Page 10 of Snatched By the Sandman

“So pointed, brother. I even got dressed up for this special visit.” I hear the smile in his voice and realize where he’s going with this.

“Do share, Phantasos. You know I’m always eager to know….”

“Countess Fangtastic,”shesays in the familiar, performative Queen persona. She goes back and forth for me, the differences between her Queen alter egos and Phantasos himself are subtle, but I have the pronoun-patterns memorized. “You only wish you had a gold tunic as fine as this, and my cape with its turned-out collar is quite the crowd-pleaser. It makes me feel like a vampire.”

I shake my head, chuffing a laugh. It’s no secret Phantasos gets along with both Nyxion and myself. He’s the fun middle brother dressing up as a new Queen every day and bringing his entertaining presence. He’s also quite exceptional at taking advantage of the chronic competition between myself and Icelos. And enjoys performing for mortals as a street dancer, musician, and even an artist while Icelos and I are busy with one another.

Countess Fangtastic chuckles, her form shifting again. I sense the new presence on the wall—one that manifests into a form I can make out as an ornate gilded mirror. My brother’s form is not so dim.

The air around the mirror crackles with images of chaotic dreams and nightmarish landscapes, including the unmistakable dark essence of Icelos. Visions manifest in my mind of Icelos passing through the great barrier.

“He calls himself Nyxion now. And he has grown bold,” the Countess’s voice echoes with a hint of malice. “He traveled to the waking world. Paid a visit to a very… interesting place.”

“What are you playing at, Countess? Why tell me this?”

The mirror shimmers and Phantasos steps out. My vision is muted, but I can faintly make out my brother holding an ornate chessboard with pieces moving on their own—soft taps against the wood, symbolizing our intricate game.

“Consider it a friendly gesture in these tumultuous times. We are all trying to outdo one another, are we not? Here is my knight…” Phantasos places the piece on the board, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Nyxion left a trail, brother. If you wish to follow it, you’ll find it leads to the waking world.”

I remain cautious, aware of Phantasos’s penchant for trickery, but the urgency of Nyxion’s actions cannot be ignored. “Where does the trail lead?”

My brother’s form transforms into a veil hanging in the hallway. “To a hospital bed. A place where the boundary between dreams and reality is thinnest. A girl named Zenya. Be careful, Morpheus. I cannot share what Nyxion did because it is not for polite society.”

With a final, teasing note in his voice, Phantasos disappears, leaving behind an eerie silence.

I contemplate the trickster’s warning. Nyxion’s energy from my visions is a dark stain on the fabric of the dreamscape, its malevolence intense even in his absence.

Determined, I follow the faint trail Phantasos has given me like breadcrumbs of crushed bones, each step bringing me closer to the waking world. The shadows at my command swirl protectively around me, their glittery, black diamond dust a constant reminder of my power and duty.

As I cross the threshold, the familiar sensations of my castle fade, replaced by the sterile, cold environment of the hospital. The hum of machinery and the faint scent of antiseptic fill the air.

Here is where the trail lingers, the dark essence of my oldest brother engulfing the bed of this young woman, Zenya.

Even a blind man could see she is beautiful. She lays here, her face peaceful yet pale, her dreams now a battleground between light and shadow.

A puzzling clarity washes over me as my senses absorb my surroundings. The shadows around me seem to pulse in sync with the rhythm of this significant girl’s heartbeat.

She is not fully shrouded in total darkness—more like a silhouette with light trimming the edges of her form. How is it possible?

I pause by Zenya’s bedside where the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window illuminates her form. I tilt my head, concentrating on discerning her dreams. They are adelicate tapestry interwoven with threads of purest light and deepest shadows.

An unsettling familiarity tugs at my consciousness, a sense of my oldest brother’s presence saturating the very air. His visceral one.

Confusion gnaws on my thoughts, my spine prickling. What was it about Zenya that draws my sightless gaze? The enigma deepens.

I reach out, my fingers tracing the right side of her body, where happy tattoos of gold stars and hearts decorate her skin. The contact sends a jolt through me, a sting like static electricity. Arching a brow, I recoil momentarily. But I reach for her again. Driven by a desperate need to understand.

I know what I must do.

Leaning closer, I rub my lips against her soft skin, tasting her eclipse essence, feeling her body heat within these cold environs.

I claim her mouth, kissing her full lips, then sinking my teeth into her lower lip—just enough to draw a single drop of blood. The rich honeyed taste with undertones of bittersweet darkness hits my tongue, and a torrent of knowledge crashes into me. A vision of her bound and blindfolded slams into me. My heart synchronizes its beat to hers. My soul is hell-bent on seeking hers.

“Damn, brother. What have you done?” I whisper, studying the tapestry along her skin, the tattoos seeming to swirl and pulse with a life of their own. Evidence of Nyxion’s actions.

This is why he is more powerful. He holds her mind. He’s shackled her to himself, feeding off her energy and emotions like a symbiotic parasite. His mind, her prison. Like a malevolent fog.

He’s turned her into a dream walker. No, a dreamweaver. The chilling clarity strikes me deep to my core—there is only one way Nyxion could have achieved this.

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