Page 68 of Snatched By the Sandman

He arches a brow just as she does a twirl, and the change is subtle but enough so I may recognize, along with Hecate who angles her head in keen interest.

Now, the girl extends a hand in more of a formal greeting. “Good evening, Phantasos. Forgive my little sister, she gets a little excited at times.”

He takes her hand, shaking it cordially. “No forgiveness needed, and how old would you and your little sister be?”

She postures proudly. “I am eleven. Ginny is one minute and seven seconds younger.”

Ahh, yes, Phantasos seems to attract a younger audience. Understandable when he prefers the form of more light-hearted and decorative objects in the dreams of mortals.

He presses a hand to his chest. “I am honored that you remembered the dream I granted you on that cold night when a sudden winter frost struck autumn down like a nemesis.”

The girl suddenly glances around, and fear seems to widen her eyes. “Wait, what’s going on? This doesn’t feel like a normal dream. Who are they?” She hugs her arms to herself and shivers at the sight of Nyxion. “Linny, I don’t like it here,” she says in a higher voice but softer that betrays the younger twin.

The fear retreats—replaced by confusion. Our little dreamer’s head whirls, flicking her eyes every which way. My wing muscles bulge, and I prickle, rising at the same time Hecate does. Because…

Zenya has returned.

Chapter 23

Only I get to call myself a monster.

ZENYA

“I See Your Monsters” by Timeflies - Nightcore cover

“Yours to Hold” by Skillet

“Better Than Drugs” by Skillet

Once Hecate and Morpheus help me to the table, my trembling hands touch the amethyst-adorned journal. Hecate has shed more light on the situation, giving me more pieces of what happened, but they haven’t explained much about my inner monster who suddenly became an outer monster.

Hecate leans in to kiss the side of my head and say, “It is more than normal for you to feel overwhelmed…in the most understated of words. In reality, this journey would progress at a much different pace and in other ways. I can safely deduce that some experiences or encounters have already manifested, perhaps in ways you haven’t noticed. Or…” she trails off, and I don’t need her to finish.

In ways I have denied.Feelings like floating outside my body. Dreams far too vivid to be of the subconscious. Waking up with different clothes than I went to bed with. Unrecognizable marks on my body.

With a reassuring hand on my shoulder, the Goddess proclaims, “The nature of our world makes this emergence more intense, Zenya, but it also brings with it more opportunity.”

Opportunity. I flick my eyes to Hecate’s, but the prickling sensation at the back of my neck urges me more toward the fulfillment of that “opportunity.” My blood crystalizes at the thought of opening the book left for me.

Hecate hovers her hand above the book, maintaining a respectful distance as if demonstrating how significant it is…to me and for me. “Your fear is natural, our little dreamer. But you are not broken. Fragmentation if you wish to call it. But you are not alone.”

“What do you remember?” Hecate asks next to me, her palm steadying the back of my hand as I tread on the journal.

I don’t know how to describe the sensation.

The last thing Ifeltwere claws and teeth, blood dripping, breath suffocating from the reavers strangling me before throwing me into the storm. The last thing Isawwas this silhouette taking a dim shape and form—someone I recognized from my dreams. The last thing Iheardwas this voice—no louder than the calm, steady voice I’ve heard in the stillness of the mountains on a quiet, starlit night.

“It was like falling behind fog, watching from the other side. But fragments slipped through, splinters of the storm, a reaver’s scream, the shaking of a mane. I knew my body was moving without me controlling it, but all I could feel was this energy.”Like an all-consuming force, black and powerful…and ancient.

Hecate strokes the back of my hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Nyxion—pacing on the other side of the throneroom. Revulsion and cold hatred strike me like a crushing surf, and I struggle for breath, confused and abashed because I haveneverfelt that for Nyxion. I wince at the dim memory of reavers attacking him.

Feminine wrath, sexual fury, taunts and tests, threats and violence, yes.

But now, my blood ices with hostility, and I don’t know what to make of it.

I pause to observe the God of Nightmares, how he’s nothing more than a husk of a skeleton. His black diamond eyes still stray to mine. I remember our last encounter.

What I saw in his eyes—like I was the center of his universe where every nightmare in his essence fell into alignment like dark, celestial bodies orbiting around me.

---