Page 57 of In Somnis

That would be effective.

But then I remember how she looked curled in on herself on the floor, sobbing as if something inside her had snapped, and there was no fixing it.

How her fear felt in the air, vibrating under my skin, and how it lingered even after she vanished.

Ah, shit.

I grit my teeth and yank my monsters back. The shadows retreat, and the blood drains from the tiles, leaving them white again, as if it had never been there. The walls smooth themselves, and my monsters dissolve, their unfinished shapes sucked back into nothing.

I drag in a breath through my teeth, anger and restraint grinding together in my chest.

Ugh, fine.

I don’t want her fear sitting in my bones again. And it looks like she’s not even lucid. Maybe I can walk over there, interrupt her weird sunshine-baking montage, tell her she’s dreaming again, nudge her into wakefulness, and…

A new voice joins hers and the muffins, and I freeze. Standing beside Blondie is Tessa-fucking-Vaughn.

What—and I mean this with my whole exhausted, miserable heart—the actual fuck?

Tessa. The name Blondie whispered when I dragged her out of the path of that dream car. I didn’t think much of it. Too many names fly around in nightmares, and half of them aren’t real anyway, but this is not just any Tessa.

This is the Tessa. My cousin’s demise and the other tragedy locals whisper about under their breath.

My brain is fucking with me, or rather, her subconscious is. Hell, something is fucking with me, because she’s looking way too detailed and real for one of Blondie’s dream projections.

I narrow my gaze at Tessa and nudge at the edges of her form. Come on. Turn blue. Purple. Bald. Turn into a muffin.

Not even a flicker. She doesn’t waver or glitch, doesn’t do the translucent shimmer of dream fabric reacting to my interference. She ignores me completely and sings along with Blondie like she’s been here all along.

Fuck, can you even share a dream between more than two people?

Is that a thing?

My heartbeat spikes hard enough to rattle me, and I take two careful steps back, slipping behind the curtain enough to watch without being seen. Whatever Tessa is—lucid dreamer or the strongest fucking dream projection I’ve ever encountered—she cannot see me. I have no idea what happens if Blondie’s subconscious clocks me as an intruder while the dream still feels sealed shut like this.

“Hey, girl.” Tessa finally acknowledges her directly, but Blondie doesn’t even look up. She keeps kneading, hips swaying as she sings along with the muffins. “That looks like a way better dream than you’ve had lately.”

Okay. So Tessa is lucid. And, apparently, nightmares are Blondie’s default setting, not this sugary, lemon-scented hellscape. Good to know.

“Lennon,” Tessa tries again, voice gentler now. “Can you hear me?”

“Lennon,” I whisper under my breath, testing it. Yeah. That fits.

Way better than Cherub, anyway.

“Of course, I can hear you, dummy. You’re standing right next to me.” Lennon laughs, and the sound punches straight through my sternum.

I scowl reflexively because, obviously, my body is an idiot, and we’re not unpacking that reaction right now.

“Your dream looks way more vivid and stable than usual.” Tessa studies the space. “Did you read my journal?”

Journal?

Lennon’s shoulders lift in a vague, noncommittal shrug.

“Lenny,” Tessa presses. “Try to remember. Did you go to sleep with the intention to remember? You have to tell yourself you want to be lucid in your dream before you go to sleep.”

Shit. She’s nudging her toward lucidity.