Chapter 6
Renata
Slowly opening my eyes, I know I’m not actually awake.
It’s like a sixth sense when I get here, more comfortable than any home I’ve inhabited—an ethereal meadow full of wild flowers a short distance from a lake with thick woods opposite the water.
It’s the exact place I’ve been brought to a thousand times in this state.
And where I hoped to end up last night.
I take a deep breath, letting the familiar comfort settle over me.
It’s always sunset when we arrive, with fireflies flickering around us and soft, warm rays of light breaking through the clouds.
No matter how long we stay, the night never gives way to morning.
The evening sun sets, and the blood moon rises to its highest peak.
Daybreak never comes, making our presence feel infinite here.
By we, I mean me and the man I see sitting a few feet away from me.
Hurt and anger mix in my gut at the realization of us being in this dream world together after months of no contact. Since my sixteenth birthday, I’ve been able to count on one thing other than Hexate—finding him in my dreams.
He’s been avoiding me for the last two months. And it is his fault. We’ve never talked in any state of consciousness, but I’m certain of this.
Dreamwalking is exclusive to Divination Witches. Astral projection is something anyone, even non-magical beings, can practice to some extent—sometimes even succeeding. It takes a lot of awareness, effort, and intention.
From what I’ve been taught, dreamwalking is a natural occurrence, but Divination Witches have some authority over it. The ability has as much control over them as they do it. The concept has never made sense to me, and probably wouldn’t to anyone other than a Divination Witch.
He’s the one who waltzed into my subconscious the night of my sixteenth birthday and kept showing up. I don’t appreciate that he has all the power. He can make that choice any time he wants and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
So I tell him exactly that, even though I don’t think he can hear me either.
“What the hell?” I point a finger at his chest, but it goes straight through him.
It’s a certain kind of torture to find comfort in a person who you will never get to see or talk to. Never feel the whisper of his touch on my deprived skin.
“Where the hell have you been?” I ask and try slamming my hands on his chest. “You can’t just leave and come back whenever you want. It’s not fair when I have no control over this situation. Do you hear me?” My voice cracks and I hate myself for it.
No, he can’t hear me.
Embarrassment and heartache hit me as a fresh wave of silent tears break through.
Sensing my need for comfort, he lifts a hand between us and runs it along my hair and cheek.
When I can’t feel it for the millionth time, I drop my head in my hands, a gut-wrenching sob tearing out of me. The years of my mother’s abuse, the endless isolation, and the disconnect from reality creeping into my mind has broken me apart once and for all.
There’s no way to be sure how much access he gets to me, but I hope my face is as obscured to him as his is to mine.
He tries pushing my hair out of my face and running his hands through the strands.
I hate that I can’t feel him, but it always warms something inside my cold heart that he never stops trying.
From the tight fist his hand balls into when it drops to his lap, he’s as frustrated by this situation as I am.
As dreadful as it is to think about, I thought I accepted this about our situation a long time ago.
With fresh tears, I lean back against a nearby tree and curl into a ball. Tilting his head, I can feel his eyes on me, assessing. A quick wave of uncertainty washes through me before subsiding just as quickly.
He’s thinking about waking up and leaving me, I think to myself with an ache in my chest.
He doesn’t. Still kneeling in the same spot he was in when we first arrived, he crawls on hands and knees to me. Helplessly, he tries one more time to touch me—gently swiping his knuckles where my cheek is—before sitting and watching the sunset next to me.
I don’t bother talking, enjoying the comfort of his presence while I work through everything going on in my life now. After a few minutes, the sun begins to lower, cloaking us in growing darkness illuminated by the rising blood moon and the lingering lightning bugs.
Looking down, I’m about to reposition myself when I notice his hand directly over mine. It’s even curled like he’s holding it. The longing for a real connection to him almost consumes me, but I flip my hand around, palm to palm now, and curl it around the phantom of his.
Neither of us move, letting our hands get as close to being held as they can, and eventually go back to sleep.