Page 41

GWYN

My vision is too blurry to see the search engine results on my phone. I’ve nearly lost my balance already, but I keep walking as I scroll.

Because I have to figure out what that fucking dream meant.

I put one foot in front of the other. Right heel against the tip of my left toe. Swing my foot ahead. Left heel to right toe. Again, and again, I repeat, walking a perfectly straight line.

I take another swig of vodka, wishing it was the kind at Sanguivita with silver shards in it, because I’ve nearly finished the entire bottle and it hasn’t done shit.

The nightmare feels just as realistic as it did two hours ago when I woke up from a dead sleep.

The wind slams against me, and I drop the handle of liquor onto the balcony below.

It shatters, and I’m glad it landed there instead of on an innocent passerby.

I’ve done enough to harm other people by mistake.

I use the back of my hand to swipe away tears that won’t stop. I hate feeling like this, and I just want it all to fucking stop.

Finding body nightmare gives me an answer I don’t find useful.

Icelandic wilderness dream comes up with nothing.

Buried ash nightmare offers even less.

Though I’ve never been there, and it wasn’t stated implicitly in my dream, I know I’d been in Iceland.

I could feel it. My ancestral home had called to me, and I’d known exactly where I was.

Between craggy mountains, I’d been abandoned amongst volcanic ash.

Tiny flowers had bloomed through the sulfurous soil, stretching all the way to the mountains, and I was all alone.

The despair had been insurmountable, and when I woke, it had already settled deep in my chest. Encroaching vines of melancholy so intense I could taste it had wrapped around my heart and squeezed.

The dread and anguish and hopelessness I’ve felt since my parents died—since before that even—seems amplified now.

Alone, with sunset approaching, my fingers had been red and raw as I dug through the ash, choking on the rotten egg scent even in a dream. I’d been searching for something important, and my desperation had gripped my soul like a vise. It lingers still.

This dream transcended reality. There had been physical symptoms, and the warmth still hasn’t come back to my extremities.

I’d sat in the shower for a while, staring at the wall as I tried to heat up my frigid fingertips.

It was the first I’ve showered in days, and a part of me has to thank the nightmare or else I’d still stink.

I’ve thought before that depression isn’t for the weak.

Persistent and dismal, it turns people into monsters who marinate in their own filth—mentally and physically.

The nightmare made me wash the sweat and the sick from my body. It made me wash Roman away.

Subjecting myself to the wind and cold outside probably hasn’t helped warm me, but the sting of the bitter air helps anchor me.

I shudder, and I traverse the railing once more.

With one hand outstretched for balance, I type different keywords into my phone with the other, and start to grow frustrated.

I nearly throw the device when I get another call from Sasha.

I send her to voicemail, but I pull up our text thread so she’ll leave me alone.

Clearing my throat, I hope I’m convincing enough.

“Hey,” I say, recording a voice memo to my sister. “I was taking a nap when you called last. Just about to hop in the shower, but I’m fine, I swear,” I lie.

She responds in the same format almost immediately, voice a mixture of irritation and fear.

“Call me.”

“When I get out of the shower. Promise.”

She’s on babysitting duty, wanting hourly check-ins since Hale is out at Last Drop.

He’d been wary about going, but he accidentally attacked someone on New Year’s Eve, and Nico had to intervene.

It was the reason he was late to meet me.

That’s why I’d been left alone at Sanguivita. And that’s why Adam had died.

But Hale isn’t at fault for that, because my friend wouldn’t even be in Chicago if not for me. Every dreadful act rests on my shoulders, and I want to leave. I want to abandon everything I’ve ever known and everyone I’ve ever loved and leave them all to figure it out without me.

I’m more of a hindrance than a help. The other night only proved it.

As someone so profoundly affected by the violence ingrained in vampires, how could I possibly harm an innocent?

It doesn’t matter that it was an accident.

Each day, it becomes more impossible to justify my continued existence.

It becomes more impossible to justify the continued existence of vampires altogether.

I don’t think there is a single vampire who could relinquish the violence running thick through our veins.

Even Hale, the kindest, least aggressive man I know, attacked someone.

I swap back to my internet browser, hoping to find some sort of answer about my dream.

Because it meant something bigger, and I don’t know what.

When I fumble my phone and drop it onto the balcony below, I wince when the screen cracks.

Sasha never replied, so I hope she’s content with my answer.

I don’t want Hale coming back to check on me.

He needs to focus on his task so he can feel comfortable leaving.

The demon I’d paid a large sum of money to has reported another trail of bodies in Denver, so I don’t think Agnarr plans to come back here any time soon.

There’s no point in staying. If I’m to move forward with my plan to kill Agnarr and wipe every vampire out of existence, I have to hunt him down myself.

I’ve been in a state of limbo as I’ve waited for Hale to get a handle on his new body and lack of abilities, but I simply can’t stay here any longer.

I just can’t.

Being here is a constant reminder of the deaths I’d sought to avenge. It’s a reminder of what I did to Roman, and it’s proof that my vengeance didn’t cure me.

But now, I don’t know if I plan to leave with Hale at all.

I tip my head back and close my eyes. Arms out, I move by feel. I’ve been tempted by this balcony ever since the moment I arrived.

It would be so fucking easy.

I think of that woman who jumped from the Empire State building back in the 1940s. The picture taken of her after she landed made her look almost alive. In soft repose, she had seemed so peaceful. And that’s all any of us want, really, isn’t it?

I don’t mind dying to get it.

Now though, I worry it won't work. A fall like this, as a vampire, would hurt like hell but it probably wouldn’t kill me.

Decapitation or ripping out my heart won’t happen from plummeting to the pavement below.

Cops would get called and it would be a mess.

There was a time not too long ago, when this proximity to death would actually mean something.

Reckless and indecisive, depressed and angry, I’ve walked this tightrope many times before in my life.

There is comfort in familiarity.

The wind rips through my thin t-shirt, and my bare legs are cold to the touch. I laugh when I think of the dream and what I’d found buried beneath the ash, my own frigid skin made a mockery by my subconscious imagination.

Because in my dream, after digging for what felt like hours, I’d found a body.

And in what seemed like mere seconds of excavating it, I’d completely uncovered the remains of someone I don’t recognize anymore.

Dead and frozen, lips chapped and blue, with a still-beating heart clutched in clasped hands, I’d found me .

But not quite. Something wasn’t right. The blonde hair, the frown, even the clothing. It wasn’t me, but some freakish monstrosity meant to look like me. The heart clenched in frostbitten hands began to slow its beat, and with a distinct certainty, I knew I had to retrieve it.

The heart had to keep beating, no matter what.

I look up at the moon, trying to forget the skeletal grip latching onto my wrist as I’d reached for something precious.

I blink back tears as I try not to remember the feeling of fingernails digging into my flesh as I was thrown into the hole I’d dug out.

I breathe deeply, because when I’d been covered in ash, buried alive, I’d been unable to do so.

The most horrifying part was that the dark had been peaceful. It had been quiet and empty—calm. And that despair that now wriggles around in my chest, wings beating against a gilded cage, had abated for a few peaceful moments.

It’s a good thing Hale had taken my ammo, because when I’d woken up from that nightmare, gasping and sweaty, I’d reached for my goddamn gun.

Carefully, I sit down on the railing, uncomfortably narrow for my ass, with my bare feet swinging out below me. I slow my breathing and lean forward, arms stretched behind me to keep hold of the railing.

Even if I didn’t die, the pain would have to be better than this.

I sit up and pull my hands in my lap as I wrestle with every courageous part of me, searching for the nerve I’ve never been able to summon.

When an arm bands around my stomach and a warm hand grips me by the throat, I don’t even scream.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, cockroach?” Roman’s voice whispers in my ear. His beard tickles the side of my face, and the heat of his body presses up against my back. The hand wrapped around my throat squeezes gently, tilting my head backward against his broad chest.

He smells like blood.

“None of your business,” I murmur, and his grip tightens.

“My kill, my business,” he says, and his breath against my flesh makes me shiver.