The Hunter’s Path
A day in the life of America’s only Witcher.
[AN: This is fic rides the line between heavily inspired by and fanfic of The Witcher 3, except Geralt is genderswapped and it takes place in America and Gerra Witcher-fied herself. Story under the cut, and enjoy the art!
Also, my deepest apologies for things that seem like they should be italicized but aren’t. Tumblr ate all my italics D:]
Gerra filled up her motorcycle at a po-dunk gas station in the middle of nowhere on Highway 71. The sun was probably two hours from setting, and she’d get to her destination in less than one. A quick hike would put her in prime position to get her target right at dusk.
With a quick side glance at the gas station window, she hid her cigarette under one hand and snapped her fingers to light it, taking a good, long drag. Nicotine didn’t do a whole lot for her, but it felt good. A pre-hunt ritual.
“That shit’ll kill ya, you know.”
She puffed out one last cloud of smoke and dropped the cigarette, grinding it under her boot. She glanced over at the gas station attendant who’d come outside with a vape—stupid kid. She snorted and said, “I get into shit that’ll kill me a lot faster, kid.”
“Oh yeah, grandma?”
Gerra felt her lips curl almost involuntarily, and she turned to face the kid fully. Her jacket swung open a little; she was licensed to open carry, and the wicked scar carved down the left half of her face usually did the trick. “Oh, yeah.”
The kid gave her an appraising once-over, brow furrowed, before their face cleared. “Oh. You’re one-a them, aren’t ya?”
They don’t need to clarify. If you know, you know—and they were pretty close to a reservation. Most people knew there. “Maybe.”
“My uncle says he saw Bigfoot once. You ever seen Bigfoot?”
“Bigfoot isn’t real,” Gerra said. “I would know.”
The kid’s eyes traveled to the newspaper stand beside her, where Gerra could see the headline: Fifth victim found mutilated in Chippewa National Forest! “That’s awfully close,” the kid said, dubiously.
“That’s where I’m headed.” Gerra cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders back. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” the kid said dutifully with a little wave. Gerra waved back and swung onto the motorcycle. On went the helmet, white hair squished down, visor snapped closed. She felt her pupils widen to compensate for the darkened view. Then it was onto the open road again.
She liked the open road, most of the time. It was freedom—it was her calling—it was the path.
Ten minutes out from her destination, she pulled off to the side of the road to get things in order.
Her phone dinged, reminding her to turn it on silent, and she slid it out of her pocket to check the notification. A Google alert, telling her that girl popstar phenomenon Dandelion was coming to Minneapolis that night, concert starting at 7pm sharp, Dandelion going onstage at 9.
Gerra considered. She could get there easy, 371 to 94. Depending on how fast she got this job done she might even catch the tail end of the concert. Always good to see an old pal.
She put the phone away and reached into the motorcycle’s saddlebags; her arm went all the way down as she groped around. A witch had enchanted the bag to be much bigger on the inside, more like the size of a small storage unit. It made life on the open road a lot easier, but she couldn’t exactly climb into the bag to keep it organized.
Eventually she drew out a long blade. She unsheathed it to check the sigils, though they were the same every time: fire, mind, shield, force, slow, embedded in silver and steel, depending on what she was fighting.
Gerra remembered Jennifer asking her once why she didn’t just use a gun.
“Because gun ammo runs out,” Gerra had said flatly as she ran a cloth over her sword. “Bullets run out and they’re a bitch to replace and bless and do whatever other bullshit needs to be done to them. Besides, I do have guns, I just don’t use them. Often.” Guns did more to deter humans than monsters, anyway.
Jennifer scoffed. “I could just make you a magic gun, you know.”
Gerra held her blade up for inspection, paying close attention to the runes. “Maybe I just like using a sword. Hey, you mind enchanting this?”
“Oh, so you’ll take a magic sword but not a gun. Isn’t it already enchanted?”
“People keep asking questions about it,” Gerra grumbled.
“Fine.” Jennifer held out her hand with a sigh, and Gerra smacked the handle into her palm. “One visual suppression spell, coming right up.”
She put the sword back, leaving it at the top for easy grabbing. Time to go; it was nearly dusk and she was almost there.
A man in a park ranger’s uniform complete with the hat stood waiting by the ranger’s station when she rode up and slid into the parking lot.
“Thanks for coming,” the man said once she’d dismounted and approached with her sword, extending his hand. He had to crane his neck to look up at her. “I’m Tess.”
Gerra shook it; his grip was strong, matching hers. “Gerra. Thanks for the call.”
“It took awhile to get your number,” he said, forehead creasing. “No one wants to fight this thing.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Gerra rumbled. She gestured to the signs pointing the way to the trails.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” Tess hesitated a moment into their walk, then lowered his voice and said, “The last victim was my friend. I found his remains a mile down the trail three days ago. The trailhead’s been closed since.”
“I’m sorry,” Gerra said, though she didn’t really feel anything. Friends and family needed to feel like someone cared, she reminded herself.
Tess remained silent until they were almost at the signs marking the trails, and then he said tentatively, “So you’re a hunter, huh?”
She appraised him—young, probably mid-twenties, a native to Minnesota in every sense of the word. He’d probably grown up with stories of shit like this, maybe even had a hunter around to tell them. But she was a different thing: wild and grown from magic and sheer willpower instead of myths and legends and the humanness of other hunters. “You could say that.”
“That’s pretty neat,” Tess said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “How long’ve you been hunting?”
Gerra arranged a straight face and said, “A hundred years or so, I dunno.”
Tess stared at her wide-eyed, stopping just before the trailhead. She could see the gears turning in his head, and she had to admit, it was pretty funny. “Uh. Okay well—we’re here.” He gestured down the trail. “Like I said. A mile down.”
“Great. Thanks.” Gerra hefted her sword over her shoulder.
Tess hesitated, and then: “Am I gonna need to call an ambulance on my way out?”
Gerra cracked her neck from side to side, rolling out the lengthy ride. “Don’t worry about it. If I die, I die. You can call this number to have someone come retrieve my body and maybe finish taking care of the problem.” She flipped a shimmery business card out from her jacket between her fingers and slapped it onto Tess’s chest. “Don’t worry about me. Seriously.”
Tess scrambled to catch the card before it fell as she moved away. “‘If I die I die?’ That’s a pretty depressing way of living if you ask me.”
“Well no one asked you,” Gerra snapped. She sniffed on the air. There was an acrid scent rising on the wind, meat and death and a chill that wore through her jacket to her bones. An ordinary person would take this as a sign: danger, will robinson! But she was anything but ordinary.
“You better leave,” she told Tess. “Come back in the morning and call that number if my ride is still here.”
“Wait!” he called after her. “Don’t you like, need a flashlight?”
Gerra raised her sheathed blade over her head; it was glowing faintly in the dusky light. “I know what I’m doing,” she yelled back. “Get outta here!”
She heard scrambling behind her but didn’t bother to look. On her way down the leafy trail, she secured her blade over her shoulder to get it out of the way. She blinked once, twice, three times, and her eyes adjusted to the vague, waning light like a telescope seeking the stars.
On any other night, it might have been nice to take a walk in the forest. On this night, not one creature stirred—no crickets, no squirrels, no birds or owls or bears for as far as she could hear, which was plenty far enough.
Monsters didn’t like her. Sometimes they sensed the magic running through her blood and bones; sometimes they just didn’t like her energy. Either way, most of the time she could draw them out simply by walking around and yelling, putting a neon sign over her head screaming look at me, I’m an easy victim! No need for sneaking.
But tonight, her quarry felt different. It felt… dangerous. And she liked a little danger. A lot of danger, actually.
Eventually she tasted a rusty iron scent in the air and figured she’d reached the point where the last victim had been found. The body was long gone, but in the dark her eyes easily picked out the pool of blood in the dirt and a trail leading into the forest. As she tread carefully beside the dripped blood, there was still no sound besides her own footsteps. It was eerie even to her hardened and heightened senses.
She followed the scent of blood deeper off the beaten path. The smell grew rancid, and she knew she’d find a lair nearby.
The newspaper articles had been wildly unhelpful, but the Algonquian elder who’d gotten ahold of her number told her this: the bodies had been mutilated as if eaten by a humanoid creature. They’d been labeled as wild animal attacks, speculated as a grizzly bear or the like, but Gerra knew better: only one creature in this area fit all the descriptors of the attacks. A wendigo.
Wendigos—creatures consumed by hunger, sometimes evil spirits, sometimes cannibals turned from human into a hungering thing that yearned for human flesh.
“They’re rare, one hasn’t come along in my lifetime,” the elder had said, rubbing his knuckles together. “All our hunters are gone away on other business, just now, and the last victim was killed three days ago. We need your help.”
“Of course,” Gerra had soothed into the phone. “Just give me as many details as you can—“ And she’d gone along the typical line in inquiry: what injuries had the victims sustained, when each death occurred, where the bodies had been found and in what condition. Smells, visuals, texture, the whole shebang—anything she could get. The elder couldn’t give her much in the way of sensory exploration but had enough knowledge of the incidents to get her where she needed to go.
Shockingly, for all her years of experience, Gerra had never hunted a wendigo before. She was looking forward to the challenge.
Her ears pricked before she saw anything. A crackle in the bushes ahead, a heavy snort, an exhale of rotten breath. No ordinary human could have sensed these things, but Gerra did, and she switched course, letting her feet fall loudly on the underbrush.
Suddenly, there it was.
A massive, gangling creature loomed in front of her, blood dripping from its mouth. It was skinny, emaciated, and though its form was twisted nearly beyond recognition she knew a humanoid when she saw one. This would be a bitch of a fight, she thought. She drew her sword.
The runes glowed bright, brighter than a full moon, and the wendigo shrieked, throwing itself at her full force. She rolled to the side with a cackle. “That all you got, motherfucker?”
The wendigo shrieked again. Its foul breath ghosted over her in an overwhelming wave. It was truly disgusting, and she’s once stood in the mouth of a dragon that didn’t smell nearly as bad. It swiped at her with elongated nails—claws, really—which she countered with her blade.
Gods, this fucker was fast.
She whirled and twisted out of its blows but couldn’t quite get a hit on it. She’d have to torch it.
When the wendigo drew back to catch its breath and prepare another hit, she thrust her free hand out, curling her fingers. The fire sigil on her sword glowed and flames burst from her palm, igniting the air between them.
It screamed. If she’d thought its breath smelt bad before, the stench of burning, rotting flesh hit even worse. She wrinkled her nose just as the wendigo slashed down at her, and she barely got a hand up before the claws descended.
A golden light wound over her from her fingertips and down her arm, encasing her in magic. The wendigo’s claws merely slid off her. It hurt, but not nearly as much as it could have. Goddamn.
Since fire seemed to have the best effect, she continued frying it from a distance and throwing up a shield when it got into her personal space. The fight dragged on—usually she could take care of the problem swiftly, but this damn thing was hardy.
It was time to bring out the big guns.
She threw one last blast of fire at it, then turned and sprinted back up the path. Probably the thing could run faster than her, but this would at least buy her time: time to dig into the pouch at her hip and yank out a tiny vial. She dug the cork out with her teeth and spat it onto the trail beside her before downing the contents of the bottle. It tasted truly vile, and she could already feel her eyesight going sharp as it always did. Her hand flexed around her sword as the sigils glowed brighter.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough. As she tossed the bottle aside, the wendigo was somehow right behind her, and it tossed her aside like kindling straight into a tree. “Fuck,” she grit out, gasping for breath. The wendigo was on her then, immediately, and things rapidly spiraled into a fight for her life. The words if I die, I die chanted over and over in her mind like a mantra. Fire put it back some, but not enough, until finally—finally—the potion kicked in.
Magic sparked out of her blade with every hit. The wendigo shrieked in pain, yowling as she drove it back into the trees. Her vision was going haywire, but she could still see it flailing as her last blow slashed it across the chest and she flung fire into its face one last time. It screamed, a sad, pathetic noise that belied its angry shrieks from before, and then crumpled to the ground in a pile of burning flesh.
Gerra stood before it, chest heaving as she caught her breath. After a moment she poked the remains with one steel-toed boot. “Gross,” she muttered, though it wasn’t really any worse than anything else she’d ever seen. Time to collect.
She dug into her jacket pocket—the jacket that was now bloody and a little singed—and withdrew a few empty vials that somehow hadn’t been smashed. She didn’t want to make the trek all the way up to the parking lot and back for this, so she’d have to make it all fit.
Her encyclopedic knowledge of monsters mixed with Jennifer’s knowledge of magic and potions twined together to give her a general start to collecting parts. The eyes—or what was left of them—and the teeth went into separate jars. Several of the claws went into a heavy duty ziplock bag. Peelings of skin and blood went into vials. Gerra wasn’t sure how getting roasted would affect the potency of ingredients, but she would appropriately label and record everything when she got back to the parking lot—or maybe tomorrow.
She trudged back up to the trailhead with heavy pockets and a sword dripping with monster blood. Some of it burned off by magic before she reached her destination, but she had to grab a rag from her saddlebag to clean the rest of it. Ingredients went into a gallon sized ziplock bag inside her enchanted bag along with her cleaned sword. Then there was the problem of the blood everywhere on her.
“The bathroom better be open,” she muttered as she made her way over to the washroom building. The women’s side was locked, but for some reason the men’s wasn’t. The stench of urine assaulted her sensitive nose as she slid in, and the floor was sticky with something that she ignored in favor of grabbing a bunch of paper towels to mop up her jacket.
Gerra splashed some water on her face and hands. The blood was basically gone, and she was lucky none had gotten in her hair. Her eyes were no longer entirely black but rather their usual gold, just a few darkened veins. When she was satisfied that she didn’t look like she’d be coming from a scene of carnage, she set fire to the bloody paper towels in the waste bin and headed out.
The drive to Minneapolis was uneventful, just a straight shot down a mostly deserted highway where she could speed all she wanted. She estimated she probably shaved a whole half hour off the trip.
She parked her motorcycle in a two-hour parallel spot and left her helmet on the seat. No one would take it—old Roach wouldn’t start for anyone but her, anyway. Gerra could leave the keys in the ignition and her bike would be right where she’d left it. From there it was a short walk to the stadium marked on her Google alert.
She knew she was close by the barricades around the back entrance and the sound of thumping music from inside. Gerra took up her let’s go kill shit stride.
“You’re not allowed back here,” the security guard started when she marched up, but then there came a shrill call:
“Gerra! Oh my god, you made it!”
Dandelion’s stage manager—Priscilla, Gerra thinks, though it’s hard to remember with her new pounding headache—practically sprinted up to the barricade, cigarette in hand. “It’s okay, she’s on The List.”
The guard eyed Gerra warily but pulled up the rope for Gerra to slip under. “Thanks,” Gerra told him. He gave her a professional nod and turned back to do his job.
“When’s the concert end?” Gerra asked Priscilla as they headed into the building. She could already hear the music thumping.
“It’s almost over. You’re just in time for her new song,” Priscilla gushed. “Tonight’s the debut!”
Gerra raised an eyebrow. “Brand new, huh?”
“You’re going to love it,” Priscilla said in tones of great excitement. “Come on. You can watch from the back.”
Gerra caught a glimpse of the crowd and the small figure of Dandelion down below as they hurried past the walkway by the second level of seats. The massive screens overhead broadcasted the main stage, where Dandelion’s ostentatious costume was sparkling in the blinding lights. Off to the side, Gerra could see an interpreter signing along at lightning speed to the tail end of the current song.
They went through a small door labeled staff only and ended up in a small room where Gerra could still hear everything as if unmuffled from out in the stadium. The room was connected to the side of the stage, teeming with hustling techies and costumers and whoever else was needed to run a production like this. If she craned her neck a bit, she could see Dandelion ending her song with a flourish of her guitar.
Dandelion swanned to the front and center as Gerra watched from the shadows. “And I’ve got one last song for you guys! It’s called The Dragon, and it’s inspired by my very best friend in the whole world, who’s always fighting dragons, real and imaginary!”
If only they knew how literal the dragons were, Gerra thought, crossing her arms over her chest.
The song was pretty catchy, Gerra had to admit. The rhymes were clever, inspired even, and the melody had a good beat to it that she could appreciate. It was about Gerra’s most recent encounter with an errant dragon, which had involved a lot of singed hair and ended in Gerra needing a new leather jacket. Dandelion had left out a lot of the gory details but included some rather heroic antics that made Gerra feel a little better about herself.
Soon the song was over, and then the final bows were made, and Dandelion made her way backstage. Her on-stage energy carried back in her step, enthusiastic and bouncing.
Dandelion’s ear speaker and box were swiftly removed by an assistant wearing a radio headset. Dandelion flounced over to Priscilla, practically glowing. “That went perfectly!”
Priscilla clapped her hands together once and beamed. “Your best show yet, girl! Good job!”
Dandelion was gracefully tucked into a long, robe-like coat that covered up her costume, and when she flicked her hair aside, she spotted Gerra. “Gerra? No way!”
“It’s me,” Gerra said, quirking her lips a bit.
Dandelion bounced over and hugged her, much tighter than expected from someone so small. “Oh my god, I’m so glad to see you! I didn’t know you were coming, or I would’ve gotten you the best seats!”
“It’s okay,” Gerra said hastily, giving Dandelion a quick hug back and extricating herself. Dandelion’s idea of the best seat in the house was front row next to the stage, and Gerra knew for a fact she’d go into sensory overload immediately.
“Come on, let’s go out for a bit,” Dandelion announced, tuggin Gerra towards the door.i haven’t seen you in ages, we simply must catch up!”
Gerra let herself be dragged along. “Alright, alright,” she grumbled, though she felt pretty famished herself. Food might be nice.
Dandelion’s bodyguard—a hunk of muscle Gerra had never met before—came hustling behind them as they reached the back entrance. “Ma’am! Wait up!”
“Trust me, I am fine with Gerra,” Dandelion said with a bit too much enthusiasm. Her bodyguard’s expression screamed unimpressed, but he had to look up at Gerra to meet her eyes, so she counted that as a win. After a moment he sighed and gestured go, which prompted Dandelion to loop her arm in Gerra’s and march them both past the barricade and down the street.
Gerra’s ears picked up the sound of thousands of fans all trying to leave at once through the front entrance, and she was immediately glad that they could escape out the back.
Dandelion was chattering away when Gerra refocused on her. “—we’ll just hop in for a quick diet coke, I’m simply parched. And a piping hot fry, of course. Say, Gerra, how’d you like that last bit? Priscilla said you came in right before The Dragon.”
“Mmhm,” Gerra grunted; at the mention of food her stomach had grumbled, and that was now all she could think about. She had to pivot back to the memory of Dandelion’s new number. “It was pretty good,” she admitted. “You really captured the energy of the hunt.”
Dandelion preened. “Well, thank you! You’ve always been my best muse, you know.”
Gerra can’t remember how many songs Dandelion has written about her, but it’s definitely more than five. At one point Dandelion had made noises about making a whole album about Gerra, but Gerra shut that down on the spot.
They headed down the street to Dandelion’s chosen restaurant, and when it came down to order, Gerra realized that her wallet was in her saddlebag, and furthermore she only had enough cash to pay for a tank fill up and maybe a motel room for a few hours. Dandelion was appalled.
“I can’t believe you’re making me pay for your food. Your McDonald’s. Aren’t you a big bad monster hunter? Don’t you get paid?”
Gerra grumbled, “We never got around to discussing it. I gave him Jennifer’s card in case I died, but you know Jen won’t take payment for anyone but herself.”
“Well, just this once,” Dandelion said imperiously, digging a slim metal credit card out of her pocket to pay. Gerra ordered a large meal with an extra two burgers on the side, and Dandelion went for “a large diet coke, please, and a medium fry.” A side glance at Gerra. “Better make that a large, thanks. What’s that? Oh yeah, I’d love to go for a picture!”
While Dandelion dealt with the receipts and her gaggle of fans that materialized from the kitchen, Gerra got her coke and found a booth in the furthest corner to brood. She didn’t tire easy, but she had been on the road all day and the fight had taken a chunk out of her stamina. If she took a shot now she could make it a couple more hours. Or, she could let Dandeluon drag her back to an opulent hotel room for a sleepover where she’d paint Gerra’s nails while Gerra drifted the line of unconsciousness and awake.
She was already toeing that line when Dandelion swept over bearing a large tray overflowing with food. “Gerra, this is a lot! You must’ve had a big hunt.” She squinted a little. “There’s not a lot of blood, though.”
“I cleaned up,” Gerra grunted around her first burger. Salty, greasy food really hit the spot.
“Yeah, yeah. And wearing black hides the rest of it, blah blah.” Dandelion took a noisy sip of her drink and began picking at her fries. “I know you’re tired, but you better tell me all about it tomorrow! I’m sure it’s very exciting.”
Gerra didn’t bother replying, as every fight she’d ever been in was exciting to Dandelion. Dandelion proceeded to ramble about everything and nothing at all as Gerra plowed her way through all the burgers. When she’d finished her fries, Dandelion pushed her half-finished cartoon over, and Gerra demolished that, too. Once all the food was gone, she groaned and leaned back to stretch.
Dandelion watched her patiently for a moment, then said decisively, “Let’s go back to the hotel. I’ve got the perfect movie for us to watch, and I’m sure you’ll want a shower beforehand.”
“Could do with one,” Gerra said, already thinking of steaming hot water beating down on her sore back. “Better grab my bike first, though.”
Dandelion’s phone was in her hands instantly. “I’ll have someone else get it. Roach, right? Hi Priscilla! Yeah, could you have someone grab the motorcycle Gerra came in on? It’s probably in the alley, got the word Roach on it. Don’t ask me, she’s real cagey about it. We’ll be at the hotel. Tooda-loo!”
She shoved the phone in her pocket and began gathering up all the trash; Gerra helped. “Thanks for the meal,” Gerra started, but Dandelion waved her away.
“No big deal, I promise!” Dandelion snatched the tray away and tossed everything appropriately, then slung her arm in Gerra’s again. “Let’s go, the hotel’s not far.”
The more Gerra thought about it as they went outside, the more a nice soft bed appealed to her, and the less any sort of walking did. Fortunately, a large SUV was waiting outside, engine idling, and Dandelion ushered her into it. From there Gerra was pretty sure Dandelion could smell the dried blood leftover on Gerra’s jacket—she crinkled her nose and muttered, “Dry cleaning, dry cleaning, don’t forget. I’ve got extra stuff you can wear.”
Gerra raised an eyebrow; she stood a good foot over Dandelion, nothing she had would fit.
Dandelion gave her a look. “Don’t be stupid, I always have extra clothes for you lying around.”
Something twined its way around Gerra’s heart, and she quirked her lips. “Thanks, good to know.”
The drive back to the very fancy hotel was indeed short. Gerra felt very out of place when they walked in—it looked like even the workers were dressed in business casual, and there were both doormen and security guards. The whole place was opulent in every sense of the word.
Dandelion tugged her towards the elevator. “Come on, let’s go. You need a shower real bad.”
Gerra grunted; she couldn’t disagree. And since Dandelion had mentioned it, her clothes could do with a good wash, too. It was becoming increasingly hard to concentrate on anything but a shower as the elevator climbed, and she didn’t even bother looking around the rest of the room before she shed her boots and jacket and slid into the bathroom.
The hot shower felt amazing. Gerra wasn’t much for creature comforts, but she did love a nice bath or shower after a long day on the road fighting monsters. She would’ve taken a bath except she knew the bath water would just be bloody afterwards and she’d have to shower anyway.
Five minutes in, the door opened, and Gerra could see Dandelion’s silhouette through the curtain gathering up clothes and leaving a pile on the edge of the sink before tiptoeing out. It was fine, Gerra thought. She wasn’t sure what kind of clothes Dandelion had lying around for her, but even if it was bright neon pink footie pajamas, it was the thought that counted.
The shower dragged on; the hot water never gave out, so Gerra found herself zoning out under the spray, her mind going blank and her eyes drooping slightly. She was tired.
A knock on the door startled her out of her daze. “Gerra! I hope you aren’t meditating in there!” A pause, then: “Can you meditate standing up? That’s so weird, oh-em-gee. Anyway, hurry up, Mean Girls is on and I know for a fact you haven’t seen it yet!”
Gerra groaned and shook herself, shutting off the shower. “Fuckin’ coming, don’t get all up in arms about it.”
“Yay!” Dandelion’s footsteps pattered away and the bed squeaked. Gerra selfishly hoped there were two beds.
When she emerged, there were in fact two beds—queen size, which would leave her feet dangling off the edge unless she slept diagonally. She flopped face down onto the empty one with a groan.
“Great!” Dandelion said, with gusto. “Come on, this is great! You’re gonna love Lindsay Lohan in this, and Rachel McAdams is fantastic. I always had a crush on Regina, you know…”
Gerra’s eyes were slowly shutting to the sound of Dancing With Myself. She huffed out a deep breath into the pillow and let herself drift away.
