Page 41 of Fae Farewells

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” the demon grouched, rolling his navy eyes.

We sat quietly as we mulled over Stone’s comments. He wasn’t wrong by any means, but I didn’t believe the execution of a plan was messing with Sloane this badly.

While all of our battles over the past few weeks had been her mostly winging it, as she called it... We’d seen massive projects she’d planned to a tee. And they didn’t bog her down or make her this frustrated.

After a few minutes, Novak furrowed his brows. “She’s asleep.”

“Why do you look concerned?” York pushed to the edge of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t be mad,” the vampire muttered.

“About what?” I asked.

He held his finger to his lips. “Stay quiet.”

“For what?” Briggs inquired.

But this time, Novak didn’t respond. He simply pulled us into her mind, her dream… Her nightmare?

“Where are you, Sweetheart?” A male called out to Sloane in her hellish dreamscape.

His Australian accent was too thick to be York’s, and his Rs sounded more Irish than anything else. Heavy footsteps thudded against the ground as he walked toward her prone form, right foot dragging ever so slightly.

She wasn’t conscious, or didn't appear to be, but as he drew closer, her head tilted right. Her demon took over when Sloane couldn’t protect herself, fading into the shadows of the cell, completely hidden from sight.

“Godsdammit,” the man roared as the sounds of more people from behind him grew louder. “I will not lose her again. Not when I’m this close.”

His statement echoed in the familiar dungeon, the one we’d found York in... Screeching pulled our attention to the cell across from Sloane’s empty one.

Two men dragged a man into the cell as a third held the door. They dropped the body limply on the ground. Once they were out, he slammed it shut, and they all retreated up the stairs.

“I know she’s here. I will find her,” the first male said, his voice becoming too low to hear as the nightmare ended.

I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed until I snapped them open. Novak was sitting on the bed beside a grumpy Sloane, apologizing for waking her up.

“The dream—”

“I don’t know who it is,” she rushed. “Did you see it? See him?”

“We saw.” He nodded his head toward us. “But his face is cloudy. I think that dream is also a clip of memory. That’s what it felt like to me, anyway. Since you didn’t see his face, we can’t either.”

I leaned against the wall, studying her reactions. “Is that the dream you had the other day?”

“Maybe.” She clenched and unclenched her fists. “I don’t remember. It’s been bugging me, but this one is already getting foggy.”

“It’s the cells from the power camp,” York told her softly.

She sighed as she sat up. “Something is feeding off me when I’m emotional. Whatever it is—”

“Whoever it is,” Novak corrected. “It’s not a something, it’s a someone.”

“Could it be Alric?” Stone suggested.

Sloane shook her head. “Alric is a mage. He can’t infiltrate my mind like that. It’s not a part of any mages’ repertoire.”

“That’s not something a mage can do,” I agreed. “But we need to start watching when that presence is active. What’s happening around us, how your emotions are ranging… There has to be some clue as to who it is.”

“Fuck,” she whispered harshly. “I can’t kill anyone. I can’t sleep... This is godsdamn torture.”