Page 1 of Sweet Nightmare

PROLOGUE

NIGHT AFTER

NIGHT-MARE

- JUDE -

I know your worst nightmare.

No, not that one. The other one.

The one you don’t trot out at parties.

The one you don’t whisper to your best friend late at night.

The one you don’t even acknowledge to yourself until it’s three a.m. and the lights are out and you’re too paralyzed with fear to even reach your arm out and flick on the bedside lamp. So you lay there, heart racing, blood pumping, ears straining for the slide of the window, the creak of the door, the footstep on the stairs.

The monster under the bed.

The monster inside your head.

Don’t be ashamed. Everyone has one—even me.

Mine always starts out the same.

Full moon. Hot, sticky air. Moss hanging low enough to brush your face on a late-night walk. Waves crashing against the shore. A cottage—a girl—a storm—a dream, forever out of reach.

I know it doesn’t sound like much, but the story isn’t in the setup. It’s in the blood and the betrayal.

So fall asleep if you dare. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Because the only thing I can promise is that my nightmares are worse than yours.

CHAPTER ONE

NO SUCH THING

AS A QUICK ESCAPE

- CLEMENTINE -

Of all the punishments this school for misfits and fuckups could throw at a person, I can’t believe I’m stuck with this one. Just last week, one of the new vamps nearly drained a witch and all she got was dish duty.

Ironic? Absolutely.

Fair? Not even close.

Then again, here at Calder Academy, fair is pretty much a nebulous concept, right up there with safety and good judgment. Hence the reason my mother—aka the headmaster not-so-extraordinaire of this not-so-extraordinary establishment—thinks assigning me to chrickler duty is actually a reasonable thing for an administrator to do.

Spoiler alert: it’s not. It is, however, absolutely miserable. Not to mention dangerous as hell.

Still, nearly three years of this nightmare have taught me a few tricks—chief among them, to walk softly—and slowly—and carry a really big bag of kibble.

A quick scan of the large, shadowy enclosure shows me the food has once again done its job. The little monsters are actually distracted—at least for now.

With that thought in mind, I take a small, calculated step back toward the door. When none of the chricklers raises so much as a furry eyebrow, let alone actually looks up from their long troughs full of kibble, I take another. And another. The old, wooden door that separates me from the basement hallway is almost in reach. A couple more steps and I might actually make it out of here without losing any blood.

Hope, like assholery, springs eternal.

A drop of sweat slides down my spine as I take another cautious step backward. Then I hold my breath as I reach behind me for the old-fashioned latch that keeps the chricklers—and me—locked in this cool, dark pen.

---