Page 51 of Snatched By the Sandman

My bare feet glide along the mossy earth of this breathtakingly beautiful forest. Deep, dark gray hues set a mesmerizing and paranormal tone. An ethereal glow bathes the forest, thanks to the countless fireflies emitting a soft, golden light. Hundreds of puss moths flutter, robed in soft white fur like tiny, cat-like dragons. Silvery luna moths share space, their wings brushing the puss moths like kissing hello.

Zenya lifts a hand to catch a glowing puss moth. Its furry antennae tickle her fingers, and she giggles, setting my blood alight with that renewed hunger.

Every wing catches and reflects even the slightest glimmer of light, creating a surreal, twinkling effect.

As Zenya welcomes more moths skittering along her skin, her mind caught up in the wonder she has created, I admire more of our surroundings. A heavy mist veils the forest. I smilesoftly at how the mist curls and twists into random shapes, much like how children might see an image in a fluffy cloud.

The towering trees are ancient and majestic with dark and gnarled bodies. A strong pulsation erupts from each tree, the rhythm mirroring a beating heart. Its pulse echoes a profound thrum into the soles of my feet, creating an intimate connection with the forest. And with Zenya.

The trees followherheartbeat.

What life she has. What light! She could have chosen butterflies. No, she chose fireflies and moths. The fireflies are more decorative—like moving constellations in the dark gray expanse around us. A symbolic of self-illumination and awareness, of simplicity.

But the moths…

Moths fly from darkness to light. Zenya may carry the darkness inside her, but she always escapes to the light. For her, the light manifested in her travels, her dreams—even if she was chasing thrills.

Moths symbolize transformation and clarity. The cycle of life and death, metamorphosis. Zenya knows exactly who she is, but she always seeks more transformation. New experiences. New challenges. New growth.

Moths also are masters of camouflage and disguise. Much like them, she tries to disguise the deep parts of her psyche—because she cannot kill them. Whenever she tried, she only collected scars. Her tattoos…they are her disguise. Her mask. Her way of rewriting her history and showing the world something else…her choice.

When a wave of moths surges toward me, with Zenya laughing in the background, I smirk and redirect them—back to her. Her eyes widen in one moment of clarity. Now she knows not to play with the Goddess of Magic.

An instant later, she’s laughing through her tears with me towering over her as thousands of moths hold her to the forest floor. Hundreds of thousands of antennae, wings, and furry strands tickle her, prickling the hairs on her skin and raising gooseflesh.

“Okay! I surrender!” she cries, arching her neck from two larger moths sweeping their antennae along her throat.

Setting a hand on my hip, I leer down at her. “Such sweet surrender, dream weaver. But I expected more fight from you.”

Her aquamarine eyes light with flames like smoldering jewels. “I hope your robe isn’t flammable, Hecate.”

I arch a brow.

The fireflies attack me with a barrage of heat and a burning prickle on my backside.

Oh, that little?—

Seething, I turn and roar at the fireflies, sending their flickering booties fluttering into the forest. The edges of my robe are still singed, curling with smoke. Chuffing a laugh, I shake my head and turn back to find Zenya standing before me.

I lower my brows, suspicious of those blushing cheeks and pressed lips…until she leans in and says, “Gotcha!”

One peck of those lips to my cheek, and she scampers away, rushing beyond the next tree and into that veil of mist.

Tossing aside my outer robe until I’m dressed in nothing but a sheer sheath of a goddess gown, I tear off after Zenya, following the little weaver into the world of her imagination.

When I round the corner of the next tree, I find myself in a clearing, a few steps behind her. A steady, crackling bonfire silhouettes her body, but she turns slightly, inclining her chin toward me. Heat from the flames curls toward me.

What I most admire are the crystals. Hundreds of thousands of crystals sprout from the trees, scintillating in the reflection of the firelight. More grow from the rock faces on the otherside of the clearing. And from the rock faces, a thin cascade of a waterfall flows into a deep and flawless spring, the waters rippling with shards of moonlight from above the canopy.

My dogs linger at the edges of the clearing, prepared to do my bidding at any moment. For now, their glowing eyes observe.

“Do you like it?” Zenya softly wonders.

At first, I part my lips but say nothing before closing the distance between us. Once again, I cup her chin with my claws extended. And tilt my head like the Goddess predator I am.

A flush overcomes Zenya, her body softening, her teeth cutting her lower lip like before. What I love most is how her eyes don’t stray from mine. She can be shy, bold, and self-aware at the same time.

I claim her lips. No more playing, I take what is mine by right of the Goddess of Magic. For what is more magical than a dream weaver?

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