#wyatt.

Once he had a name to put to the face, finding out where she worked was a fairly easy task. A cursory internet search had her pinging on the UMWR website as a member of faculty. Fantastic. He didn’t have much of a plan outside of going to the campus, finding out which room she taught in, and hanging around until she left. He didn’t care if she saw him — in fact he wanted her to. He wanted her to feel the same fear he’d felt when he spotted her in the crowd. He’d make sure she felt it. 

Later that day, maybe twenty minutes or so before her class was supposed to end, Wyatt slipped into the room. Their eyes met almost immediately, but the professor seemed to take a moment to internalize his presence before getting back to her lesson. Wyatt liked to think that she seemed nervous, but that could have just been wishful thinking on his part. He hung around the back of the room, staying well out of the way but still getting curious glances from the students. No one piped up to ask him who he was, perhaps assuming he was there as a friend of Ingeborg’s, or just not caring enough to bother. Either way was good with him. He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his blue gaze fixed on her, unflinching. It was the same woman he’d seen that day he got arrested. The same woman that tormented him night after night. Rage built slowly in his chest, jaw tightly clenching in response. He couldn’t go off on her here. Not now. He knew what would come of that. He could be patient. Maybe. Hopefully.

—

Her classes were restless, with the semester starting up and the walls closing in on Inge. She preferred not to admit it, though, the way this town was starting to feel like a steel trap, the way she was backing herself into a corner by not handing in her resignation and moving away. Stubborn arrogance kept her rooted in place, kept her teaching her classes even if her mind was sometimes elsewhere. Today, though, the things that kept her mind running circles around itself was there, in front of her, rather than nagging in her brain.

Wyatt, the lamia sleeper who’d gotten arrested accosting her, was standing in her classroom. It was no unhappy accident, she knew that the moment she set her sights on him. This was purposeful. She figured this was an ambush of sorts, even if he just stood there, leaning against the wall and watching her. And he’d be right, to think she was nervous — because she was. If she was so easy to find, if it was so simple to intrude into her classroom, then trouble was nipping at her heels. Sometimes it was hard to remember that there was no definitive divide between the realm of dreams and life here on earth, that even though the nightmares were not real there could be true repercussions. But she knew that, now.

There was a slight tremor to her hand, but she turned it in his direction. When she spoke she addressed her students rather than him, though, “This is my friend Wyatt,” she said, “He’s … just here because he’s curious.” It probably wasn’t a lie, though his curiosity was of the dangerous variety. “Pay him no mind at all.” Inge locked eyes with him for a moment before continuing with the material of today’s lecture, her not-heart skipping a not-beat.

—

Wyatt plastered on a pleasant smile as he was addressed and some of the students turned again to look at him. There was no benefit in making himself look dangerous right off the bat, in front of other people that could possibly ID him later. Which they might, when their professor disappeared. That was a bridge he’d cross when he got to it. 

The lamia didn’t budge while the lesson went on, remaining in place as the students were dismissed and got up, gathering their things and slowly trickling out of the room. That’s when Wyatt made his way to the front of the classroom, still wearing that easy, disarming smile. “Hey,” he said in a calm voice, knowing there were still eyes on them. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, you and I.” He kept his body language casual, looking to the other people still vacating the room just as Inge had described him: a friend. “I was hopin’ we could have a real long, calm chat about it. I got me some edification since we last met, and I’d love to hear your side of things, you know what I mean?” He was standing close to her—too close—and grinning in a way that altogether seemed predatory. 

The last set of footsteps wandered out the door and the room fell silent again. They were alone. 

Wyatt’s smile fell. “Where you wanna do this? I got all day.” He’d follow her wherever she went, waiting for the first moment they were truly alone, not just the space between them and the other people in the hall. He remembered what Emilio had said about her touch being able to induce sleep, and took a slight step back, brow raised. “Guarantee you I’m quicker than you are, n’ I got a worse bite. So why don’t you make this easy like, hm? Lead the way.” He gestured at the door, his expression cold.

—

She wanted the class to last forever, for students to straggle behind endlessly and pester her with questions so she had a solid excuse not to engage with the growing threat in the back of the room. Inge clung to her composure but was not sure how much longer she could keep digging her fingers into it before she’d create bruises. This was the second time in one year that people found her place of work who weren’t supposed to. 

Wyatt approached, wearing a sheen of calm that she was certain was feigned and Inge watched her students trickle out of the room before settling her gaze on her opponent. In broad daylight, at her job was not where she wanted this to happen. Hell, she didn’t want it to occur to begin with — she’d had her fun with the dreamer, but now he was awake, intruding on her space, smiling maniacally. He was much prettier when he was resting with his eyes closed or running from her in a dream.

“Hi,” she returned, angling her head slightly so her chin jutted towards him, so she could feel like she was still looking down on him. Even if he was both taller and broader than her. That was quite an issue, as was his insistence on a calm conversation and his promise of a sharp bite. “I think you’re going to have to be more clear than that. I’m not sure what you’re referencing to, nor am I sure what you want to do.” 

Inge gestured at the abandoned stools and chairs in the classroom. “But you can sit down if you can. You look tired.” He didn’t look as tired as he had, that day on the streets. As long as they were talking, he wasn’t biting. “I’m not sure we should be going anywhere.”

—

The self-satisfied sneer on the man’s face gave way to something a little less indulgent and a little more honest. The smirk slowly shrank, eyebrows furrowing as a look of irritation took up residence instead. She was playing dumb, and he didn’t know why. She knew why he was here. She knew what she'd been doing to him all these months because it had been done to her. She knew, and she was just being a fucking bitch about it. You look tired. He wanted so badly to rip her stupid head from her stupid shoulders. 

He looked back at the seat closest to him as she offered, then to her again. “No? Okay. We can wait here. Everyone else will leave eventually.” Classes would end, faculty would head home for the night. It would be just the two of them at some point. Maybe there would be an unfortunate overnight janitor that would also meet an untimely demise, but that was a price Wyatt was willing to pay to be done with this. He wanted his revenge, and he was going to have it. 

The lamia took a seat on a nearby stool, but was still poised to leap to his feet if she made any sudden moves. “I know what you are. What you do to people like me. And I ain't gonna let you fuckin’ kill me.” 

—

This was wont to happen. Though mares did not exist in pop culture the way vampires and zombies did, there were those that knew of their existence all the same. Perhaps that made them easier to believe in than those species that were overexposed in teen shows — especially to those who had come into contact with a mare. Inge wasn’t going to fold so easily, though. To admit that she had been plaguing Wyatt for all these months would just vindicate him, she assumed, and she had no interest in making his sneer any wider.

She was willing to wait until everyone had left the campus, as that was more promising than going to a secondary location. Maybe the lamia could be patient enough to wait until nightfall and then she could just leave and reconsider her life in Wicked’s Rest in the (wobbly) safety of her apartment. Who was to say he couldn’t also figure out that address, after all? A break in into the HR office would be enough to steal her address information.

Inge looked him over as he sat, resting her own buttocks against her desk. He thought she was aiming to kill him and the urge to correct him was hard to resist. She did not feed to kill. She gave her dreams not only because it nurtured her, but because it could nurture them. She was an artist, after all. There was little difference between an inspiring statue and a memorable nightmare.

“What am I?” She’d already revealed that she knew his name, even though they’d never exchanged such pleasantries. Still she played the fool. “And why would I be interested in killing you? I’m an artist, not a murderer. You’re confused, I think.”

—

If Wyatt had not managed to kill so many of his brain cells over the years, he might have had the wherewithal to realize that Inge had used his name — that she knew him. He might have been able to grasp onto the thin strands of truth as they tried to snap in the breeze and cast him off into a confusing, dark abyss. He might not have gotten so angry when she played dumb, instead pointing an accusatory finger at her and shouting A-ha! But I’ve got you! You said my name, how else would you know my name if you were not the mare haunting me! 

But he’d taken many hits to the head since childhood, and had experienced plenty of neuron death. There was no connection made between Inge introducing him to the class and the fact that it proved her guilt, his mind instead entirely consumed by the fury that ignited at her indifference. “I ain’t confused,” he snapped, all his smug satisfaction falling away from him like a tree shedding its last leaves in a harsh winter wind. “You’re killin’ me. Slow, sure, but you know what it’s like to die a slow, sleepless death.” He got up again, unable to remain still while so much anger coursed through him. “I’d’ve let it slide if it was just a handful of times. But it’s been months. Months! You know what you’re doin’ to me.” A slight edge of desperation had slithered its way into his voice, his blue eyes betraying the fear and hopelessness he truly felt. Even if he could stop her feeding, hell, even if she agreed to stop feeding on him, it wouldn’t fix what was done. It wouldn’t make the nightmares stop, it wouldn’t immediately heal the wounds she’d ripped open. That would take time, and he didn’t have time. “So I’m gonna eat you, and it’s gonna make me feel better.” 

—

She did know what it was like to die a slow, sleepless death — though Inge hadn’t known she was dying back when she was being fed on. Even now, she barely thought of it: it was a past long forgotten, the life before her transformation not worthy of any thought. And for all the ways she loved what she had become, she never intended to hand down her gift to a mortal. The reasons remained unexplored, as it was not worth debating why it might be bad to kill someone only for them to return as something else, but her methods remained.

So that begged the question: was Wyatt overreacting, or had she gone too far? His mind had been fraying, that had been made obvious when they’d locked eyes in front of Dolly Parton, but she hadn’t thought she was getting close to pushing him off the edge of mortality. She fed from other humans, she had been occupied with Debbie for a significant portion of time but perhaps she’d gotten greedy. There was something enticing about holding power over a creature physically stronger than her, maybe that was it. Had she gotten too greedy, in her attempt to feel strong? Had the need to feel in control of something larger and more beastly than her blinded her? The threat that he’d eat her reverbated in her hollow chest cavity. 

“You are confused. I don’t mean to kill you. Or anyone, for that matter.” Well, there were some exceptions. She would not weep for Emilio Cortez, still rued the failure of Rhett, would not mind being the final blow in the death of one of her grating colleagues. But she did not mean to kill through dreams. She clenched her jaw with her human, useless teeth. Inge glowered at the lamia. “I’m not doing a thing to you. We are … just conversing, aren’t we? Maybe I look like someone you know, maybe that is why you got confused at the art walk, too. Maybe if you explain it better, I can help you.” Her glower twisted into something more pitiful. “You’re scaring me.” It was a half-lie, though she would not admit that to even herself. 

—

“Stop!” he bellowed, his eyes flashing yellow and teeth sharpening unintentionally. “I ain’t confused!” He’d already shouted that at her. “You’re the woman in my dreams! With the birds, with the—the—” His patience was running thin. Thinking that he’d be able to sit here until they were truly alone had been a pipe dream, of course. Wyatt didn’t have a patient bone in his body, and certainly not when he was face to face with his tormentor. “You’re ruinin’ my life!” One could argue that he was the one doing the ruining, but one could also argue that much of that reckless behavior had come about because he wasn’t in his right mind, because he couldn’t sleep at night. 

He was yelling too much. Someone would come see what was wrong. He needed to calm down. Sucking in a breath through his clenched teeth, the shifter balled his hands into fists at his sides and narrowed his reptilian eyes at Inge.

Patience, baby. Breathe… in, hold… out, hold… in, hold… there you go. See? Don’t you feel better? 

His mother’s voice whispered in his ears and he squinted his eyes shut. He didn’t deserve to remember her advice when he couldn’t take care of her any more, because he’d lost his other fuckin’ job, because this bitch in front of him decided to snack on him a few too many times! The fury was boiling over now, the lid rattling around where it sat as the ingredients that made up this short-fused, violence-driven individual fought to escape the pot.

—

There had been a time where a man bigger and stronger than her yelling like this would have made something kick in. A shiver down the spine, a wish to be swallowed by the earth. Inge no longer had the same response she'd once had, though. Shouting men no longer scared her, though the flash of sharp teeth was a worrying facet of the conversation that was starting to feel more and more like a fight. 

“Ruining your life,” she repeated, as if she had to chew on that. In a way, she did. She did not give her sleepers nightmares with malicious intent, in her mind. Not out of pure necessity either, though, even if there was a need for her to feed off people. She did not intent to ruin this man's life with her nightmares — she meant to elevate it. It seemed he did not feel the same way about her dedication to the craft. If it wasn't for her, he'd just dream of that fighting ring, of his mother, of boring, drab things plucked from real life. If he failed to see it her way, that was his shortcoming. 

Maybe it was time to move on from this poor, unimaginative sleeper. “Fine, yes — it is me, with the birds. So what?” Inge found the confession spilling from her lips rather anticlimactic, but perhaps it would make the man stop yelling. Having one of her annoying colleagues or hell, even Anita rush in would be regretful. She knew Anita was fond of other lamia, after all. “You dream, regardless of me. You dreamed badly. Like someone troubled but … without … any thrill. I don't think I'm deserving being accredited with ruining your life.” People tended to do that all by themselves. She considered the sharp teeth with a level of true envy. Hers were so flat and dull. “I am as some call it a walking corpse. I advise against eating me.” 

—

“You’re a pretentious, overblown bitch is what you are. I didn’t need help with my fuckin’ nightmares. You died because someone else didn’t have the self control to stop when they shoulda. You might think you ain’t done any harm, but lady, I was already a hair’s breadth from fuckin’ snappin’.” His words were sharp and venomous, spat at her feet with finality. “This ain’t art. It’s cruelty.” 

Cruelty was a thing he’d dealt with for much of his life. Sometimes he recognized it, sometimes not, but it was always there. Marcel had been cruel, in his way. He never laid a hand on Wyatt, but he lied and manipulated a child into thinking that violence was the best way to support his family. People he had known in his adult life had been cruel at times. Agnes was cruel, though she helped as much as she hurt, which left the shifter feeling confused and conflicted. But this one? This one was destroying his grip on reality, and seemed to think it wasn’t a big deal. Clearly, the teacher was in need of a lesson. One that Wyatt intended to give, dropping all pretense of just wanting to talk, of doing this quietly or somewhere private, and giving in to his anger and his hurt. He wanted this done. He wanted her gone.

“Don’t care. Eaten dead things before.” 

Wyatt lunged, ducking down low in the hopes that it would help him evade her bare hands and that sleeping touch that Mateo had warned him of. Jaws parted as they elongated, his body shifting completely in the time that it took him to close the distance between them, tattered clothing dangling from the spines that ran along his scales. Teeth scraped over her left leg as he angled his head and bit down, raking across shin, calf, and thigh. He could taste something strange on his tongue as he applied more pressure, pushing up off the floor to stand. He was going to shake her like a dog toy, rip one leg off, then the other. He was going to dismember her completely, and if that didn’t kill her, he’d swallow every last piece. 

As he rose up high into the air, he felt the room spin around him. She was probably trying to put him to sleep, but he’d fight it. He would. Only… it was already becoming difficult to stay upright. Wyatt hissed, dropping onto all fours and giving a weak shake of his head. No. No. I’m so close… She was there in his grasp (quite literally), but he couldn’t press through the desperate need for sleep. Maybe it was worse because he was already so exhausted, but either way, the fighter made little progress in his mission to shred her to pieces, instead sinking back to the floor as everything went dark.

—

“Damn, don't hold back,” she said, eyebrows shot up slightly and expression somewhere between offended and amused. Being called a bitch was familiar territory, but the way he spoke about her death – no, her transformation – was disrespectful at best. And perhaps he was right, perhaps she had done more harm than good, but that had never bothered her much. Though Inge thought her dreams were able of inspiring, she knew what they were: nightmares. Ugly dreams that clung to people like tar. And the fact that they could get so bad that they undead the mental stability of an individual might be considered bad, but it was quite a rush of power. “Who says those can't be synonymous, art and cruelty?” Hirst cut up animals and called it art, after all, and though Inge was no fan of his, he illustrated her thoughts quite well. No birds were hurt in her productions. 

For all her cockiness, there was little she could do to control Wyatt. She hadn't thought he would do it, though, that thing he was threatening: that he would really go for a bite here, in relative public. And so she was too slow to flee from his dive. Not that any preparation would have made her agile enough to evade the MMA fighter who also happened to be a man-eating monster. It happened so fast, so quick and so viciously that Inge barely had time to appreciate the swift transformation. 

Teeth enforced by strong jaws locked onto her leg and bit down and she could not help herself as she screamed. It was a role reversal she did not see often, as there were very few dreamers who had managed to scare her as she had scared them. She found it wholly unfair — what she had done to Wyatt's dreams had been pretend, even if the ramifications had affected his real life. But this? The pain? The wounds being created and worsened? Those were real. Those would scar. (Because they would: Ingeborg came out of every corner she was backed into, without fail. Today was not going to be any different.) 

Through blinding pain she tried to find focus, to remember what she was capable of. Though her body moved on its own accord as Wyatt stood, she still had her hands. She was glad, that she had died before turning forty, that there was still some flexibility to her muscles and she reached for his strange skin, nails digging into him as she gave everything she had to put him down. The more his muscles relaxed, the more her resolve grew and eventually they were both on the ground, her leg still between his jaws.