The woman on the bed moved, but only to sag forward, shards of shoulder-armor clattering briefly. She wasn't going anywhere, she was dying on his bed for chrissakes.

When was this nightmare going to end?

The floor was cold under his bare feet. The moonlight faded as he left the ruined phone behind and strode back to his bed. This was enough!

He was going to wake up, somehow; he was going to leave his imaginary world of Falconfar behind and go watch a… No, no, he was going to read a good book. A book written by someone else, one that had nothing at all to do with wizards and dragons and Dark Helms and the soaring castles of Falconfar. He was…

Coming to a stop, disgusted. Staring up at him, she reeked of blood and urine and… Hell, look at all the blood!

Must wake up, must jolt myself out of this somehow.

Rod reached out an angry hand. "Come on, get up and out of here! Get-"

Matted black hair lashed his fingers. Beyond it her shoulder felt solid. Hard and real… and quivering under his fingers.

He snatched his hand back. "Get out, damn you!"

Her head sank down, night-black hair hiding that pleading face, and she collapsed into sobs.

Rod waved the dagger wildly in the air, feeling very far indeed from being a hero of Falconfar or anywhere else, and wished-God, how he wished- he'd wake up, and leave all this behind.

The Aumrarr weren't real; they were something he'd invented for Falconfar, a race of warrior-women who did good, flying over the forests of the dream-realm with their long, snow-white wings, taking messages from one hold to another, and fighting wolves and worse.

Hmmph. Since Holdoncorp's game designers had gotten their grubby hands on Falconfar, much worse. The Dark Helms, for one, and…

The dying Aumrarr slid sideways off his bed, dragging his sheets with her. They were now more red than white, and there was a puddle of blood on his mattress.