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“What do you mean?”
“It worries me. They might follow—”
“Me? Out of my dreams?” My scalp prickled once more with apprehension.
He sighs. “From that plain, from the land of ghosts as you call it, into this world. Anything’s possible. I mean, I’m here, talking to you, holding your hand, and I never thought that was possible.”
“So, if you’re caught, it will be my fault.” My mouth dried at the realization, and my voice faded to a whisper.
“No. No. Nothing is your fault. This is all on me. I took you there, and I shouldn’t have done. And I’m probably overthinking the situation.” He squeezed my hand again and this time raised it to his lips. He glanced at me with Dylan’s icy blue eyes that were wide, the pupils dilated in spite of the bright glow of the lamp.
This is too weird.
Taking my blank look as permission, he kissed the back of my hand. This kiss was warmer than any I’d experienced with Tristan in my dreams… and it felt wrong. So wrong.
I pulled my hand from his grasp, and Dylan’s face fell.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said.
“No. Don’t be. It just takes some getting used to.”
“I get it. Sleep, Emily, you need it. Please. I’ll go put the son of a bitch back to bed if that makes it easier for you.”
“No.” I grabbed his hand—Dylan’s hand. “Don’t go.”
“Okay. Lie down. Please. You can rest your head on my lap. I’d like that.”
I scrutinized him, studying the lines and plains of his face. He was Dylan but not quite. His face was subtly different, more wary, stiff even. He was Tristan. My Tristan. I shook my head as fatigue crept into my bones, and I curled up and rested my head in his lap, my cheek resting against the flannel of Dylan’s pajamas.
He stroked my hair. “So soft,” he whispered.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, anything.”
“Where do you go when you’re not here? Earlier today, you said you were tired. Where do you go to sleep?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But it’s my last safe space. My only safe space. And I sleep. The sleep of the dead. And I worry that I won’t wake up.”
“That sounds grim.”
He smiled, Dylan’s sad smile. “It is and it isn’t.”
“Where is it?”
“Sleep, Beauchamp.”
I took a deep breath and caught a trace of Tristan’s scent mixed with the clean, fresh-laundered smell that was Dylan. The combined fragrance was comforting, and as he rhythmically smoothed my hair, I thought he must mean a coffin, which made me think of vampires.
“Hush, Emily,” he breathed.
And I dozed.
It was a different smell that woke me. More earthy. Similar to Tristan’s but there was no hint of soap. In fact, quite the opposite—a vague sulfurous odor beneath the scent of heather. Bewildered, I raised my head. The light was still on, and Dylan—Tristan, whoever—was still sitting beside me, but his head was tilted back against the cushioned headboard, and he was fast asleep and softly snoring.
What is that smell?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement by one of the windows and fear blossomed in my chest. I held my breath as a pinpoint of shimmering fiery light appeared flat against the wall, in the corner of my bedroom, and hung there for what seemed like minutes before slowly increasing in size.
