Page 53 of Sweet Nightmares
But it wasn’t just the house calling her to the room. It was her feelings as well.
Sometimes, Jane’s feelings were ravenous, and she was beginning to realize it was because of the magic burrowed in her bloodstream. It slept—and it hungered. It needed her to find something.
Something beyond the Ballroom of Briars. Something in the forbidden wing of the house, The Shadow Wing. Beyond the briars rested only shadows. Jane would have liked to say she considered not going, but she didn’t. She had no hesitation at all. Something she would look back on every day for the next two years.
Perhaps she should have cared. Perhaps she should never have violated Nightmare’s privacy.
But at this moment, she was merely a curious cat being egged on by her magic.
A mixture of dread and determination devoured Jane’s stomach. Her strapped heels clicked against the marble floor and traversed through a dance of gnarled thorns. They were like prickly garlands twisting through the room, trying to ensnare her.
Yet, at the same time, they didn’t cling on. They allowed her to slowly and skillfully maneuver through until she reached the other side. Candlelight swayed as if on an ocean breeze, and a sweet harp melody played.
Leaning slightly too far to her left as she cut through, Jane’s arm scratched against a thorn, and as her blood trickled onto it, flowers blossomed along every single branch in the room.
Jane let out a sound of amazement as she turned and took in the sea of colors. It was gorgeous.
As she reached the other side of the ballroom and was first met by pure darkness, and shadows cocooned her body. Her heart leapt into her throat. Had Nightmare’s castle guided her into a trap?
As if in answer, warmth spread across her skin, and from the shadows came a glowing door handle. A flock of butterflies took flight in her stomach. The handle called to her, begging her to open it, and so she did.
In hindsight, one should not necessarily answer the call of a magic door.
But she did.
On the other side of the door was a riverbed. The sand, holding in brilliant blue water, seemed to be formed from purple starlight—granule after granule of glowing violet. Its beautywas almost indescribable, and Jane wanted to run her fingers through it, basking in its beauty and serenity.
The place was supposed to be a nightmare, but nothing about it could possibly be considered nightmarish.
The river glistened, and the moon rose in the sky, a stream of red-golden light falling from its trail. Sunset in what seemed to be a serene fairyland.
The air tasted of cherries, and it smelled even sweeter.
A dragonfly landed on her finger, and a bright smile lit up her face. She loved dragonflies—their strength, resilience, and beauty.
Where was she?
Why would her magic lead her here?
The question was answered moments later when she found a stone path with walls formed from granite and sapphire. At the end of the path was a grand gazebo, and in its center was the diary they’d searched for four years ago, along with a ruby-red memory stone. Jane had never seen a memory stone in real life, but she had heard of them. They were rare magical objects, created by mirrors to hold copies of one’s memories.
Was this one Nightmare’s?
Jane should have been more interested in the diary. She should have been, but instead, all of her attention was drawn to that stone.
And without thinking, she wrapped her fingers around it and was immediately thrown into a set of memories.
Nightmare’s memories.
A band of horses kicked up dirt, trotting in a circle around a young man with dark black hair who looked to be barely twenty years old. He wore a crimson tunic with a surcoat and cloak, and although young, he was exceedingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and lean muscle.
“Lord Rendragon, will you not join me for a ride through the forest?” a beautiful redheaded girl around ten years older than he called from her horse. Her bright, enchanting, and intoxicating smile made everyone in her presence stand in awe. It was as if the girl were weaving spells through the air, causing all who looked upon her to fall in love immediately.
She wore a silk, embroidered bliaut—a style of dress from thousands of years ago. She was rich, but more than that, from the number of guards accompanying her and her general demeanor, this girl seemed to be of noble birth, perhaps even royalty.
The hair on Jane’s arms rose. She was, in fact, using magic. Jane sensed it.
“I am not Lord Rendragon. That would be my cousin,” the young man called back.
