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Summary
Laughter.
The cruel kind.
The kind that echoed in the back of the shadow’s mind as those Alastor loathed. Judgmental. Cold. Unworthy of his master’s time.
Then—
The voices were kneeling near his master, discolored shadows wavering across its senses.
“Is he awake yet?” One of the figures garbled.
“Don’t need him awake.” Another answered, its voice venomous even when distorted. “Just need him ready. These’ll do the rest.”
The shadow recoiled from the glowing objects in the silhouette’s arms.
Then came the sensations.
Hands.
So many hands.
The shadow felt them, but with Alastor unconscious, there wasn’t much it could do but complain silently as the figures surrounded its master.
Ghostly, indistinct, half-formed in the static fog. The hands crawled across his ribs, down his chest, slipping beneath his shirt and tugging at his waistband—stripping the layers off him like a rag doll.Series
- Part 4 of How to Bag a Deer in 7 Days