The knowledge that his hands are a little heavier, his fingers are a little more elongated, and his nails are a little sharper doesn’t strike Hobie necessarily, but more sinks in softly, like blunt canine teeth in flayed flesh. He shuts his eyes; opens them again. Still the same room. Same light. Same hands. Must be a dream. That’s how dreams work, right? Peter’s still breathing beside him. His nose crinkles in his sleep and he shifts, rolling over so he faces the wall with his back exposed to the room. A little hand wraps itself around Hobie’s heart and squeezes. “He loves us,” a voice whispers. It’s the scratching of nails over mouldering wood and the whisper of rats’ tails through layers of dust and the sweet decay of flesh in a hot summer field. If Hobie shuts his eyes and concentrates, he can feel the sharp prickles from the beheaded wheat stems. “I know,” he says. “If anything were to come through that door right now, we’d kill it for him,” the voice continues, as though Hobie hasn’t spoken. Peter’s leg twitches in his sleep. “I know,” Hobie repeats.

sneak preview for the third chapter of my latest fic, crying wolf!

Edit: third chapter has been posted!