Free Highway to Hell by Rosemary Clement-Moore

with the occasional glimpse of crimson. Before long, I lost sight of the … whatever it was, and stopped running, staring at the fence in frustration.
    The barbed wire glowed and gave off an electric thrum of power, mesmerizing and maddening, because I knew that to get a look at the red-eyed creature, to find out if it was the chupacabra, or a figment of my imagination brought on by the power of suggestion, I was going to have to get over the fence somehow.
    As I searched for a gate or gap, there came a steady tread against hard ground, too heavy to be a person. I raised my gaze and looked across the fence, where a woman astride a dark horse stared back at me.
    She was young, but her flawless skin and aristocratic bone structure made her seem ageless. She was beautiful now, and probably always would be. Thick dark hair fell over her shoulders, reflecting the moonlight like a polished stone. Her posture in the saddle was relaxed but commanding, and her clothes were old-fashioned—jodhpurs, riding boots, and a long-sleeved white blouse, with a scarf around her neck.
    Intimidating
wasn't quite the word. I was in my pj's, and she had a rifle across her saddle. The fence lay between us, and the imagery was clear: she belonged here, and I was infringing on her territory.
    “Nice fence.” Inane, yes, but I wasn't sure where else to start.
    My words seemed to surprise her, but after a moment she answered evenly. “You can see, then, that this land is protected.” Her accent was Hispanic, but more refined than the Tex-Mex blend I'd heard at the Duck Inn.
    I eyed the barbed wire, shining in the dream moonlight. “Yeah, I got that.”
    “Then what are you seeking here?”
    The challenge was unmistakable. The only other time something in my dream had looked back at me, it had been a really
bad
something. But this woman spoke of protection, and seemed to be the one responsible for the fence. So even though I didn't appreciate her tone, I kept my own mental voice civil.
    “I was following something.”
    Her black brow arched. “A white rabbit with a pocket watch, perhaps?”
    Her sarcasm set my teeth on edge, but I was unable to make myself say
el chupacabra
to this woman, whether she was a figment of my imagination or not. “There was something running through your pasture over there.” I pointed to her side of the fence.
    “That's impossible.”
    “Why?”
    “Because this is my domain.”
    “But this is
my
dream,” I countered.
    The woman blinked, and her horse danced beneath her. She brought it under control with a sure hand on the reins. “Who
are
you?”
    A wind came up, cool and damp against my bare shoulders, and blew my short hair into my eyes. I pushed it away, and the woman was gone.
    Another gust, and I looked up to see clouds swelling across the night sky, extinguishing the stars and crowding in on the moon. I shivered at the omen. A storm was coming. Real or figurative, I didn't know.

8
    I woke easily in the morning. Between one breath and another, I became fully conscious, staring at the cracked plaster of the Artesian Manor ceiling. My head was distinctly unmuddled and non-achy.
    There must be something terribly wrong with me.
    It was easier to concentrate on that—wondering why I didn't have one of my psychic hangovers after such a vivid dream—than to sort through what it meant. I could remember the vision clearly, but it raised more questions than it answered. Who was the woman? What was the red-eyed creature? And why did I see it when she couldn't?
    I heard my name and realized I hadn't woken spontaneously; Lisa's phone must have rung and she'd gone outside, like I'd done last night. I could hear the murmur of her voice through the window. She sounded
almost friendly.
I didn't need my mojo to know it was Zeke on the line.
    Back in high school, D&D Lisa had a cutting wit, but she could be amiable if she decided you were worth the trouble. Since the incident with the demon Azmael, though, her sarcasm