Page 12 of Realm of Dreams & Shadows

“Noted,” I say. “Stare unblinkingly like a serial killer. Got it.”

He chuckles. “Maybe dial it back a notch from serial killer, but yes, basically.” He takes a sip of wine, then adds, “Oh, and you might want to introduce yourself. She’s doing some fascinating research on sleep disorders.”

I set my fork down. “Is that why you suggested I take her class? So she could study me?”

“What? No!” Uncle Finn looks genuinely horrified. “I would never use you as a research subject. I just thought, given your condition…”

I focus on twirling my pasta, wishing what I had really was just a condition. Something that could be diagnosed and treated and cured. But Mom warned me—whatever hunts me in my sleep is real and tangible. It killed my grandmother. It killed my aunt, then my mom. And now, it’s coming for me.

But Uncle Finn doesn’t know I’m being hunted. He thinks it’s some sort of fixable disorder shared by all the women in our branch of the family tree since forever.

Part of me wants to tell him the truth. But I don’t. Mostly because I’m afraid he’ll repeat the pattern, only this time he won’t lock me in a boarding school but a mental institution.

So, I just shrug and say, “It’s manageable.”

He studies me for a long moment before nodding and returning to his pasta. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” He reaches over and pats my shoulder. “She was my big sis, and I miss her terribly. Sometimes, I even dream that her death was all some giant joke, and she’s going to show up one day and yell surprise, just like she did on your thirteenth birthday. Remember?”

I nod, blinking fast so as not to cry.

“Sorry if I’m the overprotective uncle. I just don’t want to lose you, too.”

“I know. And I promise I’ll tell you if I have another episode.” It’s a lie, of course, but I can tell it makes him feel better.

He’s still in Protective Uncle mode after dinner, and he insists on walking me back to my dorm despite my protest that I’m all grown up and can manage just fine.

“Classes start Wednesday,” he reminds me as we head across campus.

“Oh, thanks. I’d forgotten all about that.”

He nails me with a scowl, but I see the humor in his eyes. “And,” he continues, “the Welcome Fair’s on Sunday afternoon on the main quad. Good way to meet people.”

I tell him I’ll think about it, even though I plan to spend Sunday in the library researching local legends about dreams and nightmares. St. Augustine has centuries of supernatural lore, and the college library is famous for its occult collection. Maybe somewhere in the stacks I’ll find a clue about how to keep my dreams from killing me.

When we reach the steps that lead up to Hamilton Hall’s double doors, he pulls me into a quick hug. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

I return the embrace, wondering if he chose those parting words deliberately or if the irony is lost on him. Either way, sleeping well hasn’t been part of my existence since the day my mother died.

As he heads off, I pause on the first step, my body prickling with that strange sensation of being watched. I turn around, then look back toward the quad at the shadows that seem to move and breathe. An illusion, of course. The soft wind whispering through the trees. The moonlight casting shadows.

Another girl might look out at it and think it’s romantic and beautiful.

I think it’s a dangerous web of shadows filled with monsters from my dreams.

Ridiculous, of course.

Except, is it?

A monster from a dream killed my mother. That sounds pretty damn ridiculous. So does the idea that I can go to the realm where those monsters live.

But I can.

So is it any more ridiculous to think that those monsters can move about in this world too? The idea creeps me out, and I hug myself, as a sudden burst of anger crashes over me. One letter. That’s all the information Mom left me. Just one letter that didn’t say much more than be careful in dreams. A letter she didn’t even mean to leave me, considering she’d ripped it to shreds and shoved it in a trashcan.

“A chat would’ve been nice, Mom,” I mumble as I glance around, scoping out the area for lurking mares and telling myself that I’m being silly. If nightmare creatures could live in this realm, surely, I would have seen them by now.

And then—before the monsters hiding in the dark can prove me wrong—I hurry up the stairs and into the building, hoping to escape whatever might be hiding in the shadows—or lurking in my dreams.

My fear fades the moment I’m safely in the entryway, the door shut tight behind me. This is real. This is normal.