Page 59 of Whisper of Nightmares

This dream, however, feels conjured from the depths of Hell, her own special Purgatory.

But if this is the same dream, in the same meadow with the same horse, then where is⁠—

Anticipating what happens next, she spins around just as the monstrous man steps from the fog and snarls, “Back away, you wretched creature.”

This time, Euphemia is ready for the stark vision of him. The twin flame eyes that simmer within the equestrian skull. The man caught between beast and shadow.

She does not flinch when she beholds him.

She does, however, flinch from the sword he aims at her throat.

Cold metal presses into her flesh. Her belly quivers. Just a dream, she reminds herself. But when have those words ever comforted her? When have they ever chased the nightmares away?

“Please!” Euphemia shrieks, throwing her shaking hands in the air. “Don’t hurt me.”

For the briefest moment, she thinks his blazing gaze drops from her face to the ruined flesh stretched across one of her hands.

Heat crawls up Euphemia’s neck. Instinctively, she curls her fingers into her palms, the best she can do without startling him and ending up with a blade through the throat.

His gaze comes back up to meet hers, the flames of his eyes flickering, dimming slightly. “Hurt you? Why would I—” he says, and just as swiftly, the fire blazes again. He presses the sword harder. “What tricks are you playing at, cruel spirit?”

“No tricks. I promise!”

Euphemia stands very, very still. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to move.

But she can’t help but gaze upon him, her wide eyes snagging on the curved horns atop his head, the skull face that she is less and less certain is just a mask, and the animalistic, predatorial way he watches her.

Her frightful gaze drops to the sword. Up this close, she sees that most of it is rusted, the edges dull and chipping in places. It might not even be sharp enough to break the skin—though she does not want to test that theory.

He has her at his mercy.

One strike and he would be her ruin.

And yet…

He does not strike. If anything, he hesitates.

For days, she’s seen him in the dark crevices of her mind. In her waking world, as well. Every time she’s seen him, she’s feared what he might do once he finally got his hands on her, if he might throw her onto the back of his nightmare, and steal her away in the night.

He could do it. Of that, she has no doubt.

Yet his blade trembles in his hand. His eyes, fiery as they might be, flit between hers, as if he is the one afraid—a laughable thought, she knows. Yet she cannot shake it the longer they stare at each other.

But she is not yet ready to view him as anything but a threat.

Through bared teeth, she demands, “W-where am I? What is this place?”

And through his skull, she swears she sees his firelit eyes furrow.

“This place?” The words stagger out of him like they’ve been buried for centuries, covered under dust and dirt. As if he hasn’t thought about it in a lifetime, or more. The skull mask turns—at least, she hopes it is just a mask—his gaze sweeping across the surrounding area and his voice becomes distant. “I believe it is Helheim.”

“Helheim?” Euphemia tests the strange word on her lips, but it tastes rancid.

She’s never heard of such a place before. Not in all of England.

Before she can scrutinize it more deeply, the beast of a man squares with her again, his voice as unyielding as brimstone as he asks, “What are you?”

“I’m sorry?” It’s such a ridiculous question that Euphemia can’t help but laugh. She answers simply, “I’m a woman?”