Page 84 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
I hug the blanket. The room seems to spin. The faerie lights blur into streaks of cold fire. The scent of death and decay, a memory from that battle, fills my nostrils.
What if he’s dead? What if he’s like Bob? Someone killed him because he’s weak. Here I am complaining about pageants and lessons; people are still dying in the shadows. Just like they’re suffering outside the city gates.
Panic starts to climb; my heart races. The ringing of blades clashing in the distance becomes guttural growls of the undead biting into my side. My hand flies to that side of my face, where I feel an echo of the scars they left behind.
I almost feel the rough, rotting flesh against my skin, hear their teeth gnashing, and smell the putrid decay.
Even if I manage to reclaim my magic from Titania, I’m only good for killing and raising the dead, creating suffering.
The thought settles over me like a shroud, cold and suffocating. Memories of my time with Nero flood back, unbidden and unwelcome. The countless lives I took, the bodies I raised, all under his command. The room seems to darken, the shadows growing longer, reaching for me with grasping, accusing fingers.
“Run,”someone whispers to me.“Run now. Run far, far from these people before you make it worse.”
The whispers grow louder, harsher, seemingly closer. Dread builds, and my pulse gallops. I gather the blanket around me as if that can save me from my own mind.
“Run, run now.”
That’s when I realize the pulsing sense of fear, the hum, the whispers . . . they’re not coming from my mind—the very air around me ripples and shifts. A shadowy, spectral figure with a mirror-like surface appears. It’s vaguely humanoid but doesn’t seem to hold a shape. Its eyes are swirling vortexes of fear and regret. Tendrils of mist emanate from its body.
The temperature plummets. My breath comes out in visible puffs, and goosebumps race across my skin. The lanterns flicker and dim as if recoiling from the creature’s presence.
When one of the tendrils snakes towards me and touches my bare shoulder, Fox whispers,“Fucking monster! You made it worse!”
I’m having a nightmare.
I must still be in Fox’s bed. His dream web might be defective without him. But the cold is too real, the fear too palpable. I can smell the Terror’s presence—a mix of decay and ozone, tinged with the metallic scent of old blood. I can see it before me with crystal clarity.
I try to back away, but my legs won’t move. Once a comfort, the blanket now feels like it’s suffocating. The Terror looms closer, its form shifting and writhing, a kaleidoscope of my worst fears.
“This is real,” it whispers, its voice a meld of all the people I’ve failed—Rory, Bob, my mother, father. “You can’t run from what you are.”
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. The Terror’s tendrils reach for me again, promising to drag me into a void of endless regret and fear. Images flash before my eyes—the faces of those I killed under Nero’s command, their eyes accusing, their mouths twisted in silent screams. The secret I’ve kept from Geraldine and Max, the horrors I inflicted, threaten to overwhelm me.
But then, oddly, its voice becomes female. She mocks, she taunts, she’s . . . not looking at me anymore but at Bodin, standing only a few feet away in his Sluagh form, staring in horror at his bloody, taloned hands. His wings are out. His eyes are wholly black.
“Bodin?” I gasp.
He looks up, wide eyes clashing with mine. Shame contorts his face. He tries to hide his hands behind his back, beneath the mantle of his tattered wings. He walks toward me, but the Terror senses him, too. Its tendrils unfurl and head towards him. It’s trying to suck him into my dream.
This is bad.
Very bad. If he gets lost in here, he might never come out.
“Bodin, no! Don’t come any closer!” I shout. “I’m dreaming. This is a nightmare. You’re in my dreamscape again.”
He pauses. Panic washes over his features. I’ve never seen his eyes filled with fear like this before. He glances between the Terror and me.
“It’s an Echo Wraith,” he says. “Don’t listen to it. Wake up. Wake up now.”
I try to shake myself awake, to pinch myself. I try everything but can still feel the cold press of the floor beneath me. I still smell the pine and mulled wine. This feels so real, so visceral.
“It’s not working,” I say, my voice trembling. Whispers of regret, of my past, the blood, the undead clawing at my skin—I feel like they’re right here with me. I can’t see them but hear them and smell them.
“Bodin, you need to go,” I plead.
“That’s right,”the wraith whispers.“Make him run. Make him run away from you where he’s safer.”
“Where are you sleeping?” Bodin shouts at me, his voice strangely sounding distant and down the hall. It’s almost like he’s not here.
