Page 21 of Sweet Nightmare

Ms. Aguilar doesn’t answer for a few seconds, just stares at Izzy with her mouth agape. I can see her mind working behind her big blue eyes, trying to decide if she needs to report Izzy for bringing contraband knives into the classroom and then using them against another student.

She’s either too scared or too impressed to do it, though, because in the end, she doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, she just clears her throat and says, “So, with no further ado, here are your Keats poetry assignments.”

She grabs the ends of the pink cloth that’s covering the front board and yanks it off to reveal our groups written out in exaggerated script, a poem listed next to each one. “There are questions in the back of the packet. This portion of the assignment must be finished today or you’ll fall behind, since we have more to do next class.” She claps her hands. “So get to work! And have fun!”

Fun, my ass. To stall, I stare at the list of questions—but all I can think about is Serena.

Still, once I get my brain to actually process them, they’re fairly straightforward, and a person can only read questions about rhyme schemes and meter so many times before they end up looking ridiculous. Though not as ridiculous as the Jean-Jerks, who are currently grunting and sweating as they work to free Jean-Luc from Izzy’s little knife trick.

Apparently fae don’t have the same upper body strength as vampires. What a pity.

I flip to our poem—“To Fanny”—and then, with no further excuses as to why I can’t look at Jude, I turn around. And end up staring straight at his very broad, very muscly chest.

Not that it matters, because it absolutely, positively, does not. None of it does.

Not his carved-out jaw.

Not his perfectly chiseled cheekbones.

And definitely not the ridiculously long eyelashes that frame the most interesting and arresting eyes I’ve ever seen.

Nope, none of it matters at all. Because what does matter is that he’s a total jackass who used to be my best friend until he kissed me out of the blue—which I refuse to think about anymore—and then unceremoniously cut me out of his life with no explanation. That’s what I need to focus on right now and not how good he looks…or smells.

Seconds roll into minutes, and my stomach churns as I wait for Jude to say something. Anything.

Not that there’s anything he can say to justify what he did, but I am curious about how he’ll start. An apology? An explanation? Just because there’s no explanation good enough doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear one.

Several more seconds pass before Jude clears his throat, and I brace myself for anything. Anything, that is, except, “Keats was in love with Fanny for most of his adult life.”

“Excuse me?” I try to bite the exclamation back, but I’m so shocked it practically falls out of my mouth. Jude hasn’t spoken to me in three years, and that’s what he leads with?

“The poem, Clementine,” he prompts after a second, and his use of my real name feels like a low blow.

He doesn’t seem to recognize the gut punch, as he continues, “It’s called ‘To Fanny.’ He fell in love with her soon after they met when he was twenty-two.” Jude holds up his phone—open to a literature site—like it’s his knowledge of John Keats I’m questioning and not the giant elephant in the room.

But fine. Just…fine. Two can play at this game. He’s not the only one who can google, so I take a moment to do just that before holding up my own phone to him. “And she was seventeen, which is a little gross if you ask me.”

I know it was a different time, one where people routinely died at twenty-five, like Keats. But if arguing about a dead Romantic’s problematic love life keeps us from actually discussing the disgustingly sappy love poem, I’m all for it.

Except Jude doesn’t seem to be in the mood to argue. “Agreed,” he answers, raking a casual hand through his chin-length black hair.

I try really hard not to notice the way it falls perfectly to one side, like it has a mind of its own—one that’s determined to make him look as good as paranormally possible. I also ignore the way the razor-cut tips of it brush against his chin, accenting the ridiculously perfect light-brown skin that he inherited from his Korean dad.

Then again, most oneiroi are gorgeous, I remind myself. Jude’s not special. It’s just that being a dream daimon makes him a member of the most beautiful paranormal species in existence. Which is totally not fair.

Despite being a manticore, I feel downright boring in comparison—everyone is when they’re sitting next to him. Even Izzy looks a little blah, and she’s the most striking vampire I’ve ever seen.

But it doesn’t matter what he looks like. Because Jude may look like a dream on the outside, but he’s an absolute nightmare on the inside. I didn’t know that when we became friends all those years ago, but I know it now, and there’s no way I’m forgetting it.

“John Keats was complicated,” he continues in that deep, musical voice that I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. When we were friends, his voice hadn’t yet become this dark, rhythmic thing that fills the air around me.

An unwitting shiver slides down my spine, but I ignore it. It must be the air-conditioning vent I’m sitting under.

“And by complicated, you mean an asshole, right?” I snark, gesturing to the poem in front of me. “What gave it away? The fact that he abandoned the self-proclaimed love of his life to die alone and penniless in Italy?”

“You think that makes him an asshole?” He looks outraged. “Even though he had to leave?”

“He didn’t have to do anything but die,” I snap. “It’s awful that he left her when they needed each other most. Nearly as awful as her just letting him leave without a fight.”

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