Beautiful nightmares, p.8
Beautiful Nightmares, page 8
“Nope.”
“Warlock?”
“Incorrect.”
Shit. Only one more guess left. I withheld the next species I’d been about to say. Why did the stakes feel higher than they actually were? The stillness in the room was so noticeable that it was like a spell, thickening and hovering in the air. I studied the gleam in Gil’s eye and realized I was playing right into his hands. He didn’t expect me to figure it out.
Ignoring the cloud of weariness around my thoughts, I considered Gil like a puzzle, peering at all the pieces.
You can see my tattoos? he’d asked. There was obviously something significant about them. He’d looked at me as if I had surprised him. Not many people could see that ink on his arms, then. What made the ones that did different? Did you need to be a certain… species?
When I first awoke and worried that he’d assault me, Gil had known exactly what I was thinking. You don’t need to worry about that happening. I’d rather stick my finger in an electrical outlet. That was what he said. I’d assumed he made a perceptive guess, based on my body language or something in my expression.
My vision tunneled. What if he’d detected my fear with other senses?
“Are you… a Nightmare?” I spoke in hardly more than a whisper. The guess felt right the moment I said it out loud.
Gil was silent. I waited impatiently, but he just kept looking at me with an appraising expression. Doubts began to creep in. I started finding flaws in my theory. Doesn’t fit, an inner voice argued. He would’ve needed to touch you.
I didn’t know this male in the slightest, but my gut said he wasn’t the kind of person to touch someone while they were unconscious. If he hadn’t touched me, then, maybe he’d evolved. That was possible, wasn’t it? Before I’d asked Cyrus to burn them all away, my own abilities had been growing and changing.
There was also the fact that I didn’t see a being of supreme beauty sitting across from me. Nightmares could see each other’s true faces, but I was human…
Wasn’t I?
The tattoos, I thought. I can see his tattoos.
Damn it. What if Belanor was right, and my abilities weren’t completely gone? Wouldn’t they have resurfaced by now? The Seelie Prince’s tortures hadn’t been a walk in the park. Surely one of them would’ve worked, if any of that power had lingered?
I was on the verge of asking more about the tattoos when Gil finally spoke.
“Indeed I am,” he said, apparently coming to some sort of decision. My gaze snapped back to the male’s face. A hint of trepidation had appeared there, and when I saw that, I felt like an asshole. If Gil was telling the truth, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to ask each other questions in the beginning. Being a Nightmare was practically a death sentence, and admitting what we were to a stranger was all but guaranteeing it.
“You weren’t kidding about being a gambler,” I remarked.
His eyebrows drew together. “How are you shielding your power like that? I could’ve sworn you were human.”
“That,” I said, swallowing, “is a long story.”
Gil looked around with exaggerated speculation. “I think we’ve got some time. Unless that recent knocking-me-unconscious incident was just a misunderstanding, and we can come and go as we please?”
I opened my mouth to make an excuse for why I couldn’t tell him how I’d ended up here, but nothing came out.
Why not? I thought, considering it. There wasn’t anything else to do, seeing as I still didn’t trust Gil enough to fall asleep around him. Most of what I’d gone through was public knowledge, or Belanor already knew through his violation of my mind. I wouldn’t be giving my tormenter any new information by talking, even if Gil was part of his wicked plans.
And so, in that small white room, I told another Nightmare my story.
I stuck to the basics, reciting the past few weeks of my life as if they were a bulleted list. Meeting Collith at the black market. Accepting the twisted offer he’d made. Undergoing the three trials to win my brother’s freedom. Becoming queen and forging a Court bond. Gaining power.
This was the first point in my telling that Gil interrupted. “Pardon me. Did I hear you say that your abilities work during the daytime?” he questioned.
I raised my chin at the skepticism in his tone. “Yes. I’m not sure of the exact moment that changed, but I know it was during my first week at the Unseelie Court.”
Gil’s expression was impossible to interpret. After a moment, he made a gesture that I should continue. I hadn’t gotten much further when he cut in again. “Wait, you don’t need to touch the morsels?” the Nightmare demanded.
“Morsels?” I echoed with a bemused smile. “Is that what you call our victims?”
“Victims? Oh, my, you are angsty, aren’t you.” Gil closed his eyes once more, returning to the slumped position he’d been in throughout my narrative. “Back to the matter of physical touch. No Nightmare I know has evolved to the point they no longer need it—I still do. That tells me magic must be involved.”
I wanted to ask him more, but that would bring our conversation into treacherous territory. I could imagine Belanor sitting in a control room somewhere, hanging on to our every word. In response to Gil’s comment, I just made a noncommittal sound, then continued on with the story.
When I got to the part involving Gwyn of the Wild Hunt, my telling became more halting. I spoke of the huntress’s dark predictions for my future. I recounted that shattering night I had succumbed to the darkness inside me, then gone on to slaughter everyone at that black market. Carefully, I explained the decision I’d reached and the subsequent request I’d made of Cyrus Lavender.
I kept out certain details, of course, like what Cyrus really was or anything about Collith’s true ability.
My tale concluded once I reached the present. I told Gil what I knew about Belanor and why he’d taken us.
“Is that his name?” Gil asked, frowning. “I think I might’ve heard his voice while I was out. Asking someone about the ‘chances of survival.’ Didn’t hear the rest, though, and then I woke up in here. With you.”
I wanted to believe him so badly, and I longed to talk to Gil anywhere other than this room. Suddenly I had even more motivation to survive whatever Belanor threw at me. But what were the chances of both of us walking out? There was a reason Belanor had been talking about the chances of survival. And spells, like most things, often required multiple attempts. Maybe the Seelie Prince would keep bleeding us until we ran dry, or maybe each attempt took the life of the Nightmare being used.
There were too many gaps in my knowledge. I’d go insane if I let myself keep thinking about it.
Out loud I just said, “You must’ve gotten on Belanor’s radar somehow. Oh, shit. I should warn you… he might have you branded. The symbol looks Enochian, so I think it’s part of the spell, rather than a super special way to torture me.”
“Jesus,” Gil muttered. He patted his pockets again, more forcefully this time. He looked paler then he had a few minutes ago. His mouth was pinched. It was as if he were finally realizing how much danger we were in. “Jesus. You don’t know anything else? Like, will this spell require him to cut my throat open?”
I barely heard him—I was wondering anew at the fact that I’d met another Nightmare. The voice in my head kept insisting I shouldn’t trust him, though. Even if the Nightmare part were true, he could be lying about the rest. If Belanor had ordered Gil to use his abilities on me, this conversation was probably a tactic. When a Nightmare encountered a victim who was a bit more strong-minded, it was easier to exert control over them if there was a connection established between us, no matter how small.
Too bad I didn’t care. Belanor had found a weakness I wasn’t even aware of until now—a desperate need to connect with more of my kind. To learn about our abilities and our history. Becoming human hadn’t changed that.
I’d never called the phone number Dracula gave me. Secretly, part of me had believed it would lead to disappointment. What if this was the only chance I got to speak to a Nightmare besides Damon? What if he knew things my parents hadn’t? There was no way of knowing how old Gil was, since we all aged differently. Maybe he’d been alive much longer than he looked.
While all of these thoughts raced through me, Gil’s head lolled against the wall, facing forward again. He sat there quietly, his lips twisted. I stared at his profile again, as if I could find the answers I longed for by looking at him hard enough. “I thought… I thought my brother and I were the last ones,” I said.
“Oh, you’ve a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” Gil shifted and let out a sigh. He’d regained control of his fear already, I noted. Nightmares tended to be good at that. “There are still a few of us around, if you know where to look. In small, forgotten pockets of the world.”
“What pockets?” I asked without thinking.
Gil glanced at me sidelong and mimed zipping his lips. Then he held one finger upward. “Can’t spill all my secrets, love. If what you say is true, they’re probably listening to every word of this.”
Startled, I eased backward and rested my spine against the wall. My mind was off again. Maybe that’s Belanor’s next move, I thought. I’d assumed Gil was the weapon, but maybe he was just a catalyst for this conversation. Belanor was probably hoping we’d reveal something about our species. Especially if he was still trying to undo my mortality. Why settle for one Nightmare when there was potential to have two? Why else would he allow us to talk?
Unless, of course, Gil was full of shit, I reminded myself for the dozenth time. Peeks had warned me Belanor’s next assault would be psychological. But Peeks could have been a liar, too.
I couldn’t trust anyone, not a single person that I’d met here.
My headache was back. Panic crept along the boundaries of my control, searching for weaknesses. I felt like I was on the verge of insanity. Questioning everything, trusting nothing. These dark days with Belanor may not have resurrected my Nightmare abilities, but they had revived my determination to survive. To uphold the promise I’d made to Matthew Sworn while I was between life and death.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked, trying to distract myself until the panic passed.
Gil’s eyes flicked upward again. If there really were cameras, though, they’d been well-hidden. “Well, I suppose they already know that bit, considering they snatched me from work. I’m a tattoo artist,” he said.
“Did you do your own?”
Following my gaze, Gil tugged up his sleeve, exposing more of his pale arm and the intricate image that was now part of his skin. “Some of them.”
My breathing slowed as I studied his tattoo more closely, losing myself in it. The entire length of Gil’s arm was covered in a black bird. It looked like a crow or a raven, and I wished I knew the difference between the two. Its round, dark eyes were unfocused, as if it were looking off into the distance. I was curious about the bird’s significance, but Gil didn’t volunteer the information and that felt important, for some reason.
“If we get out of this, I’m definitely hiring you to do my first,” I said eventually.
One corner of Gil’s mouth tilted up. He started readjusting his sleeve, tugging the leather back into place. “Is that right? Any idea what you want?”
The question brought a soft smile to my lips. I’d thought about it before—getting a tattoo. When I was younger, I wanted something that represented my parents. Lately, I’d toyed with the idea of a wolf.
A moment after I mentally drew a howling silhouette that looked an awful lot like Finn’s, I realized the distraction had worked. The rattling sensation in my chest was gone. I took a final, steadying breath, exactly the way my dad taught me to. Deep inhale, hold, long exhale.
When I felt ready to return to the playing board, I refocused on Gil’s face. I was about to attempt asking about the spell on his tattoos again when the door shot open.
Four Guardians entered, and they were in full regalia. Unlike the rough-looking armor at the Unseelie Court, theirs was made of silver. The edges of the metal were lined with vines and flowers.
They wore identical expressions that made them seem empty inside, but there was nothing similar about their beauty. Enormous swords hung at their hips. Somehow, these warriors were more intimidating than the ones at the Unseelie Court. Were the faeries of the Seelie Court… bigger?
Then there was a flash of silver, and I forgot the Guardians as my gaze flew to the doorway.
Belanor came in with a sweep of his red cloak. Beneath this, he’d put on a bright suit of armor, as well. The metal had been molded to his body, but it had generous and dramatic ridges, giving Belanor the appearance of being far more muscular than he actually was. I wanted to make a snide remark and watch his face turn red, but fear had turned my bones to stone.
Belanor didn’t spare me a glance, anyway. He stepped into the small room and loomed over Gil like a comic book villain, resting a gauntlet-covered hand on the hilt of his sword. The Nightmare’s head fell back, landing on the pad behind him with a painful sound. He grinned up at Belanor. “All of this fuss for little old me? I’m touched,” he chirped.
I liked Gil, I decided. Even if he turned out to be a complete fraud, his brand of sarcasm was delightfully similar to mine, and that was difficult to find.
Belanor’s expression darkened like a storm on the horizon. My vicious satisfaction gave way to dread, and I felt my stomach sink. I knew Gil was about to pay a high price for his flippancy. I glanced between the two males, torn. Part of me desperately wanted to intervene, to help him, but I didn’t fully believe Gil’s story. Distrust was a shadow over my heart.
Then the window of opportunity closed.
“Take him,” the faerie prince said in a voice that rivaled a winter wind.
Gil must’ve seen the futility of resisting, because he went with them without resistance, still grinning. His leather jacket creaked amongst all the clanking armor. Whatever comment Gil made as they left was blocked by the sound of the door rushing back down. Just like that, I was alone again. The only indication that Gil had been real were the wrinkles he’d left behind on the padded surfaces.
Guilt spread through me like poison. I knew it wasn’t completely logical—Belanor was the one responsible for all of this. Not me. Gil would’ve been taken away no matter what I said.
The room felt even colder, suddenly. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders, but I didn’t let myself rock. If I relented control of the anxiety trapped inside my chest, the detonation could be catastrophic. That was exactly what Belanor wanted. I stared at the door and pretended not to hear the noises creeping along the edges of the room like frost.
Wherever they took Gil, it was in a room that was either connected to this one or extremely close to it. I could hear every sound the Nightmare made, and I wondered if that was exactly what Belanor intended. Gil’s voice was a low hum, at first, but it gradually built to a string of enraged, desperate shouts. If I had to guess, I’d say he was trying to talk his way out of whatever was about to happen.
Within a few seconds, those shouts became screams.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. Once silence had reclaimed the dungeons, I lifted my head, trembling, and strained to hear anything else. Had they killed him? No, maybe that had just been the branding, I thought wildly.
More time passed, with still no way to track it. I couldn’t focus on counting. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Glitching back to the moment they dragged Gil out, jumping forward to those mindless cries. I didn’t bother considering sleep. I wasn’t tired anymore. Instead, everything was sharper, harsher. Details of the room were almost painful in their clarity. I sat against the wall, legs crossed, staring at the door.
Then more screams ripped through the stillness.
My entire body gave a painful, involuntary jerk, and my eyes widened to the point of pain. These wails were even more agonized than before—I’d never heard anyone make sounds like that, not once in all my years of being a Nightmare. They were so terrible that I clamped my hands over my ears and curled into the tightest ball I could manage.
I still heard it when Gil’s voice cut short again.
There was something more final about this silence. A terrified sob almost escaped me. I’d been around death enough times to recognize the subtle signs of its arrival, even as a human. A slight temperature drop. An inexplicable feeling of awareness. After a few seconds, my stomach lurched, and vomit surged up my throat. I fought to keep it down. It doesn’t mean he’s dead. It doesn’t mean he’s dead, I mentally chanted.
But the silence was loud in my ears, and it sounded like a thousand voices rising up to call me a liar. Gil was dead. Belanor had killed him. I was willing to bet on my life that it was a result of the spell.
My stomach gave another heave of warning. I launched for the toilet, making it just as a surge of vomit exploded from my throat.
For the next few minutes, I spit and gagged over the water, waiting for the nausea to subside before sitting up. Once I felt more clear-headed, I eased away from the padded bowl. Those screams echoed through my skull, the latest addition to a graveyard of haunted memories that existed there.
It was as if someone had been skinning Gil alive. Clawing him open from the inside.
And I vowed, right there and then, to kill myself before I ever let the Seelie Prince attempt his spell on me.
* * *
It felt like hours later when the door opened again.
Two Guardians entered carrying Gil between them. They tossed the Nightmare to the padded floor, and he hit it like a ragdoll, as if his body was made of string instead of flesh and bone. The leather jacket was gone, along with his shirt, revealing a body that was too thin and covered in tattoos. Gil let out a low, feeble moan that sent a lightning bolt of urgency through me. Holy shit, he’s alive.
While the guards took positions on either side of the doorway, I rushed over to him and dropped to my knees. I didn’t even consider taking advantage of the open door or wonder if Belanor was coming. There was no blood on Gil’s shirt, but I lifted it anyway, revealing a pale, smooth stomach. Every part of him was drenched in sweat. “What’s wrong, Gil? What did you do to him?”
