Go get what you need," he muttered.
Alex didn't move.
"You're coming with me," she countered.
"No."
Her voice softened instantly, assertiveness melting into sugary persuasion.
"Pleeeeease," she sang.
"No."
"Cole," she whined.
He groaned again. That tone always worked on him, and she knew it.
"You know I hate going alone," she said. "The cashiers are jerks, and guys stare at me. It's creepy."
"You're a police officer."
"Creepy is still creepy!"
He sighed. "Alex, I love you, but I physically cannot exist under fluorescent lighting today."
Concern overtook her irritation. "Do you need anything while I'm in there?"
Guilt hollowed his chest.
"No, I'll be okay, little sister."
Still, she didn't move.
He flicked his eyes toward the store.
Alex sighed dramatically and finally opened the door.
When it shut, the thunk felt heavier than it should.
"I'm an ass," Cole muttered. His sunglasses slid down, forgotten. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. Cool metal soothed hot skin.
Breath slowed.
The world softened.
Sleep crept in, welcome and uninvited.
Something shifted near the passenger door.
Air stirred.
Motion whispered.
Not Alex—she never moved this quietly. Never this slow.
"Alex, hurry," Cole groaned without opening his eyes. "You take more time picking cereal than people do choosing spouses."
Silence answered him.
He tried to ease back into sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
The parking lot lay empty.
Dark.
Silent.
Night pressed against the windows like wet cloth stretched over glass.
His pulse spiked.
The store stood shut—lights dead, doors locked, interior swallowed by shadow. The CLOSED sign hung crooked.
Where was Alex?
A cold film crawled over his skin. Temperature shifted so sharply his lungs stalled. Goosebumps raced across his arms.
"No," he whispered. "Not now."
A steadying breath failed to settle him. Panic pushed hard against his ribs, hungry for space.
Rain tapped the roof.
Soft at first.
Harder next.
Relentless in moments.
His breath fogged faintly.
A presence gathered—familiar, but with unfamiliar intent.
Pressure pressed into his mind like a cold thumb.
"Go away," he whispered.
It didn't.
Icy fingers wrapped his throat, not choking, only promising that it could. He gasped and jerked back, but invisible hands pinned his shoulders to the seat.
His pulse hammered. His vision pulsed at the edges.
Whispers seeped into him. Not normal voices—fractured thoughts, mismatched tones, layered like broken radio static.
Cole squeezed his eyes shut.
Shapes flickered behind his eyelids—long limbs, bent angles, bodies moving as though underwater. Shadows bleeding into deeper shadow.
No.
He recognized this pattern. He knew the difference between his own thoughts and those pushed in from elsewhere.
This wasn't him.
Energy pulled inward as he tried to sever the connection, pushing foreign threads out of his mind. Pressure eased for one breath.
Then doubled.
Cold climbed his jaw, slid over cheekbones, wrapped his skull. Winter shaped a crown around his head.
His eyes flew open—and the world outside the SUV warped.
Figures lined the lamplight. Dark shapes flickered in and out of solidity. Hands pressed against the glass, smearing trails that bent the light instead of leaving prints.
Faces refused to settle. Eyes blurred. Jaws distorted. Skin rippled like water stirred from below.
A child-sized figure stared at him, though its features wavered without sharpening.
A chill cut through his spine.
"Why must there be kids?" he whispered. His voice cracked.
The presence inside the SUV laughed.
Soft.
Wet.
A ruined attempt at language.
His name formed in the dark behind his eyes.
"Constantine."
Everything else stopped.
Rain.
Thunder.
Breath.
Thought.
Only the voice existed.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Panic begged for mercy that fear never granted.
Temperature plummeted.
Door locks clicked.
Pins popped.
One by one.
"No," he snapped.
His hand hit the lock switch. The panel flickered, shorted out. The child-shadow leaned closer and pressed its palm to the window. Darkness warped beneath it.
Hands pounded outside.
Dozens.
Maybe more.
The SUV rocked.
The roof rang as though someone hammered metal.
Cole clamped his hands over his ears. Useless. The screaming came from inside his skull.
Icy fingers locked around his forearms and yanked. His grip tore free of the wheel. His shoulders slammed against the seat.
Doors burst open.
Air knifed through—arctic and merciless.
Shapes flooded the interior. Smoke gained bones. Memory gained hunger. They clawed at his clothes, hair, arms, dragging him toward the open door.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop—"
Whispers drowned his voice.
His body hit the seat's edge.
Hands pulled.
Teeth brushed his skin in cold, numbing snaps.
The presence leaned close, its whisper a razor sliding along the inside of his mind:
"Constantine."
No breath.
No tone.
Just a sound carved for him alone.
He begged for his heart to fail before anything else could. Fear refused.
His boots scraped uselessly against the floor. Invisible weight crushed him. Shadows pinned his arms. Breath hitched.
Mouths opened against his skin.
Dozens of cold mouths bit down.
Cole jerked awake to sunlight and the smell of reheated meatloaf, his name repeated over and over by familiar voices—
"Constantine. Cole. Hey—wake up, man."
The cold from the dream still clung to him.
Not yet gone. Not yet done.