Page 97 of Night Fae

The word "had" caught in Zev's mind. Past tense. Because Rhys was gone. Had been gone for years. And this—whatever this was—couldn't be him.

As the realization formed, the clearing darkened. The silver light dimmed, shadows creeping in from the edges. Zev noticed for the first time that his body felt wrong—numb in places, burning in others. He looked down. Darkness wrapped around his legs, his torso, tendrils of it crawling up his chest toward his throat.

"What is this?" He tried to pull away from the shadow tendrils, but they only tightened their grip.

"Nothing," Rhys claimed. "Just an echo of your power. Remember when you lost control of your magic? It's like that."

But it wasn't like that at all.

The tendrils pulsed, and with each pulse, Zev felt himself growing weaker, memories draining away like water through cupped hands. Important memories—his escape from the Court, finding Knox and the others, saving Malik from his father.

Malik.

Something tore through the fabric of the clearing—not a physical thing, but a disturbance in whatever magic held this place together. Through the rift, Zev glimpsed a figure moving toward them, struggling against the silver mist.

"Ignore it," Rhys commanded, his voice no longer gentle. "Focus on me."

But Zev's eyes kept returning to the approaching figure. Malik fought through the mist, determination etched on his face.

"He's not real," Rhys insisted. "He can't be here."

"But he is," Zev countered, strength returning to his voice. "And I don't think you're real either."

The moment the words left his mouth, pain shot through him. The shadow tendrils constricted, digging into his flesh, and Rhys's face flickered, features momentarily replaced by something hollow and hungry.

"Don't say that," Rhys—or whatever wore his face—hissed. "I'm the only thing that's real here."

"No." Malik's voice was closer now. "You're feeding on him. The Fields are using his memories of Rhys to drain him."

Zev turned toward Malik's voice, fighting against the tendrils that tried to hold him in place. Through gaps in the silver mist, he saw Malik more clearly. He was pale, exhausted, but always pressing on. The sight of him sent a jolt through Zev's body, like lightning striking parched earth.

"Malik," he called. "How did you make it here?"

"I followed you," Malik answered, still pushing through the mist. "Through the shadow paths."

The shadow paths. Right. They were connected to… to the Fields of Memories. They'd gone there to find Leon. And then there'd been Andras… leading him deeper into the mist. It all came back in a disorienting rush.

By all the gods… he'd let himself be trapped here. And now Malik was here too.

"You have to get out of here," Zev yelled at him.

"So do you," Malik countered. He was close enough now that Zev could see the strain in his face, the way he moved as if every step caused pain. "Those things are feeding on you."

The false Rhys stood, placing himself between Zev and Malik. "He chose to stay," it said, its voice a perfect imitation of Rhys's warmth. "Leave us."

"He didn't choose anything," Malik responded. "You tricked him."

The tendrils tightened around Zev's throat. He couldn't speak, couldn't call out. The pain intensified as the thing wearing Rhys's face grew angry.

"He's mine," it growled. "He's always been mine."

"No," Malik said calmly. "He belongs to himself."

The false Rhys moved toward Malik with unnatural speed. Zev tried to shout a warning, but the tendrils choked the words before they could form. Helpless, he watched as Rhys—no, not Rhys, the thing that had stolen Rhys's face—lunged.

But instead of attacking, it passed through Malik like smoke.

"You're not really here," the false Rhys snarled, whirling to face Malik again. "You're a projection, a dream-walker."