Page 27 of Realm of Dreams & Shadows

Adric’s silver eyes find mine. “I will wait,” he says. “For you, Cora, I will wait as long as I must.”

Then I gasp as Dream Chase settles me in front of him on the dragon’s back.

One arm encircles me as the other takes the reins, and despite the danger, despite the madness of this dream, it feels right to be held against him like this, as if my body remembers something my mind has forgotten.

“It’s happening faster than I expected,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. “They’re getting bolder.”

“Who?” I twist to look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on the horizon. “What’s happening to me?”

Instead of answering, he silences me with two fingers pressed softly against my lips and a kiss brushing the back of my ear, so lightly it might be my imagination. But real or not, it sends sizzles of electricity racing through me.

“Don’t trust him, Cora,” he murmurs. “Never trust him.”

“Chase, please. I don’t understand.”

“Goodbye, Cora,” he whispers, and I scream as he pushes me sideways, off the dragon’s back to fall down, down, down into that swirling vortex of darkness, deeper and deeper and deeper until⁠—

With a gasp, I bolt upright in bed, a scream trapped in my throat and the phantom sensation of Dream Chase’s lips still tingling against the curve of my ear. My heart pounds, and I tell myself that it was just a dream even though I know damn well that it was so much more.

I only wish I understood what.

The Griffin’s Nest sits about four blocks from campus, wedged between a saltwater taffy shop and a place hawking overpriced seashell art. It’s the kind of independent bookstore that shouldn’t still exist in the age of online shopping but somehow persists through sheer stubbornness.

An enticing scent hits me the moment I step inside—old paper, fresh coffee, and something earthy I can’t quite identify. Vanilla, maybe, or sandalwood.

“Be right with you,” a male voice calls from somewhere in the maze of bookshelves.

I linger awkwardly in the entryway of my new workplace, complete with flexible hours and all the coffee I can drink. As I wait, I take in the space. Small reading nooks are tucked in corners, and a coffee counter runs along the left wall, its surface covered with colorful patterns of light from the stained-glass panels above the entry.

It’s completely charming, and I owe Uncle Finn big-time for getting me this gig. My scholarship covers tuition and housing, but I still need money for general life stuff. Especially since my mom coupled her lack of life insurance with a pile of debt, and I don’t even know my father’s name. Not that I’d ask my deadbeat dad for help, even if I could track him down.

Nope. Not bitter at all.

“You must be Cora.”

I spin around, startled, to find a man emerging from between two tall shelves. He looks to be in his late sixties—maybe early seventies—with a shock of white hair and bushy eyebrows over kind eyes. He’s wearing faded jeans and a sweater vest over a button-up shirt, looking every bit like a stereotypical bookstore owner.

“Mr. Griffin?” I offer my hand. “Thanks for hiring me.”

His grip is firm, his palm rough with calluses. “Finn speaks highly of you. Plus,” he adds with a note of gentleness, “he says you’ve had some rough years. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” I glance at the floor long enough to blink back tears, wishing that my uncle had said nothing, but at the same time appreciating that this man really seems to care.

“Sometimes a peaceful job surrounded by books is all anybody needs. Welcome to The Griffin’s Nest.”

“Thanks,” I say, certain I’ll like it here.

“Let me give you the grand tour.” He’s already moving, and I fall in step beside him. “We sell books, obviously, and decent coffee. The morning rush is mostly caffeine seekers. The afternoon crowd tends more toward readers and tourists. You’ll handle both.”

I nod, then hurry to catch up as he disappears into the stacks.

The tour is brief but thorough, even including rare books and what Mr. Griffin calls “specialty interests,” but which seem to all be occult in nature. I pause, trailing my fingertip over spines with titles like Dreamwalking: Ancient Practices and The Veil Between Worlds.

One book in particular catches my eye—Sleep Terrors and Supernatural Visitation. I pull it out, surprised by its weight. Although maybe I shouldn’t be. After all, I have personal knowledge about just how deep that particular topic can go.

“Interested in that sort of thing?”

I jump—for a moment I’d forgotten where I was—then shove the book back onto the shelf, wondering what Uncle Finn has told him. “I’m a psych major. Anything about the mind grabs my interest. How come the store has such a large occult section?” I wince. I’d blurted out the question before I could talk myself out of it.