Page 54 of The Devouring Time

I crawl under the covers and close my eyes. I learned on the battlefield how to catch sleep whenever and wherever I could, so despite everything, unconsciousness finds me quickly.

And so do the dreams.

I’m with Bianca atop one of the ziggurats. Below us, the Swarm go about their business, scurrying through the strange city in the jungle. Some of the buildings on the outskirts have been left to crumble, and the rest seem to have been patched with less skill than the original builders used. Remnants of bright paints cling to the walls, but the tropical sun and hot, humid air have stripped most of them away.

“They were called the Tschchch,” she says in my head, the final word a buzz like a cicada rather than anything she could have pronounced with her human tongue.

“Who?” I ask.

“The ones who built this city. Whose bodies we wear.”

“I thought they were the Swarm?”

Red and white flashes strobe down her trunk. She’s upset. “Not to begin with.”

There’s something massive moving in the distance, approaching through the jungle. Overhead, creatures with wings of skin rather than feathers ride the thermals. I want to ask her more, but Emerson is there, flesh rotting and eyes glowing with cold fire. Somewhere far away, Hart laughs.

37

I wake refreshed the next morning, despite the cobweb of dreams clinging to my brain. Something about the Swarm and their city…

“Good morning!” Adrian calls as he opens the curtains. Light spills in, glinting on his freshly pomaded hair and modest gold tie pin.

I roll to a sitting position, my feet on the cold floor. “You’ve been awake a while.”

“I thought you needed to sleep in as much as possible.” He holds out a hand, and when I take it, levers me to my feet so we’re standing face-to-face. “I hope you feel better.”

“I think I do?”

“Good enough.” He kisses me.

For a moment, I savor his lips, the minty taste of Pepsodent on his breath. Then I draw back in horror, hand clapped over my mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet!”

Adrian laughs. “I don’t mind your morning breath.”

“I do!” I pull away and hastily don my suit, which is starting to look the worse for wear after travel. Perhaps Cleo can have someone break into my apartment, gather all my clothes, and ship them to Widdershins?

But no—with luck, I’ll be back home soon. I don’t quite see how, but I cling to the thought as I wash my face and brush my teeth. My hair remains abysmal, and I might have to insist on stopping at a barbershop, no matter what else is happening.

It’s not until I’m almost finished that I realize my reflection no longer fills me with dread. It’s as if, now that I know the cause, my mind has come to accept that there won’t be a terrible monster staring back. So perhaps my session with Dr. North helped in more ways than one.

We make it down to breakfast with just enough time to eat, then head for the train station once again. Our route takes us back through Salem and finally deposits us in Widdershins. The station is surprisingly grand for a town of its size, with marble columns holding up high ceilings and light streaming through enormous windows. The wind blows strong off the ocean here, and I wrinkle my nose at the pervasive smell of fish.

A line of taxis await disembarking passengers, so we take the first one we come to. The driver, an older man, only grunts at our request to be transported to the university and makes no attempt to engage us in conversation after. I peer out the window at the passing streets—are we driving right past the cult who’s trying to kill me? What if I’m spotted? Maybe I should have crouched in the footwell, but that would surely arouse the driver’s suspicions and probably get us both thrown out of the cab.

The university is at nearly the opposite end of town, well away from the ocean. The driver lets us out at the entrance: a long brick wall pierced by high gates of black iron. Above the gates, a stone arch bears a carving of a staring eye over the phrase Turn not your gaze away.

Beyond the gates lies a brick walkway slick with leaves fallen from the oaks towering to either side. Campus buildings lurk beyond the trees, all of them of somber brick with windows that seem to stare like the eye above the gates. Students rush about, many weighed down by books, while a few toss a football on a wide lawn.

We pause by the youths with the football to ask directions to the Department of Metaphysics. They point us to a building with an incongruous tower sticking out of the middle of it. What on earth had the architect been thinking?

Inside, students huddle in groups, heads bent over books and notepads. We pass the lower levels, taking the central stairs up to the highest non-tower floor. A large room opens just off the landing, the clack of typewriters coming from within. Several people who I assume are secretaries sit behind desks typing, or file away paperwork in one of the many cabinets lining the far wall. Just within, a formidable-looking woman sits behind the largest desk. On spotting us, she says, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

Adrian gives her a charming smile. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see Dr. Dane.”

Her eyes narrow. “I see. And what are your names?”

“Sterling Caine and Adrian Evans,” I tell her, trying to sound confident as I do so.