She walked with a gasp, not knowing who she was or where.

The smell of blood was heavy in her nostrils, or was at her nightmare, lingering.

She had dreamed of wolves again, of running through some dark pine forest with a great

pack at her heels, hard on the scent of prey.

Half-light filled the room, gray and gloomy.

Shivering, she sat up in bed and ran a hand across her scalp, stubble bristled against

her palm.

I need to shave before he simparses.

Mercy.

I'm mercy.

And tonight I'll be raped and murdered.

Her true name was Mercedine, but Mercedine was all anyone ever called her, except in dreams.

She took a breath to quiet the howling in her heart, trying to remember more of what

she dreamt, but most of it had gone already.

There had been blood in it, though, and a full moon overhead, and a tree that watched

her as she ran.

She had fastened the shutters back so the morning sun might wake her, but there was no sun

outside the window of Mercy's little room, only a wall of shifting gray fog.

The air had grown chilly, and a good thing, else she might have slept all day.

It would be just like mercy to sleep through her own rape.

Goose prickles covered her legs.

Her coverlet had twisted around her like a snake.

...