Page 83 of Whisper of Nightmares

But continuing to hound Ash with questions he likely does not know the answers to will prove meaningless at best—and at worst, might push him over an edge she suspects he’s closer to than even he realizes.

With that dread newly awakened, Euphemia turns her attention to the things that might be safer to discuss. “Where were you earlier?”

“Earlier?” he parrots with a small amount of mocking annoyance that seems to suggest she be more specific.

“Before you came in Náströnd. I arrived at the river, but you weren’t there like you normally are.” Hearing the desperation in her own voice, Euphemia quickly recounts her reentry into the dream so he might not hear it himself. “And so, I thought maybe if I approached the nightmare⁠—"

“Helhest,” he corrects, annoyingly.

Euphemia rolls her eyes. “The helhest, then—I figured if I approached it, you’d appear like you always have. But then I drew nearer, and…”

The memory engulfs her. Not just one, but two. Dozens. Hundreds. Every time she has encountered the nightmare, she relives each and every dreadful encounter before, whether dreaming or real.

And every single one of them drags her back to that night.

It feels like hooves stomp her chest.

Until a snort pulls her back into the present. “And you’re surprised the helhest chased you?”

“Yes,” she says at first, not hearing him fully. “I mean no. I’m not surprised it did. I just⁠—”

Laughter echoes deeper within his skull. “A helhest is a shepherd of the dead. Not some pet meant to be tamed and ridden.”

“I wasn’t trying to tame it or ride it. I was⁠—”

“You were searching for me.”

The way he says it does strange things to her belly.

He sounds so sure. And far too smug for her own liking.

Euphemia all but crams her heels into the earth. “I was not searching for you, specifically. I was merely…” she grasps at half-formed thoughts. “I merely thought I had found the recipe for this place, so I was testing my theory.”

Something about what she just said suddenly strikes him like an arrow.

Where his head had previously been lolled with amusement and bravado, now it snaps upright.

“A theory.” He speaks the word the same way she might speak to an angel if one drifted down from Heaven and landed before her, and Euphemia understands the word theory triggered something.

Whatever recognition he finds though, he does not share.

Euphemia decides not to pry. Not this time. He looks to shaken, like the memory is still settling in.

Instead, she asks again, “Where were you when I arrived at the river?”

The flames of his eyes snap to her. “I was watching you, wretched creature.”

Euphemia stills.

Her body becomes ice and flame.

Half frozen in fear.

Half ready to burn like lightning until she is far, far away.

“You were…watching me?” She forces the shaky words out.

He seems to sense her distress, and hastily adds, “Nothing nefarious, I assure you. But I had to be sure you weren’t a spirit playing tricks on me. There are too many of those around.”