Page 87 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“One problem at a time,”Rory’s voice guided me.“What takes the highest priority? What’s going to kill you first?”
The Terror wouldn’t cause immediate death. Its power came from my fear. So I lunged for that package, ripping the paper off. My fingers closed around the familiar hilt, and I slashed at the Terror. It shrieked as Rory’s magic-cutting metal made contact. Something wet splashed my face. We both recoiled.
I gasped, stumbling back until I hit the wall near Fox. His faint heartbeat thrummed in my ears like a war drum, anchoring me. The Terror hesitated to attack.
“The blood’s not mine,” I tell Bodin, aiming for confidence. Relief washes over me as I look at him. “You’re really here.”
The wraith prowls beyond Bodin’s light, seeking an entrance.
“I should have been here,” Bodin mutters, shaking his head. He gathers the blanket from the ground, wraps it around me, and then tugs me against his chest.
Something crashes against the tree, shaking ornaments. Bodin tightens his grip on me and arcs the torch toward the tree, illuminating the scene.
“Another nightmare?” I whisper, my heart racing.
The baby Wild Hunt bursts from beneath it and claws up my body, flapping its wings for momentum.
“Now is not the time for cuddles,” I admonish the dragon, catching it and glancing at the wraith with panic. We lock eyes—its vortexes swirling, trying to hypnotize us and trap us in a torture chamber of our regrets. It’s trying to lure me out of our haven and into the danger zone.
Bodin’s hand covers my face, blocking my view.
“Don’t look at it,” he growls.
Heart kicking, all I can muster is a nod and drop my chin. He removes his hand, and I lower the baby dragon. It settles eagerly at my feet, a string of drool dangling from its maw.
It dawns on me—he’s waiting for a signal.
“There,” I point in the Nightmare’s direction. “There’s your yum-yums. Go get it!”
The little dragon’s high-pitched yowl of excitement pierces the air. It spins unnaturally fast and launches across the floor, leaping into the Terror’s dark sanctuary. Flashes of purple, skull, oil-slick scales, and screeches escape the shadows. My jaw drops as the wraith steps into the halo of light. The previously transparent body is peppered with corporeal, dripping wounds. It shrieks and writhes, trying to throw the vicious dragon off.
“What the fuck is this?” a voice cuts through the chaos.
Styx steps out of flickering darkness, dressed in low-slung cotton pants and nothing more. His black wavy hair is messed up. Shadows dot his collarbone, shoulders, and above his brows—his Sluagh form close to the surface.
“The Terror attacked Willow,” Bodin explains, his voice tense. “I was about to take it down, but the wildling seems to be enjoying himself.”
Styx prowls around the monster as it fends off the dragon’s attack. He seems unhurried, not worried—even a little excited at the prospect of a fight. He casually takes in the battle, then his gaze swings back to land on the blood in my hair. I clutch the blanket tighter as his eyes bleed to black, lips parting to reveal sharp, spiky fangs.
More footsteps thunder towards us in the hallway.
Emrys jogs into the room. I hardly see him in the castle; I’d forgotten he was here. He wears loose cotton pants similar to Styx’s, but his muscular torso is riddled with black ribbonlike tattoos. A thrill glimmers in his eyes as he takes in the scene.
Legion arrives next, fully clothed in a dark, tailored suit. He must have come straight from his study but still wears the spectacles.
Finally, Varen is the last to arrive, his eyes wide and filled with panic, his hair and pajamas ruffled from sleep.
“Contain it,” Legion decrees, his voice cutting through the chaos.
As my mates advance on the Terror, it stops still, despite the dragon still mauling it. The air crackles with tension. It knows when it’s outnumbered. It flings shadows and unseen magic, shrieks in a way that makes my bones ache, and then leaps through a glass-stained window—smashing it. Two seconds later, we hear crunching outside as it hits the ground.
“Stop it!” Legion barks, his voice thundering through the room.
Styx disappears. I rush to the window and glimpse a dark-winged shadow flying—stark against the snowy moonlit ground—closing the gap to the Echo Wraith. Ahead, the half-incorporeal body jerks as though it’s been shot by an arrow. Then, it convulses and slumps to the ground.
The shadowy winged silhouette lands gracefully and takes shape as Styx in his Sluagh form. As he stalks his dying prey, his great draconic wings fold and settle on his blue shoulders. The wind catches the tattered, silken membranes, and they billow behind him—like his hair. His blue-tinted face tilts up toward us. Moonlight slices along his curved horns, his brutal profile. The flickering light of his skull is blinding in the gloom. I wince at the brightness. When I look again, Styx is gone. Only the Terror’s drained and visible corpse remains. No blots rise.
Did Styx feed on its soul?
