Page 82 of Whisper of Nightmares

“Yes,” she says at last, echoes of memories still fading. “He was a good man. Everyone knew it.”

“Then your father is not in there. Náströnd is for the worst of mankind.”

The certainty with which he says it is already making her feel a little better. Still, her mouth worries over the words, “But I heard him. I swear I did. I’d know the sound of his voice anywhere.”

Solemnly, his skull bobs. “This place does things like that. Plays cruel tricks. Tries to lure you in while you’re at your weakest.”

The way he says it makes it sound as if he’s speaking from experience.

Euphemia bites her lip to stop herself from asking what it was like for him the first time he was in there. The harrowing, distant sound of his voice makes her think that perhaps it’s not a memory he would care to revisit.

Still, she’s not fully convinced.

It had just been so real. It’s difficult to believe.

“Only the murderers and the rapists go there? No one else? You’re certain?”

His head jerks back, and Euphemia can’t tell if he’s offended or just surprised to hear her utter such atrocious things.

After being chased by a ravenous serpent, falling into the sludge of the dead, and narrowly escaping with their lives, Euphemia can’t be bothered to be more indirect or chaste.

“Yes,” Ash answers. “The murderers, the rapists, and worse.”

She’s about to ask him what could be worse, when something else occurs to her. “How do you know all of this?”

“Know what?”

“About Náströnd. I thought you didn’t remember anything.”

The flames of his eyes dim as his gaze falls to the ground. She’s learning to associate this look to mean he’s retreating into his thoughts. “I don’t know how I know. I just do.”

Another realization jumps to the forefront of her mind. “Inside Náströnd, you remembered me.”

He inclines his head. “I did, Euphemia. I have thought of little else since I last saw you.”

She tries to hide the flush rushing to her cheeks. “How is that possible?”

This time, he does not answer her.

Instead, his shoulders become rigid beneath the thick furs adorning them. As if he’s not saying something. If he wants to have his secrets, that’s fine with her. All that matters is he is remembering. That feels like progress, at least for one of them.

She’s not even sure why she cares so much. He is a stranger to her. A monster, by looks alone.

It takes her a shameful moment to realize it’s because he is a mystery, one she is curious to crack.

Euphemia clears her throat. “That is wonderful news. But do you remember anything else?”

His silence is deafening.

Her elation fades. “I see.”

But she does not let herself get too dejected.

This strange creature, this humanesque thing, she wants nothing more than to understand it. Understand why she’s dreaming about him—surely, the equine head is an obvious connection to the horse haunting her. But why would she be dreaming about someone who has forgotten himself?

There must be something she’s not yet understanding.

Many things, probably.