Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Who the fuck is Tom?
I glare down at the old cell phone in my hand, a growl rising in my throat. A crack forms on the edge of the screen, spiderwebbing out from the force of my grip as I try to make sense of Ada’s message.
When I left the human realm, everything felt like it was on the right track. Yes, I made a shameful detour by her window, but I got all the lights up, put away the bins, and Ada never summoned me to her dreams that night.
She was at peace in her sleep and would have joy when she woke up and saw the lights. That’s how it should’ve gone.
Instead, when I got back to the mortal realm, retrieving the phone from its hiding place in a sealed bag under the hollow frog statue half covered with fresh snow, I was met with this angry text.
Ada never makes mistakes in her messages to clients, but it’s riddled with typos and enough wrong words that it took me a minute to even understand what she was ranting about. Now, I’m sitting here on a rotted stump on the edge of the treeline surrounding her house, wondering how I went wrong.
Why isn’t she happy?
I did everything right.
Sure, the combination of lights and decorations is a little over the top, but they’re cheerful. Did I hang the weird berries incorrectly? Is that why she’s upset?
I’m going to strangle Rhys if that’s the case. But first, I need to strangle whoever the fuck this Tom is because he’s ruining my efforts to make Ada happy again.
A vision of my claws sinking into flesh as a faceless man begs for mercy flashes before my eyes, my blood singing with approval. The crack on the screen grows.
Something rustles nearby, snapping me out of my rage-filled stupor. I duck further into the treeline, heart pounding as I listen for the sound of someone approaching. A few moments later, I hear a distant bark. The happy one Henry makes when Ada takes him for a walk.
In a rush, the choking bloodlust vanishes entirely, the horrified realization that the impulse to kill came from myself rather than Ada’s dreaming mind.
Fuck.
Fuck.
This is not good.
I shove the phone in my pocket before I break it enough that it’s unusable and fight to stabilize my breathing as panic threatens to overtake me.
It was only a thought.
I didn’t actually hurt someone.
I’m not a monster.
I’m not a monster.
I’m. Not. A. Monster.
Slumping down on a nearby log, I rest my face in my hands, my mask almost painfully cold against my palms in the frosty winter air. It’s dangerous for me to let my guard down like this, especially with Ada and Henry not too far away, but I can’t find the strength to stand back up.
Should I give up?
Is this corruption, this sickness of my entire being, too far to come back from?
I’m losing myself to this new form. Wouldn’t it be easier to stop fighting? Nothing I’ve done has made a difference.
I’m scared, and I’m tired of fighting this darkness with no end or light in sight.
It’s that final thought that has me stirring, removing my face from my hand as an aching sadness builds in my chest. Not for myself. For Ada.
We’re the same.
That should’ve been clear to me when I literally started to turn into a creature of her making, her mind so closely linked with mine. There’s so much anger and resentment inside me that it’s difficult to consider anything beyond it.
But here, on the verge of tears—if I could shed them anymore—I understand.
When darkness surrounds you, finding the light feels impossible.
Ada is trapped by her mind as much as I am. If I give up, she’ll lose herself too.
And I may be many things, but as I’ve reminded myself countless times, the words becoming a mantra, I’m not a monster.
I won’t give up. I can’t give up. Ada needs me. Her nightmare has to be her savior, because no one else is coming for her.
Brushing off the dusting of snow on my thighs and shoulders, I stand and let out a resolute exhale and assess the situation.
The lights didn’t work as I’d hoped. It’s a setback, but that might have more to do with Ada’s anger at Tom—who I recall now is the unremarkable neighbor who drops off groceries for her sometimes—than the lights themselves.
She seems to enjoy the holiday quotes I programmed for her. Her dreams that’ve been less horrific have featured Christmas.
Yes. That must be it. If she knows her secret Santa isn’t this neighbor she clearly dislikes, then she might be able to enjoy my efforts.
Some of the crushing weight on my chest eases.
The issue has to be Tom, which means that in order for operation “cheer Ada up and stop being a terrifying nightmare” to proceed, I need to make it clear that he’s not the one bringing her holiday cheer.
I could text her again, but she could think I’m Tom and that I’m lying to her. That’s the logical explanation.
I need to send a message that leaves no room for misunderstandings.
In the past, I would’ve had no problems quickly conjuring a whimsical, cheery idea to suit my needs, but now I have to struggle past all the dark ones that rise to the surface.
The sun has dipped below the horizon by the time I’ve come up with a halfway decent idea. Watching the snow accumulate as hours passed reminded me of a dream from when Ada was young. A castle made of ice. A cursed frozen prince who needed her help.
She might not even remember it, but it’s the best I’ve got.
As night falls, and once Ada’s bedroom light finally turns off, I get to work. There’s a lot to get done tonight, and I don’t know if she’ll pull me into her dreams.
My fingers are numb by the time I’m done, and my work is much cruder than I’d like, but my night has only just begun.
The message for Ada won’t be enough if Tom continues to bother her.
He needs to stay away.
I hate that my immediate thought is the same one of tearing his throat out, but I don’t let that derail me again. I’m not going to kill her neighbor. Being the subject of Ada’s ire doesn’t warrant that. But I have to get him to stay away. Scare him off.
A dark laugh bubbles out of me.
That won’t be a problem. I’ve had plenty of practice scaring people.
For the first time in ages, I reach out to a new dreamer.
Sifting through the sea of sleeping minds for one specific person is difficult unless you’re highly attuned to them. But finding Tom is surprisingly simple. He stands out like a beacon, a sickly yellow thread that I follow to the source, tugging on it until my vision goes hazy.
As it comes back into focus, static shocks scatter across my skin, as if Tom’s dreaming mind is trying to repulse me. I ignore them. I’ve endured far worse already.
I take a moment to get my bearings, finding that, yes, the mask is still there. I’m in a cabin that looks familiar. Far too familiar for my liking.
What the fuck is this guy doing dreaming about Ada’s cabin? Has he spent a lot of time in there?
My fangs ache with the need to tear through flesh, even as the tug of Tom’s dream directs me toward my new role. It guides me through the living room into the bedroom, where moonlight streams in through the open curtains, shining on the empty bed.
Where the hell is Tom? How does he know what Ada’s bedroom looks like? Was Tom her lover?
A fierce surge of possessive rage threatens to choke me at the thought. It only intensifies as the dream compels me to undress.
I’m shaking with anger by the time I’m naked and slipping under the covers. This fucker is dreaming about Ada. Even if they were lovers, they’re not now. She’s not his.
She’s mine.
The door to the bedroom creaks open. Footsteps approach slowly, followed by the weight of the bed dipping beside me, where I’ve covered myself entirely with the comforter. Bile rises in my throat as a hand smooths down my side, but I stay still. I don’t want to ruin the surprise in store for him.
“Such a sleepy girl.” The voice is soft, but it’s not a caress. It’s a whispered threat.
I let out a sigh, following the disgusting script laid out for me, and he chuckles.
“Shh, sweetheart. No need to wake up. I’ll take care of you.”
His body shifts behind me, and then he’s pressed up against my back, hand stroking over the blanket again, which does nothing to disguise his erection prodding into my thighs.
I’m going to kill him. Screw what I said before. I want his blood coating my claws as I watch the life drain out of his eyes.
“Relax,” he coos, feeling me stiffen. The blanket tugs down, and I seize the moment, my rage and disgust managing to override his dreaming mind enough to let me pin him, hand wrapped around his throat.
“Ahhh!” His shrill scream is music to my ears.
I smile down at this pathetic worm of a man. “Relax,” I growl, echoing back his words. My voice deepens as I embrace the nightmare I am. “I’ll take care of you.”
He screams again, writhing beneath me as he tries to escape. It’s a scene I’ve participated in dozens of times, and maybe that’s what allows me to keep control of the dream.
“What’s wrong?” I bare my sharp teeth at him in a twisted grin. “You wanted this. You came into her bedroom. You touched her. Now you’re getting your reward.”
“No! Please, no, she wanted it,” he sputters through choking breaths, tears spilling down his cheeks.
My claws prick his skin, and he shrieks. I grimace, disgusted as wetness blooms across the front of his sweatpants and the acrid smell of ammonia fills the air.
The dream wavers. I can tell he’s about to wake up, probably to having pissed himself in real life.
Good. I’m done here.
My eyes bore into his, blood making my grip on his neck slippery.
“If you ever come near her again, you’ll wish you were dead.”