Page 12 of Forging Darkness

I’ve experienced enough of these dreams to recognize them for what they are, but it doesn’t stop me from tipping my face and pressing a kiss to her neck. Her skin is rose-petal soft, and I take the opportunity to run my nose up her throat and plant another kiss behind her ear. She shivers under my touch, and the corners of my mouth rise in satisfaction.

If I ever see the real Emberly again, I want to know if she’ll have the same reaction.

“—listening to me?”

The phantom in front of me is saying something, but her words go in and out. Her hands push at my shoulders, and I draw back but slide my grip to her waist, refusing to concede too much space.

I squint against the light surrounding us. Her brow is pinched in concern and her mouth is moving, but I can’t make out the words. She lays a hand on my cheek and I lean into it, closing my eyes and dreading what comes next.

“Steel! It’s not—have—figure out—kill her.”

The words get swallowed, as if she’s shouting them into the wind. Around us, the world darkens to a putrid shade of green. Pea soup mist curls around our feet and slithers its way up our calves.

I don’t know how the dagger appears in my hands, but there it is, same as always. Ruby blood already drips from the curved blade. The metal hilt burns my palm, yet I can’t seem to release my hold. Panic balloons in my chest as I see the liquid bubble from her gut. It pours down her gilded armor in macabre rivers, covering the bottom half of her breastplate and the front of her legs in seconds.

She reaches for me with bloodstained hands but I jerk out of the way, terrified her touch will trigger another stabbing.

I’m lost in a realm where fiction is reality.

The atmosphere darkens to shadows, the shine from her blood-drenched armor the only brightness.

Masculine arms wrap around her from behind.

Standing a head taller than her, a man holds her close. His light hair is pulled back away from his face. His hands press against her wound, trying to stop the deluge, but the thick red liquid seeps between his fingers. He presses his mouth to her ear, whispering, but she shakes her head and reaches for me. Casting a glare in my direction, he bares his teeth and yanks her away.

With a roar of fury I lunge forward, intent on ripping her from his grasp, but the dagger in my palm finds its way past her armor to bury in her gut another time. I try to pull the blade away but my arm is locked, the weapon fused to my hand.

A tear drops from the corner of her eye. Shadows obscure part of her face, but there’s a question in her gaze I don’t know how to answer:Why?

Anguish rolls over me in unrelenting waves.

And then she’s hauled back. The dagger slides out of her, and I’m finally able to release my hold. As the knife falls and she disappears into the shadows, I hear her tortured shout.

“Steel, kill me!”

When I wake, I don’t make it to the bathroom before vomiting. Falling to the floor, I grab the trashcan by the nightstand and empty the contents of my stomach into it. When there’s nothing left, I cough bile into the bin until the retching finally stops.

Tremors wrack my body for several minutes after the puking ceases. I don’t know why I bother with clothes at night anymore. They always end up drenched in sweat after one of these dreams.

My phone lies on the ground by my knees—likely pushed off the nightstand by my thrashing. My hand itches to grab it and call her, but I tell myself not to. If I can get through my cleanup routine, the urge will pass.

I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. This happens frequently enough that I have a routine.

Wake up. Vomit. Shower. Brush teeth. Dress. Get back to work.

No matter the time of night I wake up from the dream, or vision, or whatever it is, I don’t ever go back to sleep. Depriving myself of rest is a small penance to pay for the atrocities I visit upon her—even if only in my mind.

Lumbering to my feet, I strip off my shirt and briefs as I stagger to the bathroom. It isn’t until the ice-cold spray hits my body that I remember the new portion of my recurring dream.

The man clutching Emberly.

The thought of him makes my fists and teeth clench. The muscles in my back become so tight I can’t order them to loosen. It’s only when the water warms that they slacken a fraction.

As with all dreams, the details are fuzzy, but I remember he was a fully-formed person rather than the shadowed figure he’s always been before. His height and build matched a typical angel-born, but his coloring—much like Emberly’s—was off. His skin and hair were pale. I can’t recall the shade of his eyes, but I’m not in the habit of checking dudes’ eyes so I doubt I even looked.

He could be another angel-born, perhaps like Emberly in some way. Or maybe he’s only a figment of my imagination. With the lack of sleep, and Silver leading me on a wild goose chase, perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me.

I punch the shower wall hard enough to crack the porcelain. I’m going to have to leave some extra cash to cover the damage, but I hardly care at the moment.

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