Page 7 of Blackheart

I nodded, catching a coin as she tossed it. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

With Luna gone, there was no one to distract me from Lord Ansel’s peculiar behavior. For the rest of the evening, he sat alone in silence. He never asked for another glass of water; he’d barely touched the first.

Was he trying to catch me using my Nature? Did he so eagerly want a reason to add me to the burn pile?

He finally left towards the end of the night, like most patrons. While many went easily, there were always a few stragglers I had to practically drag out the door before I could clean up.

When I left Widow's Way, Charles the Imp was sound asleep on the icy street, and Lord Ansel stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a neighboring building.

“You’re still here?” I whispered, the Waywards chillingly quiet.

He gestured to the little green shit sleeping on the ground. “Waiting for the Imp to wake.”

The cold pricked my skin, snow dampening my hair. “He may not get the chance, exposed to these temperatures.”

Lord Ansel shook his head. “Imps have thicker skin than you and I. He’ll be fine.”

We both stared at Charles, whose mouth bubbled with spit on every exhale. As pleasant as it was to think about him freezing to death, I needed to get the precious little sleep I could before dawn.

“Well, enjoy watching the Imp.”

I had already turned on my heel when he spoke up.

“Do you want to know what he’s dreaming of?”

I cocked my head to the side. “You’re a Dreamsoul?”

All of the Witchlords had been Lyonhearts before, with magic of healing, light, and strength. Rare, especially in Drakington—Dreamsouls were the only Light Natured kind to exist aside from Lyonhearts.

He flicked out a wrinkle in his tunic. “With the gossip around here, I would’ve thought you’d know by now.”

“Can I speak freely, Witchlord?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t give a shit what your Nature is.”

Silence filled the space. Instinctively, I straightened my posture under his electric gaze. He was a Witchlord; I was a Blackheart.

“Respectfully,” I added.

“Do you want to know what the Imp is dreaming of or not?” he asked again.

I shrugged. “I’d rather be warm, but if you must share, go on.”

He rolled his eyes, flicking his middle finger and thumb together. A fuzzy grey cloud erupted from his hand and wrapped itself completely around me. Brief flashes of lightning buzzed gently, heating the Dreamsoul blanket.

I didn’t move or thank him. I stared only at the charmed cloud, breathing in the scent of crackling air before a storm breaks.

Lord Ansel nudged Charles’ head with his boot. “He's dreaming of Lyonsreach. Within the castle, he’s greeting guests for a ball. He’s wearing finery. A young maiden has called him handsome. He’s discussing politics with noblemen.”

The invasion of privacy was disturbing and fascinating, and all the more reason never to fall asleep near a Dreamsoul.

“Interesting.”

I also dreamt of castles and nobles, except I was never in the dreams. I just watched and woke up every morning sick from it.

“Go home, Blackheart.”