Page 166 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Big fucking mistake.
Running full pelt down a dark tunnel, death screeches at my heels. Who’s great idea was this? My wet boots squelch. A rapid click near my ear. Pungent, rotting breath. Mold. Something catches my hair, ripping my head back with needles. I break free. Run. Terror fills me. So does euphoria, a thrill.
I’m insane. I’m dead. Hot. What an idiot move to make. I’m?—
Something white flickers ahead of me.
“Get down.”A growl in my head.
I drop. Air gusts over me, through me, and I land on my stomach, skidding forward. Dirt and gravel cut into me. I’m sliding so fast that I drift sideways. All I can think is to move the sword away from my face. Blue glyphs flash in the darkness. Behind me, strange sounds reach my ears. Shrieks cut short. Squelches and wet thuds. Gurgling. I can’t comprehend anything until my shoulder hits something, and my slide ends.
Breathing hard, I stretch my senses. Too many things happen at once, too many sounds and smells. I don’t understand. I check to see what I hit. It doesn’t feel like a wall—too much air around me. The wall is a boot belonging to a shadowy figure nowstepping over me. A silken wall brushes my face like someone’s dragging a sheet over my body. I track the shape with my eyes and see darkness spread, filling the expanse of the tunnel and blocking my view—I squint to focus. What is that? Wings?
Little drops of darkness float upward and sizzle against the ceiling.
The knowledge hits me all at once—the voice in my head, the flickering light. It was a skull.
“Styx?”I shout with my thoughts.
“Being greedy as usual,”he taunts.
Wincing, I use the sword and push to my feet. My eyes only pick up flashes of shadow on shadow. I can’t catch anything clear, even with my eyesight. He’s one Sluagh, but there are so many Nightmares. Limping forward, I adjust my grip and prepare for more danger. It doesn’t come. Within seconds, the monstrous death rattles die down. The dripping hiss of blots meeting rock is the only sound left.
I open my mouth to call out, but Styx’s warning in my mind stops me.
“Your resonance stone.”
Shit. My hand slaps to my chest, feeling for the stone. It’s there, burning hotly on a chain.
“Turn around,”he orders.
Gravel crunches as I pivot so fast I’m left dizzy. There is a rustle of movement, and a hard, warm body presses against my spine. Hands wrap around my middle. He drops his nose to my neck, tugging me closer. His masculine scent blooms, good and real.
“You smell so fucking good.”His mental voice is more of a groan.
“You saved me.”I want to sink back into him, to turn and kiss him, to be with him in every way, but this tournament isn’t done. I can’t betray him by revealing his face to everyone watching.
His teeth clamp on my neck.“Did I?”
A rush of warmth blooms in my chest, and I smile . . . then realize he’s not hugging me. He’s stiff and tense. Something barbed and twisted wraps around my heart, squeezing. I pull back, but he won’t let me go.
“Styx? What’s wrong?”
“You’re about to find out.”His arms lock tighter around me.“When you see him, tell him this is payback.”
The world around us flickers. We stumble into a room in an instant, and he lets go. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, my world shifts.
Obsidian walls veined with crystal surround us. An overripe, sickly sweet bouquet of something floral is in the air. The ceiling rolls with a never-ending shadow storm. People—people everywhere. Human, old, young, different. Faerie like I’ve never seen. Some are like the Nightmares we’ve studied, like those we’ve seen, but others are almost indistinguishable from normal.
I’m standing at the foot of the steps leading to a dais. It’s not the two thrones of patchwork limbs atop that shift my world, but the people sitting in them—a tall, dark-haired male I recognize from Clock Tower memories. With sharp cheekbones and angular features, Oberon has the kind of stare that could wither stone. But it’s the queen beside him who steals my attention. I’ve dreamt about killing her for weeks. But when I envisioned her, she was the vibrant, powerful brunette who cursed me in my dream—the effervescent lady in the portrait hanging in the castle.
Her pale dress is made of squashed petals and hangs wilted on her frail body. A tarnished gemstone tiara slips on her matted brown hair. She looks wild and unhinged as she takes me in, knuckles whitening on the throne’s arms.
“What have we here?” Oberon purrs, standing and looking down at me. Something is off with his skin. It’s stretched too tightly over his bones. No—something is too big beneath the skin. His bones move like they’re alive.
“Styx?”I shout in my mind.“If this is a joke, I’m not laughing.”
Each step Oberon takes down the steps is punctuated by some kind of wet, squelching sound. The air before him shudders with his approach. The closer he comes, the better I see what his footsteps leave behind—dark, viscous blood. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded.
