Beautiful nightmares, p.4
Beautiful Nightmares, page 4
But the mist closed in and everything went dark again.
CHAPTER THREE
Dreams and hallucinations tore at me like wolves on a hunt. Throughout the night, I’d come back myself in sporadic bursts, panting as though I truly had been running through a dark forest. Then the past nipped at my heels and sent me off again. I heard Belanor’s voice wherever I went. Asking questions. Giving orders. Taunting. I had no way of knowing if that was just part of the hallucinations or if he was actually in the room with me, sitting in that goddamn chair and drinking another cup of tea. Tea that I would lace with cyanide instead of honey, if I ever got the chance.
Mercifully, the drug’s effects didn’t last forever, as part of me started to fear they would. There came a point when I opened my eyes, and I felt slightly better. My body ached like I’d been in a fight, but the dizziness was gone. There were no twitching spider legs on the walls. The terrible things I’d done were tucked away into memories, rather than all around me.
As my vision cleared, I expected to see the walls of my gilded prison and those tall windows lit with morning light. But… I wasn’t in the Nymphenburg Palace.
This was home.
I was in the loft that Collith had built for us. The air smelled of fresh paint and recently-cut wood. The lacy nightgown I’d been wearing was gone, replaced by plaid pajama pants and a university T-shirt. My clothes. And instead of that canopied monstrosity I’d been chained to, I now rested in the bed I’d barely gotten to share with Collith before everything went to hell.
“No,” I whispered, gripping the sheets with balled fists. I knew Belanor would hear the despair in my voice, but that didn’t matter anymore—I only cared that I was still seeing things and the drug hadn’t finished its dark work yet. How much longer could I bear this? Maybe the drug had finished its course, and my mind was broken. I was probably still in that pretty suite, slumped against the wall and drooling.
Might as well see my family, since I’m hallucinating them, that quiet inner voice pointed out.
Resignation crept through my heart. I let out a shuddering breath and cast another glance through the room Collith had designed. The door to my left was cracked open, and a blue glow slanted across the floor. No sounds came with it, though. Was everyone asleep?
I threw aside the covers and stood, barely registering the cold. On bare feet I tiptoed toward that open door. I paused in the doorway, scanning the apartment with an ache inside me that had nothing to do with the brand. My gaze latched onto a small, familiar figure sitting in the living room, her hair aglow from the light of the television.
“Emma?” I said. My voice emerged softly, hesitantly, as though I were a child again.
I was afraid she’d be startled, but the old woman just turned her head. She’d dyed her hair pink. Bright, cotton-candy pink. When she saw me, a welcoming smile spread across her face. She patted the cushion beside her, and the sound was stark in the utter stillness. “I wondered if you’d wake up tonight. Thought I’d stay up for a while, just in case,” she remarked.
Hearing her voice brought tears to my eyes. I blinked to clear them away. Emma waited, but I stayed where I was, knowing I looked as distrustful as I felt. Why did this feel so real? Could it be possible that I was actually here?
No. You’re still stuck in Belanor’s twisted game, Fortuna. In spite of the drugged food I’d eaten, my mind felt clear, and I remembered every moment at the Seelie Court. This, being home, seemed too good to be true. I’d learned that if something seemed too good to be true, it was.
I was about to retreat when my gaze fell onto a magazine on the coffee table. HOW DERMATOLOGISTS WAKE UP WITH YOUNGER-LOOKING SKIN, the headline read. The letters weren’t jumbled or backward.
Collith’s voice whispered through my memory. Did you know that you can’t read in a dream?
“It can’t be,” I whispered, reading the headline again. And again. Then I lost hold of the reins on my caution, and wild hope galloped free.
Something in my expression prompted Emma to stand and round the couch. Once she was within reach, the old woman gripped my arms gently. I frowned—she knew I avoided physical contact, and after I had told her the truth about what I was, she’d gotten better at checking herself. Did this mean she knew what I’d done? That I was human now?
“Laurie got to the Seelie Court as fast as he could. He and his brother fought,” Emma said, looking in my eyes as she spoke. She was the most sober I’d seen her since Fred’s funeral.
Part of me was aware that I was still staring. That I should probably say something. But I couldn’t speak past the irrational thought that making any sort of sound would send me back to Belanor. For once, I was grateful someone was holding onto me, because it felt like I might collapse. Feeling Emma’s warmth also seemed like further confirmation that her words were true, and not just a cruel trick. Her grip was firm.
“Is…” I stopped. Belanor’s name felt like bile at the back of my throat. I still worried that if I said it, I’d either summon him or vomit.
Somehow, Emma understood. The way she always understood, even when she didn’t have any details. In her own way, Emma Miller was magic, too. Her expression hardened as she answered, “Yes, Belanor is dead.”
A sob lodged in my throat and I put a hand over my mouth; I didn’t want to wake the others. Emma tugged at me and said something in comforting tones. My thoughts were roaring like a hurricane. Holy shit. This is real. I’m home and Belanor is dead. It’s over.
Those two words hit me like a hammer exploding through plaster. Hearing them once wasn’t enough. I silently repeated them, realizing too late that I was saying it like a chant, as if I were working a spell. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.
It felt like the past few days were bodies, piling against a door, and now their weight had made the lock give way. My entire body heaved with suppressed gasps. I felt Emma adjust her grip, putting part of her body behind mine. She propelled me forward, guided me onto the couch, and sat in her previous spot. I kept fighting the sounds tearing through my insides. Couldn’t let them out. Couldn’t wake Matthew. He was so young, and nothing scared children more than seeing someone in pain.
So I stayed where I was, concentrating on the feel of leather beneath my fingertips, and kept each and every one of those sobs down. Emma’s faded eyes lingered on my face, wrinkles deepening in her forehead and around her mouth. I started to tell her that I was okay, but the lie wouldn’t come.
Tears, hot and heavy, trailed down my cheeks. Those were the only thing that escaped—I still contained the noises sending my organs into a raucous dance, still shook with each one. It had become personal, this war with my body’s impulses.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Emma’s hand moved, hovering over mine. After a few seconds, she put it back in her lap. My head was bowed and I pretended not to see. Her voice lowered, becoming more earnest, as if we should be sitting in church pews instead of a thick-cushioned couch. “You’re going to make it through this. It may not seem like it right now… and you may not even want to at this point, but one day you’re going to wake up and realize that the worst is behind you. Do you know how I know that? Because you’re strong, Fortuna. You’re so strong that it breaks my heart to think what you must’ve endured to become that way. But that’s how I know you’ll survive.”
I couldn’t respond. Not yet. As the grief continued its journey through me, I searched for a box of tissue. I hadn’t once looked at the TV screen since entering the room, and now I finally noticed it. The scene playing hadn’t been paused, only muted. I Love Lucy. It was Emma’s favorite show.
“Thanks, Ems,” I said finally. My voice was watery. I hesitated, then rested my head on her frail shoulder. Emma’s nightgown reeked of the weed she must’ve been smoking earlier. The smell had become comforting to me.
“Cyrus told me about the choice you made,” she ventured. Emma said the words quietly, but I flinched as if she had shouted them.
Against my will, I thought of the last time I’d seen Cyrus. He’d stood in the yard, facing me, a glimmer of scales across his neck and a yellow tint to his eyes. Eyes filled with pain.
“I never should have put him in that position,” I said, voicing my thoughts out loud.
The old woman was silent for a moment. Her expression was thoughtful, her lips twisted as she considered what I’d said. “Do you regret it? Becoming human?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said instantly. I didn’t need to think about it. “But… it’s what I deserve.”
Emma snorted, telling me with a single sound what she thought of that. She turned her face toward the TV, but she didn’t watch it. Her lips were twisted again. The pause was longer this time. Lucy and Ethel moved and spoke on the screen.
After a minute or two, Emma refocused on me. “You deserve to be happy, Fortuna. Is there a way to reverse it? The dragonfire?”
I was already shaking my head. I opened my mouth to answer, but something made me pause. I mentally replayed the question exactly as she’d asked it. Is there a way to reverse it? The dragonfire? It felt like someone had set off a tripwire. Internal alarms blared a warning. I went still, studying every inch of Emma’s face. She looked back with concern, at first. When I didn’t speak or look away, concern became confusion. Every expression looked genuine. Every reaction sincere.
I pretended to watch the show to buy myself some time. Agitation was coursing through my veins now, almost as strong as the drugs Belanor had given me. Without any explanation to Emma, I stood up. She remained silent as I went to the window and rested my fingertips against the cool glass.
Outside, Cyrus’s porch lights cast a glow over the yard. Snow covered the ground and the trees were spindly, frosted sentries from another dimension. There were tiny footsteps around the base of each one, and at the sight of them, I let out a wistful breath that fogged the window. Matthew.
It felt so real. God, I hoped it was real. I swallowed my fear down and faced Emma again. “Why did you ask me about reversing the dragonfire?” I made myself ask.
The old woman frowned. She stayed where she was, resting her arm along the top of the couch. Beneath that frilly nightgown, the lines of her body looked tense. “I was just hoping there was a way to ease your pain,” she said.
Wrong answer. My heart turned to iron and sank in my chest. Slowly I said, “Emma Miller would never ask me something like that. She likes to let people come to her. Confide in her at their own pace.”
That wasn’t the only reason I was so certain something was off—it also seemed like she asked the question too quickly after I had supposedly just escaped a sadistic faerie. Emma Miller would be telling me to get some rest, or she’d distract me with chitchat about some mundane topic. Her favorite strain of marijuana, probably.
We looked at each other for another long moment.
“You’re safe at home,” Emma said abruptly. At that moment, she looked eerie, the pale glow from the television making her skin unnaturally white. “You’re not suspicious of anything. You trust the human’s motives for asking about the dragonfire.”
Certainty tightened in my stomach.
“Who the fuck are you?” I hissed, pressing my back against the window. I darted a glance around us, instinctively searching for anything to use as a weapon. Book. Painting. Flower vase.
“She knows.”
At this, my attention snapped back to Emma. Any lingering hope I might’ve had withered and collapsed to dust. Though her gaze never left my face, I knew these words weren’t intended for me. She’d spoken with an accent I’d never heard her use before, and her features had slackened. A horrified scream lodged in my throat.
Before I could utter a sound, a new voice spoke, and it seemed to come out of nowhere. Through the vents and the walls. “You’re not trying very hard, Claude,” it chided.
“She’s strong. It’s not my fault,” came the reply. It was the accented voice that had come out of Emma’s mouth, but this time her lips weren’t moving. She wasn’t moving at all, in fact—the old woman stared at me with eyes that were cold and vacant. A puppet’s eyes.
“Then I suppose it wouldn’t be my fault if I had you executed, considering you’ve annoyed me,” the second voice countered.
“I’m telling maman you said that.”
There was a sigh.
Then I blinked, and I was back in the Nymphenburg Palace. Morning poured through the windows in pale streams. The change was too abrupt—for a terrible second, it was all I could do not to vomit. When it was safe to open my eyes again, I was greeted with the sight of Belanor standing in front of the fireplace. It was still unlit, as it had been since Fende left. The future Seelie King had his arms tucked behind his back, and he wore a different suit from the last time I’d seen him. I was back in the extravagant bed. Back in chains. I resisted the urge to yank at them and scream my frustration.
Something moved on my other side. I whipped my face toward it with a panicked breath, forgetting the chains as adrenaline surged.
Sitting next to me, perched on the very edge of the mattress, was a fae youth. He was apple-cheeked and pouting, and the instant he saw I was awake, he leaped off the bed with a small sound of terror. His clothing looked like they’d been made in the 1700s, which meant his mother was probably ancient. The old ones were slower to adapt to modern ways.
“Good morning, Miss Sworn. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Claude of the bloodline Venhorn,” Belanor said with a weary air. He didn’t turn away from the fireplace, as if there truly were flames crackling in its depths. “A distant cousin. Fortunately for him, he’s quite gifted, and therefore useful to me. Not to mention the many sizable donations his mother makes to the royal coffers. Doubtless it’s how she manages to hold a chair on the council.”
Gifted. I was still struggling to adjust, but my mind latched onto that word. It was the truth I’d needed to hear. The confirmation that none of it had been real. I wasn’t safe at home, Belanor wasn’t dead, and Emma hadn’t told me I was strong.
But that didn’t mean the Emma in the hallucination had been wrong.
My eyes went back to the young faerie, and suddenly I felt more clear-headed. There was a reason Belanor had summoned this boy, a purpose to him being in this room with us. I tried to remember what I’d heard them say in the hallucination with Emma.
You’re not trying very hard.
She’s strong. It’s not my fault.
That was his “gift”. This boy was getting in my head, somehow. Rummaging through my past and using it to Belanor’s advantage. It was something I’d done, as a Nightmare, nearly every day—it wasn’t the invasion that made my chest tighten with rage.
It was that he’d done it to my family. These were their memories, too. Their secret pains, too. Belanor could hurt me all he wanted, but they were off limits.
“We have much to do today,” he said now, his tone returning to that grating pleasantness. “Breakfast shall need to wait, seeing as your human biology has proven to be more… delicate than I thought it would be, and I simply can’t spare the staff to clean this room again. There also won’t be any time for bathroom breaks, so I’ve had Iris make some adjustments.”
It was that last word I actually heard. Adjustments? The instant I repeated it in my head, I noticed there was something foreign resting against me. I rushed to lift the blankets, breathing shallowly. When I saw the small plastic bag strapped to my leg, I said nothing. I couldn’t. Belanor’s healer had put a urinary catheter inside me? The feeling of invasion was so strong that, for a moment, I was back at the crossroads. Being touched when I didn’t want to be touched. My dignity stripped away.
Oblivious to how I was seething, the object of my fury turned and strolled toward the bed, talking all the while. His words were a meaningless hum. I bided my time like a spider on its web. Just as I’d hoped he would, Belanor underestimated the range I’d been given with the chains.
The instant he came within reach, I lunged.
It was so abrupt that Belanor moved a beat too late, and I seized a fistful of the prince’s hair as he tried to leap back. Some of it ripped off his scalp, and Belanor released the most girlish shriek I’d ever heard, his pale hands flying up to his head. He spun around. His attention zeroed in on my fingers, where I still clutched several silvery strands. When his gaze rose back to mine, I bared my teeth in an imitation of a smile, knowing that my eyes gleamed with triumph.
Belanor swung toward the open doorway, where two Guardians now stood, probably drawn by the noise. “Where is Vulen?” he hissed, spittle accompanying every word.
Their expressions were almost identical in how carefully impassive they seemed. “We haven’t been able to reach him, Your Highness,” the male on the right answered.
Belanor faced me again, and the expression on his face caused a stirring of real fear inside me. There were two spots of red in his cheeks. His eyes were open so wide the whites seemed to swallow everything else. As our eyes locked in a hostile stare, it felt like we were seeing each other for the first time, without the masks of civility or pretense. Opponents across a battlefield.
Tearing his gaze from mine, Belanor spun to the boy and snapped his fingers. At some point, Claude had scurried off to the farthest corner of the room.
“Try again,” Belanor ordered. Behind him, the Guardians interpreted this as a dismissal, and they exited the room walking backward.
“Should I say the same things? About the old woman?” Claude asked in a small voice.
The doors closed with a gentle sound and a slight squeak. Belanor kept his gaze on Claude, a line between his brows. After another moment, he shook his head. “The Whisperer tells me she loves the Unseelie King. Perhaps he will be the key.”
Pouting again, the boy turned toward me. He edged closer, his soft body stiff with reluctance. Needs physical proximity to use his abilities, I noted.
As far as power limitations went, it was a big one—even when Claude was standing near the foot of the bed, he wasn’t close enough. The youth took one more step toward me. Then, another. His chin trembled in fear. It didn’t have a flavor, though, and the absence of something that I’d experienced all my life only fueled the fire of agitation burning inside me. I shifted away, knowing as I did that it was futile. The chains rattled.
