Chapter Thirty Two
Daphne
Idream of ruin.
Not the kind that whispers of the whimsical and forgotten, where ivy curls like lazy fingers around grand castles and the forest is alive with a welcoming wonder. No, this ruin is violent. Fresh. Broken. A warning.
The sky is all wrong. It hangs too low, bruised purple and split with veins of molten gold, as though the Idols have cracked it open and something furious is trying to claw its way through. The air tastes of ash and salt and something metallic that coats my tongue and refuses to leave.
Blood. Old and young. But none of it is spilled willingly.
I was promised naughty dreams of knights. This is not what I signed up for. I do not recommend.
I stand in the middle of a battlefield that stretches farther than I can see. The ground is scorched black, jagged pieces of rock cutting into my bare feet. Bodies lie scattered like discarded dolls. Some are whole, some are not, while others are still moving.
I swallow, throat tight, and spin to take in the scene behind me. Dozens of banners snap in the howling wind, each one bearing symbols I don’t recognize. And yet, I do. I know them, not through classes I paid no attention to, but through something deeper. Older. Knowledge I was born with.
A black banner with a gold crown split in two. A green serpent devouring its tail. A tower against a stormy sky, crumbling from within.
My pulse stutters. “This isn’t real.” I will that sentence into reality, because that’s what one says in a nightmare. It’s a rule. “This is just my brain being dramatic as it tries to understand the forces around me.”
I’d be very surprised if I ended up sounding convincing.
The wind carries whispers, soft as breath against skin.
They rumble, growing louder until they are no longer whispers but a screeching chorus that claws inside my skull.
A finger twitches first. Then a leg jerks, the bone grinding against stone.
A head lolls to the side with a wet, sickening crack, eyes snapping open to stare at nothing.
One drags itself forward, nails splitting and leaving a macabre bloody trail as they scrape against the scorched ground. Another pushes up on arms that bend the wrong way, joints crunching as though they’ve forgotten their purpose. Torn flesh hangs loose.
My blood turns to ice, and I back up. “Right, that’s not at all creepy.”
One of them turns and looks at me. I freeze, squinting at him. There’s something… I know him. I don’t know how, but I do. His face is wrong—half-burned, half-shadow—but the shape of it is familiar, and it tugs at my chest like a memory just out of reach.
His mouth opens. “Harbinger.”
The word cracks through the battlefield like thunder, and the others take it up. “Harbinger.”
I shake my head.
“Harbinger.”
My feet stumble over the sharp rock.
“Harbinger.”
I need to wake up.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t even know what that means, and frankly, it sounds like a lot of responsibility I did not sign up for.”
The familiar man’s feet touch the ground, and he draws closer to me, pulled by an invisible force.
“You ended us,” he accuses.
“I did no such thing,” I reply. “I would remember that. I’m chaotic, not forgetful.”
His head tilts. “You will.”
Awesome. I so love veiled threats and accusations for the future.
The sky splits overhead. A jagged tear rips through the clouds, and a vast shadow moves behind it. Enormous. Ancient. Watching. Judging.
The pressure of it slams into me, stealing my breath in a crushing, suffocating force like the weight of an ocean pressing down on my lungs.
The battlefield shifts again, banners bursting into flames while the screaming ensues from all sides.
“You were not meant to wake.”
The voice is deep, all-encompassing, much like the All Knowing, but more ominous.
My heart stutters. “But I did.”
The man in front of me reaches out. His fingers brush my wrist, and the world shatters.
I wake with a gasp, bolting upright so fast my head spins. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The battlefield lingers behind my eyes, the smell of ash still clinging to the back of my throat, the echo of that voice curling through my skull like smoke.
I fist my hands to stop them from shaking.
“Get a grip, Daphne,” I mutter. “It was a dream. A very dramatic, slightly traumatizing dream, but still. Not real.” Except it felt real. Too real. The kind of real that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. The kind that whispers that it’s not over and has you looking over your shoulder.
I swing my legs off the bed and pace around the room because standing still feels like a terrible idea right now.
“What’s wrong?” Nash growls. “It’s still the middle of the night. Come back to bed.”
“Okay,” I say, dragging a hand through my tangled hair. “Options. We ignore it and pretend everything is fine—a classic strategy. Or we investigate, which historically leads to more chaos, but also answers.”
“Investigate?” he asks.
I pause and point at him. “That’s right. We’re going to investigate.” I strut toward the wall, hoping it’s going to let me out without argument.
“Um, Daphne?” Nash calls out.
“Yes?”
“While I’m excited about the thought of you conducting anything while naked, you might want to get dressed before investigating some unknown thing.”
Ugh, clothes. How bothersome. I spin on my heel, and he meets me out of the bed with my discarded nightgown in hand.
I smile at him and rise to my tiptoes to drop a kiss on his pretty mouth.
After we’re dressed, we escape the secret bedchamber and find the Living Library starting to wake. Or perhaps these are the stragglers not yet rested.
I knock on Gwyneth’s door twice, and then brave it. What’s the worst that can happen? I see Charming’s naked butt? “Gwyneth, I need you—” I stutter to a stop. I take it back. The worst thing that can happen is seeing my sister’s sex face while Charming pummels into her from behind.
She squeaks and grabs a blanket to cover her breasts.
And Charming? He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t he notice me standing here with my mouth open, or doesn’t he care?
“I’ll be right there,” Gwyneth snaps.
“Yes, right there, baby,” Charming growls.
I mean, good for him that he’s focused on making sure she has a good time. It’s definitely more than I expected.
I clap a hand over my eyes. “Nope. Absolutely not. I rescind my entrance. Everybody put your bits away.”
Charming’s laugh rumbles through the room. The sound of flesh meeting flesh continues.
“Get out,” Gwyneth hisses, grabbing a pillow and launching it at my face.
I catch it on instinct and hold it against my chest. “Rude. I came here in sisterly distress and was met with vigorous betrayal.”
“For the love of Idols, leave,” she growls.
“On it.” I backpedal toward the door, my gaze locked firmly on the ceiling because I’ve seen enough to last me several annuses. “But know this, Gwyneth Stone, I will never be the same. There are images now. Permanent ones.”
I retreat and slam the door closed. Nash is at my back, and I spin to face him, finding his shoulders shaking with silent laughter while he braces his hand on the wall.
“Do not laugh,” I grumble.
That only makes it worse. His low chuckle brushes my ears, and I glare at him. “This is a tragic moment in sister history.”
“You walked in without warning.”
“I knocked twice. That was an announcement.”
“Without express permission to enter, it really wasn’t.”
“It is if you possess decency.”
Nash arches a brow. “Or if you stop after hearing suggestive noises.”
I point at him. “I heard nothing.”
He hooks a finger beneath my chin, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “Poor Calamity.”
“Don’t ‘poor Calamity’ me. I saw her O face.”
His mouth twitches. “Yes, you mentioned.”
“I can never look at her again.”
“Seems a tad dramatic.”
“I am dramatic,” I remind him. “It’s one of my finest qualities.”
The door to Gwyneth’s chamber cracks open. A dainty hand shoots out, yanks the pillow from my grip, and slams the door shut again.
I blink at the wood. “Wow. Aggressive.”
From inside, Gwyneth’s muffled voice rings out. “Five tempos.”
“Take ten,” I call back. “Or a turn. Maybe a scalding bath. A scouring of the floof and my eyeballs.”
Nash coughs to hide another laugh.
I spin on him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m enjoying you.”
That takes some of the sting out of the moment, which is annoying and lovely in equal measure.
Nash disappears into the shared chamber with the knights while I pace in small agitated circles around the sofa and try not to think about my sister’s sex face.
Fail. Utter fail. After the fourth lap, the door opens and Gwyneth steps out wearing a robe tied high and tight, her cheeks pink and her hair a mess.
I narrow my eyes. “You could have lied. Pretended to be asleep. One of us could have had dignity.”
She folds her arms. “You burst into my room in the middle of the night like a deranged goblin.”
“I knocked.”
“Twice.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t enough of a warning.”
“It would have been if you hadn’t been rutting so loud you couldn’t hear me.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Daphne.”
I throw my hands up. “Fine. We’ll circle back to your scandalous choices later. I had a nightmare, and it wasn’t normal.”
That drains the humor from her face as Hart emerges, shirtless and frowning like he’s been personally insulted by consciousness.
Malachi follows, hair a mess, all warm sleep and sunshine until he sees my face and the lightness vanishes.
Genie appears in a puff of smoke over the armchair, already offended by being summoned by tension rather than glamor.
“Tell me,” Gwyneth demands.
Charming struts out, trousers on, shirt unlaced, looking entirely too unbothered by the fact I saw their activities by accident. He leans one shoulder against the wall and quirks a blond eyebrow. “You should begin by apologizing for the interruption.”
I stare at him. “Prince Poopfloof, I saw enough of your technique to know you should be the one apologizing to me.”