Dwayne came to, his eyes opening onto cold, scratchy darkness filled with ripples. His magic lashed out, tried to banish the cold, but all that happened was that the ripples grew stronger. He retched, not just because his head hurt, but because of the smell of dried urine and feces.

  When he did, his shackles jangled.

  They had him. They’d brought him back to the trees, the church, the pain.

  He screamed.

  “Good, he’s awake. Take it off.” The darkness was pulled off his face, leaving Dwayne blinking in the sudden light. “I was worried he wouldn’t. Sen Jerome’s potion and mine should not mix.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Where…” Dwayne looked around, saw nothing. “Where am I?”

  “Administer it.”

  A hand clamped down over Dwayne’s nose, and, when he opened his mouth to breathe, another hand shoved something small and bitter into it and clamped his jaw shut.

  “Swallow.”

  Dwayne did.

  “Release him.”

  The hands retreated, and Dwayne collapsed to the floor. Finally, his eyes discerned light from shadow, and Dean Bruce, covered in a long black dress lined with white fur, her thick curly hair restrained in a bun, from the room she sat in.

  Terror retracted its claws and let anger take its place. “You.”

  “I must thank you. This,” Bruce brandished the License Key, “has been very useful. Most of the compon…to…Vesicant, but I… losing… stabili…”

  Once again, Dwayne faded away.