Hunted Dreams by Elle Hill

strong, her stomach rounded against the silky material. Her cleavage was daunting.
    “I’m a big girl,” she said with some surprise. She wasn’t sure if she meant her age or size. Either way, she stood a little taller and looked around with more interest.
    “He got here hours ago,” the man said to her. He pointed toward an empty chair at the head of the elegant, laden table, and she tottered toward it on her calf-tormenting high heels. The red, velvet-padded seat welcomed her lush derriere. The indistinct chattering and tinkling laughter continued its lazy swirls around the room.
    I’m a woman, a big woman , she thought with only slightly dulled wonderment. She folded her arms and cupped the flesh around her biceps. Although soft, they also felt strong and capable.
    “Tell us what kept you, Kitty Cat,” the man in gray said genially and he sat down next to her. He snapped a napkin from its careful folds and draped it in his lap. She still couldn’t quite see his face, but she felt him looking at her, his smile wide and toothy.
    Something tickled her memory. Was her name Kitty? She felt her cheeks lift as she glanced downward. No way she was a Kitty. This much woman had to be a Kat.
    “I don’t know who I am,” she said quietly, lifting her eyes. The room behind them remained fuzzy and black.
    He snorted laughter. “You always did have a penchant for dramatic entrances, my dear.” Everyone around the table laughed, although she wasn’t entirely certain it was at her.
    “What’s my name?” she asked him. She looked around the table and could still discern no faces, although she saw dresses and suits of every color and hands in various shades of brown.
    “No, we held off till you arrived. Don’t you feel guilty?” His voice rained amusement. And coldness. The dinner chatter eddied harmlessly around them.
    Her eyes snapped back to him. He was gesturing imperiously, his hand waving before a face she could not see, to someone whose face she could not make out.
    But I’m no tiny, shrinking violet , she thought. How could I not know?
    “I’m feeling stronger,” she said conversationally, grasping her napkin and placing it on her lap. “You know what I’d like, though? Some kind of weapon beyond my body. I’m strong, but I wouldn’t turn down extra protection.”
    “Of course we asked Cook to make your favorite. I remember what happened last time we forgot. You wouldn’t let us forget about it for weeks!”
    She watched as her hand, broad and white with short fingernails, picked up the butter knife sitting to the right of her curry-yellow dinner plate. Reflecting the darkness, the knife shone a matte black. She raised the blade to her eyes and stared into it: A white face with light brown eyes. Her lips looked chapped under her bright red lipstick and a tiny stone twinkled in her right nostril, but otherwise she looked reassuringly normal. It was a good face.
    She did not replace the knife.
    A wind whipped around her, ruffling those tendrils of hair that weren’t pulled back. Lifting the knife, she snapped her head around. An unperturbed, white-clad server, probably male, plunked a covered plate in front of her.
    Oh god , she thought, staring at the gleaming silver of the plate cover. This is where the horror comes in . She gritted her teeth and clutched her knife.
    “I refuse to be a victim, you know,” she told him in as calm a voice as she could manage. The serving boy flitted around the table, his actions jerky and incidental.
    “I told you he’d arrived,” the first man said. He gestured toward the opposite end of the table. “He’s been waiting to meet you.”
    Heart throbbing, the woman looked where he’d indicated. Far away, impossibly far, a silent figure sat opposite her at the foot of the table. The man stared at her, eyes intense, mouth pursed. She knew this because she could see him, unlike everyone else, clearly.
    It was the man she’d seen gobbled up by the nothingness. A big,