Except in Falconfar. In his dreams.

He was going mad, he must be. If he'd drunk anything stronger than soda this week, he'd be blaming this on booze right now. This just couldn't be happening.

Not even in his books did… did women with wings who'd just been gutted and left to die fall onto the beds of lonely thriller writers in the middle of the night. Any night, drunken or otherwise.

Transfixed in the beam of his flashlight, the shuddering Aumrarr sank belly-down on the bed, her strength plainly failing.

"Please," she whispered, eyes desperate, her voice strangely purring. "Please…"

Rod shone his flashlight up at the ceiling-whole and unmarked-and wildly around the room to make sure there was no one else lurking anywhere. Not that it sounded like it. He lived alone, and the creaks and small moans of the old house were familiar things.

This… visitor… was not.

The flashlight showed him a wicked-looking dagger buried in the wall beside his head. Its hilt was dark and wet with blood, but he flung the phone down and seized it unhesitatingly. Grateful to have some sort of weapon, Rod wrenched it out of his wood paneling with some effort; it had bitten deep.

"Dark Lord," the Aumrarr moaned, her voice fainter. She tried to say something else, but it came out as wet, choking sounds.

Rod took a step closer to the bed, waving the dagger. The room smelled of blood, and sweat… and fear.

"Get out," he snarled suddenly, as something wild rose inside him, sharp and sudden. Fear. His own fear. "Get out of my house!"

He lived alone by choice. He didn't want the world thrusting itself into his dreams, didn't…