Wildblood

Chapter 9

9

Miya

The sour smell of rot soaked into Miya’s pores, repelling her from the darkness ahead. She clapped a hand over her mouth and lurched, her throat tightening as she fought down the sick.

What fetid corner of the dreamscape had she stumbled into? This place was foreign—not her dream.

She straightened and tried to gather her bearings, but the world was bathed in opaque shadow. As she tugged the dream stone from her shirt, its pale lavender light cocooned her in familiar warmth—a comfort against the cold and damp. She unhooked her finger from the delicate chain, and the pendant hovered like an iridescent firefly. Metal and lumber whined like the rusted frame of an old ship. As Miya took a cautious step forward, she realized she was barefoot, her attire mirroring that of the waking world.

“Great, walking through a horror film in my pajamas.” Granules of dirt scratched at her heels. Each stride sent a jolt through her skin, but she pressed on until the dream stone illuminated an iron door raked with vicious claw marks.

Fear slithered up her spine at the sight of the gnarled thing, but she knew not to fight the dream. If she fled, it would warp around her, taking her back to where it wanted her. She had to surrender—to relinquish control so the dream could impart its message. She used to wander into people’s nightmares unbidden, living their terror until she learned not to stray. Now, it only occurred when the dreamer was nearby and in severe distress.

Miya’s hand closed around the icy doorknob—scuffed, black-stained brass that belonged in a centuries-old wreck. It refused to turn smoothly, shuddering as the mechanism squealed from the friction. When the latch came free, she gave the door a small push, and it chirred open. A long, narrow cabin with bloodied wooden walls awaited. Bodies were strewn across the floor—a feast for the flies—and the smell of excrement mingled with the stench of decay. Carcasses hung from sharp hooks on the walls, but Miya didn’t dare look. She didn’t want to see their faces—didn’t want them following her into the waking world.

She had no clue whose nightmare this was, but what they carried was more than a mere burden. It was a devouring thing, winding through their soul and twisting them up.

Miya peered down the aisle, the murk impenetrable save for the occasional glare stealing through the cracks between wooden slats. Shadows danced over the walls with every flash, and at the end of the cabin, a man stood with his back turned to her.

His strong frame and unruly black hair were a blade through her heart. She’d know him anywhere—in any darkness.

“Kai.”

He spun at the sound of her voice, shock parting his lips. The unspoken flooded his expression—shame, guilt, confusion, and grief swirling like a vortex that threatened to consume him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hard, innocuous words sharpened into thorns.

Miya staggered back, panic vising around her limbs. She was in Kai’s nightmare, and he knew it. She’d intruded on a part of him he’d never shown her—a part he didn’t even show himself. A half-formed apology seared her lips. I didn’t mean to , she wanted to say, but she could only stare at him as he stared back, the distance between them both cavernous and confining.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted at last, but Kai made no response. Brow creased, he scrutinized her sudden appearance, and when he squared himself toward her, she noticed someone behind him—a man slumped against the wall, holding something out.

“Miya—” Kai began, but she didn’t wait for him to finish.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinched her clammy fingers around the dream stone, and barred herself from the chilling specter of her lover’s inner world.