Gillian drained three bags of blood to the last dregs without bothering to pour them out into her bottle, as was her custom, or pick them up off the floor where she dropped them.

She discarded them carelessly on her way to the safe haven of her bed, into which she fell face forward. The smell of fresh linen welcomed her, and she neither bothered to undress nor take off her shoes.

Gillian had the foresight to shower at work, needing the odor of death gone from her person and not wanting to transfer it to her apartment again. She sank into unconsciousness like a child, sleeping right through the rest of the day and half the next night.

She violently jerked awake from a surreal mesh of nightmare and reality where she was being chased by some nameless, faceless, and ancient vampire trailing guts from his hands. He was distorted into a caricature of humanity, eyes blazing red, blood dribbling down his chin, and covering his chest and arms.

Broken chains bound his feet and dragged behind him. Somewhere, children cried, and a woman screamed incessantly, yet the sounds seemed to carry from the other side of a tunnel, almost drowned by his toneless voice, whispering a chilling phrase over and over.

"I am going to get you, my little monster—" followed by the mad laughter of a victor so far beyond sanity it had created its own reality.

Gillian came upright in the same movement with which she discarded her sweat-soaked sheets, ripping the clothes from her body with no regard for buttons and seams. She stalked into the bathroom, her heart still pounding, sweat on her brow, breathing raggedly, and her mouth dry as dust. She opened the tap and stepped under the icy torrent of water until her heart stilled and her breathing settled.

"Fuck."

She had suffered from these nightmares since childhood, and no shrink and no doctor could ever find the key to easing her mind, so she found ways to cope on her own. Goosebumps formed on her body, and she started shivering.

Gillian relented and turned on the hot water, scrubbing her skin as if to scour the horrors from her mind of both nightmare and reality. She found the distance inside herself and shut off the water, ready to dress.

"Get a grip," she muttered.

Months had passed since the last bad dream, and she had hoped they were a thing of the past.

"It's just a dream."

The things she saw over the last couple of days were bound to trigger her condition, and she should have realized it. Actually, she was surprised it didn't happen earlier.

She reached for a bra, and her hands were still shaking.

"Shit."

She didn't turn on the radio to listen to music or boot up her laptop to watch the news as she usually did, unable to stomach seeing Andrew's face or even hear about him.

People would never really know all the things that dear old Andrew did, and it was better that way. They needed the safety of their illusions.

***

Gillian made herself a cup of steaming hot, overly strong coffee, and a loud banging on the door startled her into almost dropping the cup.

Her preoccupation with her morbid thoughts made her subconsciously tune out the world. She swore, grabbing a towel to clean the mess off the counter and not bothering to lament her scalded skin—it would heal before she reached the door.

"Come on, Gillian, recess is over..." Colt hollered, and Gillian's gut clenched. The leftover dregs of horror from her nightmare congealed into a lump, her mind shuddering at what this day would bring.

She toughened her mental attitude; this was the life she chose, and she'd cope. She picked up her discarded dinner containers from the floor, cleaned the splotches of dried blood with the coffee-stained, still-wet towel, and dropped it into the wastebasket. She would take care of the bin when she got home.

Gillian opened the door just as Colt aimed to knock again. She raised her brow at the detective in that tart way her mother hated. Distant and superior, yet amused and in your face at the same time, drawing you in and not allowing you to escape her gaze.

"Come in, Detective Colt. I am not dressed for work since it's my day off. Please be patient and come in...." Gillian sassed, and Colt smiled, the concern fading from her gaze.

Her direct, cheeky, yet reprimanding gaze made the detective slightly uncomfortable.

Gillian toned her expression down, smiled lazily, and let Colt off the hook. Not that there was any need, Colt was not as easily intimidated as most people, and she respected that. Everything revolved around respect and hierarchy, duty and honor in her world.

"Forget it, come, we have no time to waste," Colt turned on her heel, and without waiting for a response, she stalked down the short hallway.

Gillian shook her head, grabbing her keys and phone with a smirk. She hurried out of her apartment and into the bright, glaring, peaceful sunshine of a Saturday, oblivious to the horrors of the world.

She was just about to duck into the humid inside of the unmarked Cruiser, illegally parked on the curb, when she experienced the sudden, intense awareness of someone watching her intently.

Gillian stopped and casually searched her pockets as if hunting for a phone, a badge, or something. All the while, she scanned her surroundings, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

With a firm shake of her head at her paranoia, she got into the car. Not wanting Colt to wait and end up asking questions, she tried to shake it off. Hoping it was nothing more than the leftovers of her nightmare as she put it from her mind, refusing to be distracted from her work.