Page 24 of Some Kind of Haunted

Sharp, aristocratic nose. Square jaw. In the dim light his expression is no different than it was at the diner. Aloof and vaguely furious.

This makes sense. I don’t know how else his expression might appear, as I’ve only ever seen it like this. And this is a dream, so I’m just regurgitating my real life into this weird little collection of senseless events—or so a therapist once told me. Nothing to fear.

It’s analysis with a side helping of sensation.

But I am freezing. And my feet hurt.

More unnerving, I can still feel his hand on my arm.

“I just need to wake up,” I tell him. Earnestly, but also with great certainty.

This usually works, because dreams don’t like it when I get meta. Talk about the dream in the dream, and the dream is over.

Jack does not get this memo. Neither does the dream. He sighs and rolls his eyes. And sure, it’s not real, but I find that insulting. So I try to straighten, to pull out of his grasp. He looks down at his hand on my arm, then drops it like he suddenly realized he had his hand on a gas burner.

He scowls at me and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You need to go back.”

As much as I want to argue with Dream Jack for the sake of arguing with him, back sounds safe. Back to that little house behind the knitting shop. Back to bed.

Maybe back to New York while I’m at it.

I wasn’t having nightmares in New York. Maybe a few here and there of late, but not like this. Maybe, if I really let myself think about my dreams over the past few months, I have to admit that the slurping sound that seems to haunt me here was in those dreams, too. But it was different.

You were far away and safe.

I shudder at that unbidden thought that sounds like someone else’s voice in my head. Someone I don’t know.

“It isn’t safe outside at night. It isn’t safe in the dark. You need to go back,” Jack tells me again, his voice even more gruff this time. “Do you not know the way?”

I look around at the dark night that presses in anywhere there isn’t light. It’s not inviting. And maybe I don’t know the way, exactly, but I don’t get the sense he’s actually asking because he plans to help me get back to my grandmother’s tiny house tonight. So I don’t answer his question. I will find my own way back, I decide, no matter how much my body reacts negatively to the idea of walking around in the dark. Alone. Bloody. Not exactly happy with any of this.

I remind myself that this is a dream, so it doesn’t matter if I’m terrified. Nothing can actually harm me. Especially not surly Jack.

I take a step, then hiss as my foot hits the ground. It hurts. I shift to my other foot but make a little squeak of pain, because that hurts, too.

Nothing is supposed to hurt. Not actually hurt. There are supposed to be rules, even in bad dreams. Especially in bad dreams.

Jack mutters a curse that is only surprising because while I’d expect that from any random person in New York, this is the Midwest. I was given to understand that they don’t use language here.

“I can’t believe you’re going to make me do this,” he growls. At me.

I have no idea what this is, but when he moves toward me, I flinch back. The bottoms of my feet throb like the skin’s been peeled off them, but more immediately upsetting is the fact that he’s reaching for me.

And he looks furious.

There is the slightest sense of his expression softening, the fury in those green eyes banking a little. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice is damn near gentle.

“Lexi!”

It’s Logan. I’ve never been so thrilled to hear my twin. I sneak a look over my shoulder and am unduly relieved to see him in the flesh, running at full speed toward us—straight down the center of the road that leads into town. The whole town that is right there. There’s even a little pathway of light. It’s like I couldn’t recognize it until now.

Of course, even now, the shadows seem to have claws and teeth . . . trying to reach out into that path of light.

As Logan gets closer, I can see the rare fury in his expression. He doesn’t stop until he can put himself between me and Jack, and I love him for that. He might have sandbagged me with that shit about doing everything all the time, but out here in the dark, it’s serious and he’s on my team.

If the run cost him anything, he doesn’t show it. Not even a hint of heavy breathing. Even in my dreams, Logan is his perfect self.

This is actually comforting instead of annoying, for a change.