A sudden hard tap on my back windshield startles me. Carefully, trying not to drive off the road, I turn around to look-and almost scream. A huge, horrible, dark-feathered hawk is on the trunk of my car, its talons scraping paint as it holds on. Its hard golden eyes seem to laser right through me. It looks fierce and hateful and without pity.

I spin around again, ready to stomp on the gas to try to dislodge it, but instead find that I'm now a passenger in the car. Someone else is driving, and I keep trying to see who, but for some reason, whenever I try to look, I can never quite see all the way to the driver's side. Again and again I try, and my gaze keeps sliding away from where the driver is sitting. I can see in front of it and in back of it but not actually the driver's seat itself. Who is this? Am I being kidnapped? A burst of anxiety closes my throat.

A dim gray figure up ahead catches my eye, and I peer at it through my window. Can I signal this person for help? Huge, fat raindrops begin to pelt the windshield like tiny bullets, smacking forcefully against the glass. I lean forward to see who the shape is. I gasp in shock- it's Hunter! Stop! I cry, stop! but the car doesn't even slow down. I see Hunter's face, his eyes locking onto mine, his surprise and concern as we whiz by.

I bang on my window and turn around to yell back at him-I want to stop! I want to come get you, I can't! Tears of fear and anguish roll down my cheeks. I'm trapped in this car. I need to escape, need to get back to Hunter. Goddess, now I feel awful. I'm angry and in tears and so confused and powerless. I keep thinking, I want to stop, I want to stop, I want to stop.

Up ahead, the road begins a slow curve to the left. Das Boot slows, and impulsively I throw open my door and fling myself from the car. I hear the squeal of breaks, and then I'm rolling down a short embankment covered with sharp-thorned thistles. I tumble to a halt. My arms and legs are scratched, rain is pelting my face and hair, and cautiously I begin to climb toward the road, both hoping Das Boot and its mystery driver are gone and feeling upset that my car might be missing.

But there's something-I feel a warmth on my back. I feel back there with my hand, and I jump back-fire! I look behind me, and there are wings made of fire flowing from my back! Who am I?

No car is on the road. Evening is sweeping in like a cape, flowing over the land. I make it to the road and begin to run back toward where I saw Hunter. I have to see him, to explain. I don't care what happens to me as long as I'm with him. I have to tell him that I wanted to stop, that I never would have passed him if I'd had a choice. I've abandoned my car in order to come tell him.

Soon my lungs burn for oxygen, and my running slows. I look behind me, and my fire wings are gone. I can't find Hunter, even though I'm screaming for him! I'm sure I've passed by where I saw him. I've gone back and forth a half dozen times, looking for him, calling his name. I'm soaked through and shivering, my skin rough with goose bumps. My feet hurt. I look down, and then the sharp, dark outline of a hawk overshadows the dusky gray of twilight. I feel a sudden, instantaneous terror-the bird is coming for me. I'm its prey! Wildly I look up, my arms already raised to protect myself from its attack-

— and I woke up in my bed, shaking and flooded with adrenaline. I glanced around in panic, but I immediately realized I was in my room. Confused and terrified, I burst into tears, grabbing my pillow and holding it against me. I'd had another nightmare. I braced myself, trying to remember its terrifying details, but found all that remained was a foggy miasma of fear, of panic. But why? What had it been about? I couldn't remember. The memory was slipping away from me. I punched my pillow in frustration, fresh sobs erupting. I muffled them in my pillow, then flopped down on my bed, crying harder. I don't know how long I cried, but eventually I choked to a watery stop and lay there, exhausted.

I had to get to the bottom of this. This was my third night of frightening dreams. What were they about? What was going on with me? Tomorrow after school I would tell Hunter and Alyce and Bethany about them. They were starting to affect my state of mind. I needed help.

And a drink of water. I pushed back the covers, barely noticing that my legs seemed to sting slightly. Then, as I was standing, I glanced down-and froze with horror. My feet and legs were wet! They had bits of wet grass clinging to them, as if I had just run across a lawn! And my legs were scratched all over, with dozens of tiny scratches, like I had-Oh, Goddess! My heart stopped and my blood turned to ice. Like I had rolled down a thorny embankment. I had been outside. I had been outside while I was asleep. Oh, Goddess, what was happening to me?

Shaking, I walked across the room, noting the faint outlines of damp footprints on my sisal rug. My throat was closed with fear, but desperately I cast my senses. I felt nothing out of the ordinary-just my sleeping family. And Dagda? I looked around for my kitten. He always slept with me, often under the covers. I went back and looked on my bed, patting the covers. No Dagda. I made little kissing sounds, calling him. Then I tiptoed out onto the landing and started down the stairs. I saw the barest trace of wet footprints on the stairs and a few pieces of grass. Goddess, Goddess.

Then, at the bottom of the stairs, I saw Dagda's glowing green eyes. He was hunched in front of the front door, his back arched, ears back. He was snarling, showing his teeth. I stared at him then, glanced behind me. There was nothing.

"Dagda, what's wrong?" I asked softly, padding down to get him. He drew back as I reached him, flattening himself against the door, his claws out, looking manic. Low growls came from his throat, along with a sibilant, teakettle hiss.

"Dagda!" I stopped and pulled back my outstretched hand in shock. He was hissing at me.

My parents were so surprised to see me the next morning that they stopped talking. Everyone in my family is an early bird, except me. It was a running joke that Mary K. sometimes had to resort to throwing water on my face to get me out of bed in time to get to school.

"Are you okay?" mu mom asked, looking at my face. "Did you not sleep well?"

I hadn't further depressed myself by looking in a mirror this morning, but I had a good idea of what I must look like. I moved zombielike to the refrigerator and pawed around inside until I found a Diet Coke. I managed to drink some, hoping the caffeine would help jump-start some brain cells.

"I did not sleep well," I confirmed in an understatement. Automatically I looked around for Dagda and saw him hunched over his bowl, wolfing down kibble. Last night had been so strange-he had never come back into my room.

"Are you sick?" my father asked.

"I don't think so," I said, bracing myself against the kitchen counter. At least not physically, I amended silently. Maybe mentally. I drank some more soda and sat down at my place at the table. "I just haven't been sleeping much."

"Studying," my mom theorized, nodding and clearing her place. "It won't be long till finals. Honey, I'm glad that your schoolwork is getting back up to par, but I don't want you to ruin your health staying up till all hours, studying."

"It's paying off, though," my dad said encouragingly. "You've been bringing home terrific grades, and your mom and I are really pleased."

I gave him a little smile. My grades had nose-dived earlier in the year, in part because of the time and energy I was outing into studying Wicca. My parents had gone ballistic and lowered the boom on me. Now I was studying more, careful to maintain a decent average.

I glanced over at Dagda-he was gone, and as I gazed blankly around the kitchen, I suddenly felt something warm and soft brush against my legs. Cautiously I looked down. My kitten-almost a cat now-was rubbing against me, purring, as he usually did. I tentatively reached down one hand, and he butted his little triangular head against it, demanding ear scratching. Almost weeping with relief-my cat didn't hate me! — I scratched his favorite spots until he flopped limply on the floor in a surfeit of pleasure.