Preying on Praying Prey

Prologue

George panted, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he wildly whipped his head around to check his surroundings. His breathing was irregular and deafening from the sprinting, but he summoned all his will power to steady his breath. If he continued breathing at this volume, he'd give away his position.

One. Breathe in, calm down, and imagine you're on the beach.

Two. Breathe out. You're somewhere else, you're content, you're happy.

Three-

"Oh George~ You're not as good at hiding your tracks as you think you are!" George stilled, feeling all color in his face drain as he started shaking. This is the end, I'm going to die in a fucking field and no one will know.

George felt his legs give out as he collapsed in the tall grass, cold sweat taking over. The boy couldn't move and was forced to listen to the footsteps getting closer and closer. Dream was probably only about 10 paces away from reaching the tree he was behind, which meant 10 paces until his inevitable death.

Ten. Dream grinned as he took his sweet time, whistling a haunting tune.

Nine. The boy poked at the tip of his arrow, drawing blood from his fingertip. He watched the crimson liquid slowly drip down and contour the side of his calloused finger before bringing it to his mouth to lick a long stripe, relishing in the rusty iron taste filling his mouth.

Eight. Dream imagined how sweet George's blood would be - how beautiful the boy would look covered in it. Dream shivered at the thought, grinning maniacally.

Seven. The dark oak haired boy would beg underneath his sword, tears streaming down his pretty face as he cried for Dream to spare his life, for mercy, for a god he didn't believe in anymore. He would squirm under the blonde's hold, trying everything in his power to escape. He'd probably have a trick up his sleeve. Maybe, as a last ditch effort, he would stab the taller boy to try and slow him down. The careless and futile action would only stir Dream on further.

Six. What would he take as a memento of the boy's meaningless life? A lock of hair? Too cliche. An eye? That was one of Dream's favorite parts about George – his glossy eyes that transparently, consistently, revealed the boy's emotions and provided Dream a sliver of sight into his soul. Hmm.. perhaps he would keep an eye.

Five. Clay tossed the compass lightly up in the air, catching in gracefully and laughed. The boy could hide as much as he'd like, but this little device only had eyes set for George.

Four. The air had never smelled sweeter. The crisp night air was filled with the neary diabetic scent of Casa Blanca lilies wafting through the air. This is indeed a cause for celebration. Dream breathed deep, savoring the moment.

Three. The taller boy unsheathed his sword, playfully swinging it in the air. The game was just about to start.

Two. He felt himself grin impossibly big as he wiped the now dried blood covering his sword on to his leather gauntlet. Preparing to swing at the boy behind the tree, Dream tightened his hands on the iron sword's grip. He winded up by bringing the blade to his side, giving himself momentum as he prepared to strike with one fell swoop.

One.