Page 103 of Snatched By the Sandman

Ivy whimpers again, Phantasos rocks her stronger, clutching the back of her head to his chest. “I’ve got you, Ivy. I’m so glad you followed me.”

“Fuck you!” I shout to no one before I turn back to Thanatos, glaring icy daggers at him.

Six strides. I count each one like the pounding of my heart as I storm toward him and step right in his path. Out of the corner of my eye, the other three move toward me, their fear palpable.

Thanatos raises one hand. One silent command for them not to interfere. Instead, he meets my gaze with an omnipotence in his golden eyes—so gold, they shimmer like treasure. “Yes, little stranger.”

My breath catches at the word, the true meaning of my name. “You’re going to delay Ivy’s death. I command it.”

“Hmm,” he does not respond with anger or a force of power. No, everything about him is serene. Too serene, it nearly calms my nerves, but I grow every infuriated one back. “Tell me why I will do such a thing, Zenya.”

“Because I willshowyou why. And I know how curious Death can be. Will you let me show you, Thanatos? Please?” I finally offer up a thread of desperation, however wrapped in determination.

My entire soul holds its breath. My world is suspended in this eye of a storm only he and I know and feel. Ivy’s whimpers, Thanatos’s words of comfort…everything fades away.

Death’s golden eyes deepen upon mine. Ice crystals like beautiful patterns of frost creep along his robe.

In one moment, he nods and lifts his palm toward mine. “Show me.”

Summoning my deepest breath and resolve of steel, I envision the exact place I want to go and touch my palm to his.

A second later, we’ve shadow-traveled faster than ever. One second ago, I was in Hecate’s castle. Now, we are standing in a hospital room. Invisible to all. A mother and father kneel on each side of the little blonde girl who lies comatose on the bed, an intubation tube in her throat. Others have gathered around the bed. Brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, grandparents. Friends wait outside the doors.

Her parents are crying. Because they sense this is the end of their little girl.

I’m crying with them.

Thanatos cups my shoulder and says, “What do you wish of me, Zenya?”

No hesitations. No reserves. With hellbound resolve in all my heart and soul, I lock my eyes onto his, stab a finger at the most beautiful, little girl I’ve ever had the blessing to know, and proclaim, “Give. Her. My. Soul.”

The icy breath of Death curls across my face, writing invisible warnings like veins of sinister frost.

“Do you understand what you are asking?” Death’s voice is low and resonant, carrying the weight of countless souls.

“Yes, you prick with your goddamn, dick sickle,” I spit out, impatient. Every sound from Ivy’s bedroom is like a knife digging into my ears. “I don’t care as long as Ivy lives.” I keep my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides.

I could transplant my soul back into my body, forget all this pain and torture. I wouldn’t remember the horrors of the Abyss. I wouldn’t remember how I relived the worst nightmare of my life. It would be so simple. But even with my memory, I would never want to live in a world where Ivy can not. She deserves the world far more than me.

“You have no anchor here,” he tells me, his tone grave and unyielding. “You will fly away and become a lost dream, and no one can stop it.”

“Will this take away my alters?” I ask, my heart quivering, desperation in my words.

“No,” he says, his eyes dark and inscrutable, but it brings relief to my shoulders. “They are too strong of entities in yourmind and your heart. They will float away with you, and you will become nothing more than energy sharing energy with them.”

We are with you, Zenya,Eclipse tells me.We love Ivy, too. And she deserves to live.

We all do.

My resolve only hardens. So I take a deep breath, pit my eyes to his, and declare, “Do it.”

Thanatos nods solemnly.

He produces the artifact tool, and I don’t bother asking how he obtained it. It seems to gleam more in his hands.

“Turn around, stranger,” he directs.

Once I do, he places a firm hand on the back of my neck, shifting my hair to one side. With a swift, deliberate motion, he cuts the Eye of Morpheus from the base of my spinal cord. A tingly dark sensation spreads from the cut, a strange mix of numbness and cold, as if shadows are creeping under my skin. But then they escape. The Eye is cut, and I understand I will never dream weave again.

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