Page 63 of Whisper of Nightmares

His skull inclines as if he wants to remember but cannot.

“I told you my name,” she says, and tries to jostle the memory free. “Euphemia.”

He utters the name slowly, tasting every letter. “Euphemia…”

The skull of his face is unmoving, silence lingering. But beyond it, she can sense the hurricane of emotions spiraling through him.

Euphemia doesn’t dare interrupt his silence.

She doesn’t know how this memory loss of his works or what might set it off again.

At long last, he says with greater certainty, “Euphemia. I remember you. The helhest was drawn to you.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Sighs. “Yes, well, I am quite liked by their kind, I suppose.”

Already the tension in his shoulders is easing. The grip on his sword lessens.

But there is an uneasiness between them now.

A question lingering.

“Does that happen often?” she asks. “You forgetting people?”

“People?” he chuckles. “What people?” The beast of a man runs a hand over the smooth surface of bone atop his head, startling at its touch as if he had expected to find hair. When he pulls his hand back in front of his face, he glares at it before closing it into a fist. “There are no people here. Only the dead. The spirits. The helhest. The draugr. Me.” His eyes flick up to meet hers, two simmering coals of heat and pain. “That is, until I found you.”

What does he mean dead?

Certainly, she’s not dead. She can’t be. Euphemia is only nineteen years of age. She’s only just recently married. She has her whole life ahead of her.

Only a dream, she remembers.

But this is officially the strangest dream she’s ever had. Talk of the dead. Strange creatures. A man who looks more beast than human. She does not know what to make of any of it.

“But you are not dead?” This he says with less conviction, a tremor in his throat suggesting he fears her answer.

It makes her wonder what horrors he has witnessed here. Which ones lurk in the fog.

“As far as I know, I am still very much alive.”

He gives her a brisk nod. Then shakes his head. Nods again. A war is brewing inside that thick and unnatural skull of his, one that Euphemia is not privy to and does not dare ask about.

“Euphemia,” he says again, as if he’s trying to sear her name into memory.

Jealous that he has that much of hers to hold onto when she has nothing of his, she decides to ask again, “And what is your name?”

“If I have a name, I no longer⁠—”

Before he can finish, Euphemia rolls her eyes. “You do not recall it. Understood.” With a sigh, she folds her arms and tuts. “What do I call you then? I can’t very well go around calling you⁠—”

She nearly slaps a hand over her own mouth. Good Heavens, what is wrong with her? She can’t very well tell him she’s been referring to him as a beast of a man.

Euphemia wishes she could see his face to read whatever expression might be there now. Without it, she has no indication of what is going on inside that thick skull, other than the simmering flames of his eyes.

“I am open to suggestions, Euphemia.”

Her name spoken through the brimstone of his voice makes it difficult to think. And he keeps saying it. Over and over. Like the Devil calling out to her from his fiery pits in Hell.

If he is the figure who has been stalking her, perhaps this is what he wanted all along? First her name, then more.