Page 24 of The Nightmare's Kiss

Was the dream reallythatgood?

Honestly, yes, it was. Still, this is embarrassing. A true testament to the hell of a dry spell I’m going through right now. I drag myself out of bed with a groan and look in the mirror.

Oh. My. God. With my smeared eyeliner, bird’s nest hair, and rumpled shirt hanging off one shoulder, I really look like Iactuallyhad a wild night, rather than just dreaming one up. I snort out a laugh and then sneak to the bathroom for a quick shower before my parents can see me and get the wrong idea. As I scrub my skin, I swear I catch a whiff of smoke and pepper.

I would’ve thought that having a sex dream would leave me hornier than ever, but instead, I feel sated. I almost Google “is it possible to have orgasms in your sleep,” but then decide I’d rather not research what seems like a great thing. Talk about no strings attached.

Still, I do feel a little embarrassed. Sure, it’s just a dream, and I know I can’t control my brain, but that was abizarreone. I’m pretty sure most women’s scandalous sex dreams involve exes or forbidden romances, not shadow monsters from a lab they work in.

But eh, I can’t complain. Except for the fact that my dream hookup was undoubtedly the best sex I’ve ever had, and my imaginary monster a much more generous and exciting lover than any I’ve had in real life, andthatis pathetic.

I should be hungover today, but I’m not. Not even the memory of Ethan’s snide lecture can dampen my mood. I’m feeling good enough to drive over to Cup o’ Happy, grab myself an iced maple butter latte and a deliciously flaky cheese-and-raspberry pastry, and eat at a table outside in the Sunday sunshine.

At some point, I’m going to have to confront the fact that I had a strange, amazing, and definitely inappropriate sex dream about the monster I work with, and I know it. Walking into the lab tomorrow is going to be awkward. But for now, I’m just going to bask in the afterglow. At least, that’s my plan before my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I’m surprised to see an email from work on a Sunday afternoon. But that surprise is soon overshadowed by dread as I skim the brief contents:Come directly to Room 105 instead of normal post tomorrow. Important matter to discuss. - Dr. Wright.

Not even a polite salutation or a sign-off. What a power move. Does she write all of her emails like that, or is itmeantto come off as cold and intimidating? I let out a nervous laugh and put my phone into my pocket again as if hoping it will let me forget. But it’s too late—the pastry’s gone to ashes in my mouth, and the day is ruined. I know that Dr. Wright can be curt, but God, that email was something else. Shemustknow that leaving so much open to interpretation means I’m going to assume the worst, right? It’s impossible to ignore the feeling like I’m being called into the principal’s office. I’ve barely seen her since our embarrassing run-in last weekend, and I’ve been behaving myself this week.

What did I do to earn such ire from Dr. Wright? Or maybe it’s bigger than her. Am I getting fired? Have I done something wrong? This could be about the unauthorized experiments I was running for a while, but it seems odd to confront me a week after Istoppeddoing them. I run frantically through my memories of the last week, trying to figure out if I broke protocol despite my best attempts to do things right. Did I forget to turn in my notes at the end of the day? I don’trememberdoing anything wrong, but I’ve been so sleep deprived and racked by confusing feelings. It’s possible I was on autopilot and did something stupid.

And if I do get fired, what does that mean for me? I wasn’t even sure I wanted to stay there long term, but now that I’m thinking about it, my job at the Facility doesn’t feel like the sort of thing that’s easy to walk away from.

I know I’m getting myself all worked up over very little, but I can’t fight the cold sweat that breaks out across my body, imagining terrifying scenarios of being sued for violation of my NDA, or faced with a military tribunal, or atreasoncharge, or, or, or…

Or they know about my dreams. And thus my completely inappropriate feelings for the monster I’m studying.

No, no. It’s a distinct possibility that the Facility is tracking everything I do and say to protect their secrecy, but there’s no way they’re also tracking what Ithink. Still, I imagine sitting across from Dr. Wright and listening to her say I’m fired for my weird horny dreams, and want to die of embarrassment. It’s hard to shake the thought once it occurs. No matter how ludicrous it is, the timing is suspicious…

But considering that makes me think of another far more likely scenario. Yesterday was also the day I fought with Ethan. Could this have something to do with him? Is he undermining me? Trying to get me fired? Did I make some HR violation?

The thought of it plagues me with anxiety for the entire ride home. I push away the concerns about my dream to worry about more plausible and equally—well, almost equally—embarrassing and unfortunate scenarios. They can’t fire me for dreaming, but I’m sure there are plenty of other reasons that would leave me jobless, stranded, and embarrassed. And possibly followed by FBI agents for the rest of my life. Or the CIA. Which one would this fall under? I consider Googling it, but then remember the Facility may be tracking my internet activity and start sweating anew.

Instead, I pace in my room and run through things that I could’ve done wrong. The rest of the day passes in a haze, my good mood vanquished, as I try and fail not to spiral into ever-darker depths.

Most of these scenarios are unlikely, I’ll admit, born from anxiety rather than logic. Then again, this whole job has been unlikely. I had no idea what to expect when I walked in, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for what I was going to find. At this point, nothing feels impossible.

After an evening of stress-binging Netflix and a sad dinner of microwaved pizza in bed, I fall into a fitful sleep. There’s no reprieve there. I find myself dreaming of my bedroom again, constantly aware of the morning creeping closer. The Nightmare is here again, but I do my best to ignore him. This time he only sits in the corner and watches me, as though he can sense my mood.

16

Chapter Sixteen

I don’t feel rested in the morning. However, it’s time to face my reckoning. I bury my exhaustion under makeup—doing my eyeliner twice because my hand won’t stop shaking—and throw on a particularly professional outfit before heading to the Facility.

I swear I can feel eyes on me as I walk through security and down the long hallway toward the room where I’m supposed to meet Dr. Wright. But it’s empty except for me, making my heels echo eerily. It feels strange to pass by my usual lab and head deeper into the building, like I’m trespassing somewhere I’m not supposed to be. But soon I find the room and pause outside to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and straighten my shirt.

When I step into the room, panic hits like a fist to the gut. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I walked in here, but it certainly wasn’t to see Ethan, Dr. Wright, and an older man I don’t recognize sitting on one side of a table, and an empty chair on the other. It looks like a job interview, or an intervention, or… God, I don’t know, but definitely something awful.

“Have a seat,” Ethan says, flashing his usual amiable grin. But I don’t relax; I know not to trust that smile. I stay wary as I lower myself into the chair. It’s hard metal, uncomfortable, and shorter than the seats the others are in, so that I feel small and vulnerable beneath them.

But it’s been designed for that, I tell myself. It’s meant to make me feel tiny and weak, urge me to confess my wrongdoings or accept abuse from my superiors, and I’m not going to do either. I stiffen my spine even as metal digs into it and plaster on a smile. “Good morning,” I say. “What is this about?”

“Oh, nothing bad,” Ethan says, again in a carefully warm voice. I don’t trust it for one second.

I glance at Dr. Wright for more insight, and she gives me the tiniest nod. It’s oddly reassuring, making me think of her words to me the last time we met, about how she wants me to keep working here. But the man I don’t recognized is tight-lipped and stony-faced. He looks to be somewhere in his fifties, with a close-cropped beard and hair that might be called salt-and-pepper by someone generous, though there’s very little pepper left. Wire-framed glasses frame a pair of intense blue eyes under bushy brows, a combined image that could make him look like a genial grandfather but somehow don’t. Instead, he looks more like a retired military man, or the kind of politician who opposes basic human rights for women. I dislike him on sight, and the way he looks at me—somewhere between contemptuous and bored—does not warm me to him.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your experiences with Subject X-13.” I’m relieved when Dr. Wright speaks up. I don’t trust her much, but she still feels like the closest thing to an ally I have in this room.

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