Page 86 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
But I can’t change the past. I can only act now. Since I can’t conjure sunlight from my dark shadow magic, I need the real thing. I unearth a wooden torch from a nearby haystack, wrapping the end with more fuel-soaked rags before grabbing a flint.
The wildling whines again, clawing at its cage. It’s resourceful—it always finds a way to escape. I weigh my options, desperation clawing at my insides. I can’t let harm come to the wildling, but one Echo Wraith isn’t strong enough to kill it. The dragon might even help. The pest has a unique bond with Willow.
“Let’s go,” I growl, unlatching the cage. “Your queen needs us.”
We race towards the castle, the frigid night air whipping around me. Each pounding step on the frozen ground sends shockwaves through my body. For the first time in memory, I feel the biting cold.
“Hold on,” I mutter, a desperate prayer carried on ragged breaths. “I’m coming.”
Willow’sterrified scream curdles my blood as I reach the conservatory door. I slam it open, every thought fleeing except one: protect her.
Her scent hits me, and Ihunt. This is what I was born for, what I’m made to do. I race through the castle, taking stairs two at a time, following the tugging ache in my chest to where her scent is most potent. The pest has disappeared, probably sniffing for scraps somewhere behind. But I can’t wait. I keep moving.
My footsteps slow as I approach the dining room. I force my lungs to steady, willing my heartbeat to silence. My senses stretch, hyperalert, probing for danger within. A quick peek around the door frame, and I exhale in relief.
Willow is pressed against the wall behind Fox’s statue beneath the faerie lanterns. Our clever queen found the safest spot—closest to her mate, where his heart beats quietly within the stone and near the room’s only light.
The Terror, a dark echo, wobbles in my vision, its incorporeal body rippling. The side closest to the lights solidifies in patches, revealing its weakness. It has power only in darkness, in shadows. There, it’s incorporeal and impossible to fight.
I wedge the torch between my knees, striking flint over the fuel-soaked end. Flames erupt, heat sears my face as I stride in, torch held high. Willow’s eyes lock onto mine, her relief palpable and echoing in my heart.
Our bond deepens, but the Terror persists, assaulting her fears, regrets, pain. Wispy tendrils lash out, seeking any part of her to latch onto. It thinks itself invincible, uncaring of our approach. Wait. Willow’s skin reddens, welts rising where tendrils touch. This isn’t a dreamscape. This is real.
The Wild Hunt pup—either too stupid or too young to grasp danger—chooses that moment to burst in. It tears through the room with caged-animal excitement, toppling a chair before backtracking, distracted by food scents. Its clumsy rampage creates chaos under the table, splitting the wraith’s attention. I seize the moment, sliding to Willow’s side.
Two golden, tear-filled eyes lock with mine. The impact is visceral—her gratitude, relief, and raw emotion are unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve guarded my hive for eons, but no one has ever looked at me like I’m their entire world.
No one except?—
“He trusted you,”the wraith taunts, its voice a sinister whisper.“You were his whole world.”
A tendril finds my bare foot. I snarl, hissing as I swipe the torch. It recoils, prowling just beyond reach, calculating. I have mere seconds.
“This isn’t a dream. Are you hurt?” My hand roams, checking for injuries beyond the welts. She’s ice-cold. Shivering. Practically naked save for panties and a crumpled blanket on the floor. Silver hair cascades, barely covering her. Welts mar her skin everywhere. My calloused, unworthy hands gently rub her arms, moving across her hair—and find something wet.
Blood.
The sight of it, stark against her pale skin, ignites a primal rage within me. The Echo Wraith will pay for this violation.
Chapter 36
Willow
Bodin’s grip tightens on me, his eyes widening with alarm.
“You’re wounded,” he mutters.
I frown, piecing together the last few minutes. Bodin’s dream form had vanished, and the Terror attacked. Instinctively, I’d searched for a weapon.
Rory’s ghostly voice echoed in my mind, challenging the wraiths.“Stay focused. Adapt or perish.”
The Terror hurled memories at me—regrets, guilt—but I’ve lived in that space for half my life. Guilt feels like an old friend now. Fear and panic morphed into something stronger when I thought of Rory.
She reminded me of my strength.
“This will make you stronger,”she’d whispered.“This will hurt now, but one day you will remember . . . remember.”
And I did. My training flooded back—the breathing techniques, the laser-sharp focus, shoving everything from my head except my target—Rory’s dagger wrapped as a gift for Geraldine beneath the tree.
