The memory Owen Minor dreamed did not belong to him. On some strange level, down deep where knowledge comes more from instinct or intuitive leaps than from rational thought, he knew it was not really a dream. Not a fantasy about something triggered by the tattoo.
It was an awful thing. All of the pain and passion, the cries and screams, the blood and tears.
It was a delicious thing. The pain and passion, the cries and screams, the blood and tears. Especially the tears.
And as he slept, he fed on every single drop.