Daniela's body hit something wet and cold. It wasn't ground. It was living.
She sank knee-deep into the surface, a quivering membrane that sucked at her skin, trying to pull her under. The air was thick, gelatinous, tasting of old copper and rotting sugar. She fought to stand, her legs dragging free with sickening pops.
Around her stretched a landscape stitched together from the worst things she'd ever forgotten — or pretended to forget.
Ruins twisted into impossible shapes. Skeletons that moved without muscles, their spines shuddering like centipedes. Pillars of black stone throbbed with heartbeats, slick with something that wasn't rain. And eyes — so many eyes — bloomed open across the sky, blinking wetly, tracking her every step.
Something brushed her ankle.
