by K. J. Sutton
“He won’t be out long,” I rasped. “He didn’t slow down when I stabbed him or used my powers.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re safe now.” A knife conjured in his hand, and he immediately put it to the ropes. The sharp ridges of Oliver’s stomach flexed as he knelt in front of me.
“What do you mean, ‘don’t worry about it’? Do you know how he got in?” I demanded. Now that our lives weren’t in imminent danger, I looked Oliver over more closely, needing to know he was all right. But the sight of him wasn’t reassuring—there were cuts all over his body, some half-healed, others still bleeding. Both sides of his face were bruised and swelling. He’s been tortured, I thought faintly. Apparently the wounds had been deep enough that even Oliver couldn’t heal them right away. He was also cutting my ropes, instead of making them disappear. Frowning, I looked at the creature wearing his face, still out cold, and back at my best friend.
Something about this creature makes him vulnerable. I found the thought more terrifying than anything else that had happened tonight. In my mind, Oliver had always been invincible—he could command earthquakes or part the ocean with a single gesture. The notion that he could be harmed, by something other than my own selfishness, made my insides clench like fists.
Just as the ropes around my wrists fell away, the imposter stirred. I couldn’t jump up or run, because my ankles were still bound. “Ollie,” I said, a warning in how I said his name.
Quicker than my eyes could track, he spun toward his doppelgänger. “If you touch her again, I will end you. Damn the consequences,” Oliver growled. All I could see was the back of his head, but something in his voice made my breathing falter.
The imposter must’ve heard the same thing, because he shrank back like a browbeaten child. As he crept away, Oliver turned back to me.
“What are you? What do you want?” I called after the retreating figure, emboldened by my best friend’s warm presence. He didn’t acknowledge my questions, but I was staring at the shadow his body cast across the floorboards. There was something off about it. Horror sliced through me when I realized what I was looking at. Wings. This creature’s shadow had wings.
Before I could convince myself it was a trick of the light, the imposter descended the stairs and out of sight.
“It won’t understand you,” Oliver muttered, keeping his head bent. He continued sawing at the ropes. “It can only imitate. Did it say something to you?”
“Just my name. Why are you saying ‘it’? Why aren’t you telling me anything?” The ropes around my ankles loosened and fell. I stood up and the world tilted. Oliver’s hand cupped my elbow as I waited for the loft to right itself. I felt high from the adrenaline, almost giddy, but I knew a crash was coming. When I could see again, I fixed a glare on Oliver. “And if he can’t understand us, why did you talk to him?”
He didn’t let go of me—I could feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin cotton of my dress—but he’d never felt more far away. “It’s different when I talk to it,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Come on. We should get out of this attic,” Oliver said, avoiding my gaze. He put his arm around me, tucking it firmly against my lower back, and I didn’t jerk away. Instead, I leaned into the touch, overwhelmed with gratitude that he was alive. Losing Oliver… it was unimaginable.
How fucked up was that?
Rain began to pound against the roof. I followed Oliver down the narrow stairs, pushing every thought away except for what I wanted to know about the imposter.
Downstairs, the air was bitterly cold—Oliver’s emotions must’ve been too strong, for his control to be wavering like this. My summer dress was replaced by pajama pants and a thick sweater. My feet were covered in fuzzy socks. Oliver knew, of course, that I preferred them over slippers.
This small detail felt like a paper cut on my heart. While he went to the kitchen, I settled in one of the plush armchairs and reached for the wool blanket hanging over the back. A fire flickered to life in the grate beside me, and when I saw that I started to breathe normally again—Oliver seemed to be getting back to normal, at least. He returned a few minutes later and pressed a warm mug into my hands. A cautious sip told me it was hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate, not the powder that came in white packets.
Once Oliver was seated in the chair across from mine, I raised my gaze to his and asked the question we’d both known was coming. “What was that thing, Ollie?”
Shadows danced over his face. Though it was unnecessary, Oliver stoked the fire with a poker. It was then I realized he hadn’t changed his clothing, as he’d done for me. I had been his only thought, as I always was.
“It’s difficult to explain,” Oliver said after a notable pause.
One of the logs shifted and sent up a smattering of sparks. My voice was flat. “Try.”
But he was silent. I didn’t press him, because we both knew the truth was inevitable this time. There was no hiding from what had happened tonight. Seconds ticked into minutes, and I kept waiting.
“It happened around the time my paintings disappeared,” Oliver said finally. His eyes were dull with remembrance. As he spoke, he still didn’t look away from the flames. “This… terrible pain went through me. All I remember is collapsing face-first into the grass. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the agony. When it finally stopped, I pushed myself up and came face-to-face with it. My shadow self.”
Damn it. His words made me want to scream. My fault, this was all my fault. I had seen the change in him. I had known something was wrong. When that butterfly bit me, I should’ve confronted him. And when I’d sensed the shadow’s presence once, heard the rustle of nearby leaves, Oliver had avoided my eyes then, too. A deer, I think, had been his reply when I mentioned it.
“Why does it have wings?” was all I said.
Oliver shook his head. His mouth was a thin, dark slash. “I don’t know.”
Through the wide window closest to the door, I stared toward a distant copse of trees, sensing the shadow’s malignant presence there. Lightning flashed, revealing that my instincts had been right—I caught a glimpse of its shape, out there in the storm. It was turned in our direction. My first thought was to destroy the creature, somehow. But if that thing was part of Oliver, it might kill him in the process, too. Damn the consequences, Oliver had said when he’d threatened to obliterate it himself.
Killing it wasn’t an option, then.
“Does it want to kill me?” I asked suddenly, thinking of tomorrow night, and the night after that. How would I ever fall asleep again, knowing a monster awaited me on the other side?
“No.” Oliver’s voice was hoarse, his tone fierce, and I believed him. Thunder rumbled beneath the ground and through the air. This time he didn’t look away when our eyes met. Before I could say anything, Oliver went on. “It’s like an animal—its instincts are primal. What did the shadow do when you entered the dreamscape? It tried to connect with you. It claimed you. It hid you from me.”
If he was trying to be comforting, his words had the opposite effect. I held my mug tighter and said with forced cheer, “Well, that’s perfectly creepy.”
But Oliver didn’t laugh or smile. His sadness was so poignant that I was the one to lower my gaze, thinking for the thousandth time that I was responsible for it. That I was responsible for hurting a lot of people, lately. Remorse filled my throat, making it impossible to speak for a few seconds. When I was able to again, it sounded as though someone were strangling me. “Why didn’t you talk about what was happening, Oliver?”
He hung the poker back on its stand. Without another word, Oliver got to his feet. I watched him walk to the door, open it, and stride into the rain. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t pursue him because it was wet and cold out there.
Guess you don’t know me as well as you think. Growling, I set the hot chocolate down on the coffee table and stood up. The blanket pooled on the floor. I crossed the room soundlessly, my footsteps muffled by
the thick socks. As soon as I reached the threshold, the rain came to an abrupt stop. This small kindness—Oliver considering my needs, even while I was actively furious at him—only increased my determination to unbury the truth. After glancing around for the shadow self, who seemed to have disappeared, I sought the horizon. There was Oliver, sitting at the edge of the dreamscape, in the same spot he always was.
For some reason, the sight of his familiar silhouette, so slender against the moon, made my ire fade. There was a pair of boots near the door—my size, of course—and I pulled them on. After that, I left the cottage’s warm glow behind, walking through damp grass and squelching mud.
As I’d done thousands of times before, I sat down next to my best friend. He kept his attention on the churning sea. White, frothy waves appeared, vanished, and reappeared, almost like an eerie bright-toothed smile. My question hovered between us like a ghost. Why didn’t you talk about what was happening?
Oliver watched the water as he said, “Probably for the same reason you won’t tell me about that deal you made.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at his profile, feeling like I might vomit. He knew. Of course he knew. Oliver was many things, but he wasn’t an idiot, and there were only so many ways to bring back the dead. I didn’t bother trying to deny it. “Did you…” I swallowed and tried again. “Were you watching?”
He threw a blade of grass at the horizon. “I felt it. Usually I can block you out, but your emotions were too strong that night. When you told me Collith had died, then you said he was back, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”
I didn’t miss that he hadn’t answered my question, but this time, I let it go. There was a tightness in my chest that wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow me to ask him again. The silence between us lengthened, until it felt like we were a thousand miles apart, two strangers standing on far ends of this dream world.
“I think I want to wake up now,” I said instead. I knew I was running again, but staying would only bring more sorrow.
Oliver didn’t reply—he just stared into the storm. The wind ruffled his hair like playful fingers. He looked so alone, so forlorn, that part of me wanted to lean over and wrap him in my arms.
This was Ollie. He had been there for every moment of grief, every pang of frustration, every second of uncertainty. He’d loved me as a boney twelve-year-old and loved me as I became a flawed, broken person. Love that like that didn’t come along often. Love like that was what Fallen and humankind had been killing for, since the dawn of our creation. Yet here I was, causing him unimaginable pain.
I want to wake up now. I want to wake up now. I want to wake up now. I chanted it in my head, over and over, squeezing my eyes shut. Oliver didn’t try to stop me. His sadness felt like a knife, buried deep inside me, as the dream faded away and I descended into darkness.
Chapter Six
A week later, Emma came into the kitchen and announced we were eating outside.
“It’s kind of cold out, Ems,” Damon ventured. He stood at the counter, slicing some carrots for Matthew. My nephew sat in his high chair, making meaningless sounds and staring at his fingers. I’d just started pouring myself a bowl of cereal. At Emma’s declaration, I paused.
His response eyes made her eyes narrow. “Children need fresh air every day, Damon. To be frank, you look like you could use some, too. Didn’t Matt’s mother pack him a coat?”
“Matt?” I echoed, setting the cereal box down. “Is that what we’re calling him now? I like it.”
“Matthew does have a coat, yes,” Damon muttered, shooting me a look of warning. To cover a laugh, I made a face at Matthew and handed him a Cheerio.
Five minutes later, I found myself setting some lawn chairs in a circle while Collith got started building a fire. Daylight was fading fast, and he moved with swift grace. I watched him from the corner of my eye, thinking that we hadn’t really spoken since the scene he’d made at Court. The goblins’ ring was now hidden in my bedroom vent, and Collith hadn’t asked about it once.
Cyrus was watching him, too. Or, rather, watching the small flames Collith had coaxed into being. He edged away and muttered something about firewood. Damon entertained Matthew by drawing pictures in a patch of mud. Emma started readying brats to roast. Finn wasn’t amongst us, for once, which meant he was probably off on a hunt.
The sun had finished its descent by the time everyone was seated. Finn loped through the trees just as we opened the package of raw brats. Weeks ago, I would’ve looked at Emma and Damon and tried to gauge their reactions to his arrival, but now I just picked up a roasting stick. The humans never seemed to notice that our roommate, Finn, was remarkably absent every time my dog came home. My dog who had, strangely, never been given a name.
But the two of them knew something. Emma had seen werewolves and zombies on the day Fred died, and Cyrus had known exactly what Nuvian was when he came to the house. There was also the fact that both humans witnessed Collith die and come back to life. Yet, despite all this, Cyrus and Emma never seemed worried or curious.
There will be plenty of time for that later, the old woman had said when I tried to tell her the truth. Maybe she didn’t want her entire world to change. Or maybe Emma thought she had most of the truth, and she’d explained away some of the things they witnessed that day. Did I have any right to rob her of that? Or did I have an obligation to?
And as for Cyrus, well, he’d always preferred to stay out of things.
The werewolf padded toward me and I noticed blood on his snout. It had been a good hunt, then. Seeing that made a knot inside me loosen. At least I’d done one thing right—despite everything that he’d been through, in his own way, Finn was happy. As happy as someone could be who had lost his entire family.
The fire crackled merrily, reaching for the waking stars with luminescent fingers. Collith had claimed the chair to my left and Emma the one on my right. Damon and Matthew sat on the other side of the flames, with Cyrus between us. The only one missing was Lyari—she must’ve had plans, for once, or knew I was with Collith. Everyone held a roasting stick, and soon enough the smell of cooking meat filled the air.
I kept glancing around, feeling flutters of childlike wonder. Even now, weeks after Emma and Damon’s return into my life, I was surrounded by family and still had trouble believing it. We were safe. We were going to be okay. That’s all anyone ever wants, really. It felt too good to be true.
My gaze landed on Collith again. He seemed unaware of anything beyond the fire, and the hollows of his cheeks looked deeper in the flickering light. I was still staring when he put the beer bottle to his lips. I frowned and turned my focus back to the brat. Maybe the drinking didn’t mean anything, or maybe Collith was finally stepping off the precipice he’d been on since his resurrection.
A strange impulse stole over me. I moved slowly but deliberately. Without looking away from the food, I reached over and tugged at Collith’s arm. I felt him looking at me, probably wondering what the hell I was trying to do. I tugged again, and he realized what I wanted—his arm dropped to the space between us. I wrapped my fingers around his, more tightly that I meant to, but Collith didn’t utter a sound of complaint. He went on watching his own brat as if nothing had changed, his grip cool and gentle.
Matthew lost interest in us and wandered around the yard. Every few minutes, he returned to my brother and showed off his findings. A red leaf, a rock, a fistful of mud. Damon made a rueful sound and tried to clean the toddler’s fingers off.
Our small group sat like that for a time, surrounded by frost and a slumbering sky, plumes of breath rising into the air. The stillness was eventually interrupted by my growling stomach. From his spot on the ground beside me, Finn’s long ears twitched. He gave me a long, pointed look. “Will you calm down? I don’t eat raw meat like some people,” I informed him primly.
Finn sneezed to communicate what he thought of this. Humoring him, I brought my brat closer and saw that it was ready. Ignoring an unnerving
pang of reluctance, I finally let go of Collith’s hand to retrieve one of the plates. The faerie king leaned forward in his chair, propping an elbow on the armrest. Easily accessible, I noted, on the chance I wanted to reach for him again. Strands of his hair stirred in a breeze.
“How does it work, exactly?” Emma murmured, startling me. I turned to look at her, but she was watching Matthew, whose delighted giggle floated over to us. “Will he be… like you? Like your family?”
Once I’d recovered from my surprise that she was actually acknowledging our secret, I thought about her question. It was the same one I’d seen in Damon’s eyes almost every day. The same one I often asked myself, as well. I couldn’t deny it—I liked the idea of Damon and I no longer being the last Nightmares. But if Matthew was one of us, he would pay the price we all did. The constant invasion of other people’s privacy. Knowing that almost everyone you met would never see your true face. Always wondering whether someone truly loved you or if they were just beneath your spell. And that was just the beginning.
Of course, there was also the fact that Matthew might be like his mother, which was terrifying in an entirely different way. What did any of us know about how to raise a warlock?
“Actually, I have no idea,” I admitted. My brat was tucked into a bun now. Steam rose from it, taunting me, and I searched for the ketchup. It must’ve fallen out of the plastic bag we’d used to carry out the supplies. “Our kind doesn’t usually… intermingle. Mom and Dad never covered it during their lessons, either.”
The moment I finished speaking, it occurred to me that Collith might know. He’d been anticipating this, because his voice floated past me before I could move. “He could be either, or he could be both. There’s no way of knowing until his abilities start to manifest. There isn’t much literature on the topic, unfortunately,” he concluded.
