Dark Consort

by Amber R. Duell

  I stared at the empty space above me and lifted my head from the pillow. She would not be forgotten; leaving her behind would be a conscious decision. If she thought she could threaten me—me—into taking her back, she would learn a hard lesson. One nightmare that thought they were better than their Lady was one nightmare too many, and I already had Rowan. Possibly Kail. There were undoubtedly others too. There was no way I was bringing Mara into the mix.

  But she gave me what I needed. The threads I kept locked away were the key all along, and tomorrow I would use them. I would go to the only place I belonged and make my mark on it.

  A quietness filled me, my thoughts drifting into silence, save one.

  I’m ready.

  8

  The Sandman

  Cool water and mud plastered my pants to my legs. My knees sunk deeper into the riverbed as I wrestled a nightmare covered in a smooth, pod-like shell. It vibrated beneath my bare hands, but I refused to release it. The nightmare’s crab legs clawed at the air, the tiny, piercing tips barely missing my forearms. It had followed me since I crossed into the Nightmare Realm—spying, no doubt. Just like I was. If Rowan wanted to know what I was doing, she didn’t need to resort to using lesser nightmares as spies. I passed numerous nightmares every time I was here that could easily report back.

  If she had to send a nightmare to follow me, that meant one of two things: the pod was a decoy meant to distract me from another nightmare tracking my movements, or, more likely, Rowan wasn’t as strong as she wanted us to believe. Either way, it irked me when the thing dove into the water to avoid capture.

  I slipped, falling forward, and landed on the shell. It shredded through my vest, but its legs weren’t quite sharp enough to go through my tunic and into the flesh underneath. “Enough,” I groaned, and I called sand from the satchel at my hip. It spun together in a tight line and dove beneath the nightmare’s shell, stealing its mind. A handful of seconds later, the lobster-sized creature stilled. I heaved myself up, tossed it to the shore, and flung mud from my fingertips. It splattered against the nightmare’s metallic underbelly, where its legs were now neatly folded.

  “Do you speak?” I asked, climbing from the river.

  The creature didn’t move, so I flipped it over with my boot. The shell clicked open into ten even sections, revealing dozens of tiny, open mouths with dull teeth. A bit of black blood dripped from one of them. The lesser nightmares with black blood weren’t intelligent; most of them didn’t even speak. They simply followed their instincts or direct orders from the Weaver. I winced. Nora. They would follow orders from Nora. And, as it appeared, Rowan, because dominance mattered here.

  “Let Rowan know Nora is offering a peaceful transition. She can return to leading the Blood Army alongside Kail without retaliation from us,” I instructed. A vicious lie, of course. Nora and I both knew she would have to kill Rowan eventually.

  The nightmare’s legs snapped out, and it scurried over the grassy hill toward the Keep. Something told me I already knew Rowan’s answer. Why would she give up such power without a fight after all she’d done to obtain it?

  I wasn’t sure how Nora would feel about the deal—real or not—but it was best to delay the fight, especially if she still insisted on coming back sooner than planned. Rowan couldn’t be trusted, but if Nora had time to orient herself first… I let out a careful breath and followed the shell’s path. It was already out of sight by the time I reached the top of the hill, but I knew the way on my own.

  Without my power being pulled in a million directions, it was possible to waltz into the Keep and destroy everything in a single afternoon, but I couldn’t simply wipe the Nightmare Realm clean. The balance would be thrown off again, not to mention Rowan would put up a good fight, as would whatever followers she’d gathered.

  Besides, I was the Dream Lord. Unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t win Nora’s power for her. If I tried, if they thought Nora wasn’t strong enough to do it on her own, she wouldn’t last a day. She would be seen as a puppet—my puppet—and no nightmare would allow me to have that kind of power over their Lady. It was bad enough they all knew about our relationship, and worse that there would be creatures coming for her regardless. Nora was power, and they would either bow to her or try to seize it as their own.

  Anxiety nibbled at my insides, but I pushed it down. There wasn’t time to worry, only time to do what had to be done. I crouched in the same patch of cattails Nora and I had hidden in the last time we came to the Keep. Except this time, instead of hiding from me, nightmares covered the entire yard. Large and small, feathered and scaled, hairy and bald. The variety wasn’t lacking, but they all had one thing in common: not a single high-minded nightmare graced the lawn. Either Rowan had none willing to stand with her, or they found themselves too good to stay outside with the rabble.

  The increased number of nightmares wasn’t the only change in the last few months. The skeleton of the Weaver’s palace—the one destroyed the night I bound him—was no longer in ruins. The stone foundation no longer peeked from the grass, but rose two feet, three in some places, the new stones carefully laid. It followed the same pathways as the old structure, then extended outward on all sides. I scoffed quietly. Rowan wasn’t wasting any time.

  I quickly and quietly wound my way around the outer wall to get closer to the Keep. It hadn’t changed—black marble, veined gold, half-capped with a dome and the other side consisting of open-aired arches. The spy I stole was nowhere in sight, but red mist leaked from the basement windows, which meant Rowan retained at least some of the Blood Army. Probably all of it, as they operated like a hive mind rather than as individuals, but there were too many for them all to fit in the Keep. It begged the question: Where was the rest of the army?

  A door slammed open, and Rowan appeared on the terrace. Her red dress was a bright wound between two pillars. The black, skeletal wings jutting from her back were hidden in shadow, her skin so pale it nearly glowed. My pulse quickened. There she was. The biggest threat standing in Nora’s way stood before me, and I couldn’t touch her. It was foolish even to offer a truce, especially without consulting Nora first. Rowan had everything, and my offer gave her nothing. Nora didn’t exactly strike fear into anyone yet, nor was she likely to for awhile.

  A familiar set of clicks rang through the air. My eyes darted across the yard, searching for the spine and bulbous skull that was Despina. The last time I saw her, she was trying her best to defend the Weaver while he worked more threads through his loom. If it weren’t for her, maybe things would’ve ended differently. I could’ve finished off the other nightmares fast enough to stop Nora from killing the Weaver.

  The ivory skull darted down the side of the building, dark hair flowing over her exposed spine. The vertebrae glided back and forth like a snake, and her two-fingered hands guided the way. My hands twitched at my sides, eager to grab sand. Focus.

  An unseen nightmare chirped behind me, and the cattails rustled as it raced away. I cringed. Despina swiveled toward me, her empty eye sockets locked on their target. There was no hesitation in her approach. She flew toward me as I stood, gathering handfuls of sand. I didn’t want to destroy her with more pressing issues at hand, but I would if I had to. My sand circled me, protecting me.

  But Despina came to a screeching halt a yard away and tossed the pod-creature at my feet before retreating just as fast. I focused on her until she started back up the wall of the Keep, then turned to the cracked shell at my feet. Carved into the smooth surface was Rowan’s answer.

  Never.

  I kicked the dead nightmare away and glared up at Rowan. She met my eyes from the top of the Keep, the crown of raven’s beaks atop her head catching the dull light, and raised her hands as if to say, Come and get me. I lifted my chin. If there wouldn’t be a peaceful transition, there would be a bloody one. It would just take longer.

  I turned on my heel, the sand returning to the satchel, and strode back the way I came. Every nightmare lurking amongs
t the foundation stared at me. Their gazes followed my face, my hands, my back, but none of them noticed the small line of sand I directed down my leg. They didn’t see it glide among the grass and split in three different directions toward their comrades.

  One spy for the air: a giant hairy spider with four large, paper-thin wings and legs covered in eyes.

  One for the ground: a deer with two heads and the ears of a rabbit.

  One for water: a seal without skin.

  The sand inched inside each of them, wrapping around their minds like a vice. My magic would kill them eventually, just as it had the others I’d turned over the last few months, but hopefully not before I learned something of importance. I released my grip on the sand so they wouldn’t act differently by stilling or focusing too eagerly on me, giving away my secret. Later, when I reclaimed it, everything they knew, I would know too.

  But for now, Nora was expecting me.

  I only wished I had better news.

  9

  Nora

  Perhaps I should’ve been a bit more hesitant when I found a new fissure waiting when I fell asleep, but I went straight for the glowing memory. The Weaver’s ragged breath filled my ears. Anger painted the hiss of every inhale as he stormed over jagged marble and rock. Black dust coated everything in sight, and fire smoldered beneath pieces of rubble. The Weaver trailed a hand over the walls of his Keep, his arm bare of thread minus a single strand circling his wrist. One last nightmare at his disposal. I squinted, not daring to get any closer to the memory. Dead things littered the yard, many of them half buried and torn apart.

  “That bastard,” the Weaver shouted. A wave of anguish shuddered through him—through me.

  He pounded up the same outer staircase I used the day I killed him. The image blurred in and out along with his vision, though I wasn’t sure why. Was he hurt? He seemed to be moving fine. At the top, he shouldered his way through a door, and the image froze completely. It was like looking at a photograph of the loom, filtered red with rage. The broken loom. Treadles were scattered across the floor, the beater snapped in half, the roller missing. There was no reason I should know what those things were called, let alone where they went, but it all felt as obvious as my own name. Was that part of the magic too? Like the memories? Maybe there was more I would simply know once I returned to the Nightmare Realm.

  The Weaver fell to his knees at the sight of his loom, and a heart-wrenching cry echoed through the room. His movements were slow, his hands shaking as they collected the treadles. The image quivered with his terror, his hurt. The loom was fixable, but it would take time—time he didn’t have. There was a frantic edge to his thoughts, though I did not know what the thoughts were exactly.

  I shouldn’t know them at all.

  The door slammed open behind him. The Weaver spun, clutching the splintered wood to his chest. The Sandman stood in the doorway. His clothes were torn and soggy with blood. Scratches ran along his cheek. My body jolted. I remembered that tear on his chest, the way it seemed to follow the upward curve of the moon tattooed beneath. This was the night we met, only I hadn’t seen his face then. I was glad for that now. If it looked anything like it did now with the unspoken threat swirling in his eyes, I would have run in the other direction.

  “What have you done?” the Weaver shouted.

  The Sandman’s gaze flicked down to the loom’s broken pieces, and surprise flashed across his face. “I did not do this,” he said carefully.

  “Oh?” The Weaver tossed the wood to the floor in a chorus of hollow clanks. “Then who did?”

  The Sandman lifted his eyes and looked directly at the Weaver. At me. It felt like I was looking at a stranger. “I swear it, Weaver. This wasn’t me.”

  The Weaver leapt at him, fingers extended toward his throat. There was a quick flick of the Sandman’s hand, and something fell from his sleeve. A needle-straight piece of the Weaver’s thread, embossed with silver, not gold. Like it was when he used the thread to find Katie. The rest happened in the blink of an eye. The Weaver gripped the Sandman’s throat. The Sandman lifted a hand to his chest and shoved the stolen thread into the Nightmare Lord’s heart. The Weaver stumbled back with a soft cry.

  “I tried talking sense into you.” The Sandman winced, his expression clearly pained. “But you wouldn’t listen.”

  The Weaver ripped open his shirt and clawed at a red pinprick on his skin. The picture blurred and cleared and blurred and cleared. His breath was a hoarse wheeze. “What—” He gasped. “What is this?”

  There was a short pause before the Sandman answered. “I’ve bound you to the Nightmare Realm.”

  “You—you can’t do that. Not with so little thread,” he said in shocked disbelief.

  “I had more,” the Sandman replied quietly, sounding almost sorry. “It won’t last forever.”

  “I’ll kill you,” the Weaver spat. “I’ll—”

  “Nora.” The Sandman’s voice drifted in from the dark nothing outside the glowing memory. It sounded different—the hard edge gone, replaced with the loving concern I was so used to hearing. “Nora, wake up.”

  I cracked my eyelids open to find his violet pupils inches away and flinched. The way he looked at the Weaver was branded in my mind. Would he look at me like that one day too? They were friends once, after all. I saw them together, as close then as we were now. It was only a matter of time. My stomach churned.

  “Let me up.” The words came out too high, too panicked.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—” He leaned back, surprised, and ran a finger over my knuckles. They were white where I clenched the sheets. “Are you okay?”

  “I was—” I wasn’t sure if I should tell him what I saw, but I didn’t want to keep anything from him either. Anything else. “I think I found some of the Weaver’s memories.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. “You said there was nothing there when you slept.”

  I nodded. “There still is most of the time.”

  “Most of the time?” A hurt look crossed his face. “How many times have you seen things?”

  “Only once before tonight.” I rubbed my eyes, pressing a little too hard. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know what to make of it or if I imagined it.”

  The Sandman tugged at the air near his temple like he used to do with his hood when he felt self-conscious. I didn’t have to feel his emotions to understand. That I kept this from him made him miss the security of his hood. He had never known someone like me before, so not only did he lack answers to a lot of my questions, but I held things back from him. Dealt with them on my own. That was new for him—for us. Sometimes I wondered if he doubted my feelings for him too.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” the Sandman started. “Some of his memories could’ve transferred with the magic, especially since he generated it himself instead of relying on an outward force.” He rubbed his thumbs over his navy-blue fingertips, and for the briefest second, I swore it looked like he was jealous. “What did you see?”

  “The first time, you helped the Weaver because she was coming.” I paused to study his face, hoping that rang a bell, but he gave nothing new away. “You said you were friends with the Weaver once.”

  “A very long time ago,” he answered quietly.

  “What changed?”

  The Sandman shifted uncomfortably. “Things changed for us both after we built the wall to keep Mare out of the Night World. Everything became more black and white.” He sighed. “The Weaver became restless, which made him reckless. At the time, I thought he spiraled down his path to darkness rather quickly, but looking back, he was taking steps toward it for awhile. It—we—”

  There it was. A hurt so deep he apparently couldn’t finish the sentence, and that’s when I knew what I saw was real. The Weaver’s magic hadn’t conjured up something to make me sympathetic, nor had my own mind put the ideas there. The longing I saw on the Sandman’s face today was something that would only exist if the friendship I saw in tha
t first memory was true.

  “You never told me the worlds—” Searing pain streaked across my forehead suddenly. I cried out and fell forward into the Sandman. Stars winked behind my eyelids. My head was going to explode. Oh God. This was it. The end. “Sandman,” I gasped.

  His hands were all over me, searching for an explanation. A wound maybe, though he wouldn’t find one. This was something else, something dark and biting, and it came from inside.

  Then, just as quickly, it was gone, and I took a tentative breath. An echo of it remained, throbbing in my temples, but I could see again. Move again. My stomach settled slowly. Had it been upset? I hadn’t noticed.

  “It’s gone,” I whispered.

  “What is? What happened?” The Sandman pulled me close, squeezing me as if I would disappear otherwise. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a headache.” Darkness throbbed in a hollow pocket in my brain. I latched onto the Sandman’s arm, forcing him to keep still so I could lean on him a minute more.

  “A headache?” he echoed with concern.

  “I’ve been getting them lately, just not this bad.” Which was true. Only, I didn’t think this was just anything. It felt like the Day World’s way of saying get out, and I had no intention of ignoring its warning. “Did you find what you were looking for in the Nightmare Realm today?”

  I felt his muscles twitch. “I created a few spies, and Baku is still trying to get a rough tally of Rowan’s followers, but…”

  I braced myself and met his gaze. “But what?”

  “I offered Rowan a peaceful transition of power.”

  It felt like he dumped ice water over me. All the pain washed away, only to leave sparks of shock in its wake. Rowan didn’t deserve anything less than death for turning me into this—all so she could kill me. I had trusted her, though I knew I shouldn’t have, because the nonsense about maintaining a balance had seemed to be exactly that: nonsense. But Rowan knew it was real, and for that she needed her head ripped from her body.