Page 140 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Air rushes out of the Clock Tower, carrying a faint trace of her feminine scent, ozone, and something deeper, more primeval—the essence of our shared past. I hear whispers, echoes of voices both familiar and strange, calling out from within. Magic pulses inside, a living thing eager to invite me in.
I cast one last look at my brothers—Legion’s face set in grim determination, Styx’s eyes wide with regret, and Emrys . . . he looks broken. Varen is lost. Fox is stone. I am on the brink of losing control. Willow recklessly entered the tower.
Because she cares. Because she is our skin, our glue.
Maybe the slaver queen was right. Maybe darkness cannot understand sunshine. But one cannot exist without the other and together, they create something beautiful.
“I’ll find her,” I promise.
With that, I step into the swirling vortex of memories and magic. As the door closes behind me, cutting my brothers from sight, I have only one thought: Find Willow. Protect her. Bring her home.
Chapter 57
Bodin
From the outside, the Clock Tower appears as a circular building made of stone, a few yards wide. But the moment I step inside, I enter a new, endless realm. Its landscape is an expanse of sunshine and rolling hills, birds tweeting in the distance. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. I’ve stepped through a portal and ended up elsewhere. But then I hear voices further down by a river—arguments. The sky darkens—thunder rolls. I’m swept down into a memory, a boy in my past.
But I was never a boy. I don’t think.
The younger version of myself is carefree and unburdened. He sits by a crystal-clear stream, carefully cradling something in his hands. As I approach, I realize it’s a small bird with golden feathers.
The young Bodin looks up at me, his eyes bright with an innocence I’d never had.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” he asks, gently stroking the bird’s feathers.
I want to warn him, to tell him to cherish this moment because it won’t last. The mortal bird will eventually die. But before I speak, the sky grows gloomy. The acrid smell ofbrimstone replaces the sweet scent of flowers. The stream runs red with blood.
The boy is not me but an innocent child. He is mortal, dead beneath my obsessions and hunger. He is a tasty meal, yet my curiosity is not sated. I am a monster. Shame and despair clamp around my mind, urging me to turn back. Escape now while I can—sink back into the oblivion of false memories. These are not worth the pain they bring.
Oberon appears, towering over us, his eyes glittering with malice. He is the definition of darkness—one of the Folk, magical beings born after us, the first seven sons of Morrigan. He is an imposing male with harsh, angular features that seem carved from stone. He did not have the freedom to obliterate and conquer as he desired, so he used us.
“Obliterate everything that dares defy me,” he commands, his voice booming across the now-barren landscape.
I am hunting, chasing, devouring. This is the first glimpse of myself I am not repulsed by. This energy, this feeling of capturing and taking—this, I love. It settles in my bones like a sigh. Then it brings something darker and hotter to life, as I recall Willow testing my patience when we sparred. How I flipped her onto her back, clamped my teeth on her neck, and held her down like prey. The thrill in my blood, the excitement unfolding. I warned her not to squirm, but she did anyway. She welcomed this part of me, and my hunger multiplied.
This memory does not exist within this hurricane but in my heart. With her.
Just as I am sinking into rightness, the scene shifts again.
I am hit with memory after memory, pelted like arrows. They wound me at once, dragging me further into darkness from the small place of joy.
The canary is no longer a small bird but our brother in his Sluagh form. Long ago, we were more avian than man, butwe have changed. We swallowed the darkness, yet the Canary retained his brightly colored feathers. He was unique like that. Stubborn, challenging, curious, refreshing, a spark.
He and I watch milling mortals from a city rooftop many years ago.
“Do you know,” he asks, lips curving, “what it means to play games?”
“Idle distractions,” I grumble.
“Are they?” He gestures at the mortals moving a ball with their feet. Back and forth. Back and forth. It’s elementary. They cheer and celebrate when the ball goes in a particular direction. Boo and hiss when it goes in another. Canary cocks his head. “I think games are where their hearts receive flavor. Perhaps we should start thinking of our hunts like games. We could compete and cheer each other on.” He grins. “Boo and hiss when you miss your target.”
“I never miss,” I scoff. Then consider his suggestion. “Competition will divide our hive.”
“Perhaps.” He crouches, intent on the milling mortals below. “But, oh, what if it’s fun?”
“Fun?” I frown at the foreign word.
“Something that feels good, even an idle distraction.” Canary turns to me, black eyes glittering. “I hear them use the word all the time.” He inhales. “Fun.”
