Sienna Fever dreams are absolute hell, and even knowing somewhere inside that I was dreaming, Erich Winter didn’t help. I could feel the spin of unreality around me, of a world moving too quick by half to be real, of my forehead burning and my eyes pressed closed, the color of things not quite right. It wasn’t reality; it was surreality, and the vision of the man who had most hurt me in my life standing in front of me just added the extra dash of crazy it took me to buy into it for the moment. “This isn’t real.” My words slurred, like I was drunk. “What is real?” Winter said in that low voice. I hadn’t heard him speak in years, and I hadn’t missed it. “Is life real? Matter, real? Liquid, solid, gas? Are any of them really real?” “You’re leaning pretty hard on the ‘gas’ part of it right now, arentcha?” I asked, being just as much of a smarty to him dead as I would have been in life. But with less face punching.
