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I frowned, not bothering to argue further as I finished my tea then headed upstairs. I had an easier time falling asleep than last night, though I didn’t appreciate the nightmares. I found myself in a strange land, the air hot and humid in a terrain of fire and brimstone. It was like stepping into hell itself. There was nothing but emptiness for miles and miles, no trees or plant life, just burning and the unpleasant odour of sulphur. In the distance, I could hear the clang of metal bashing into rock.
I felt a presence right before someone’s breath hit my ear. I was frozen, unable to turn around and see who or what was behind me. Then came the voice, and every tiny hair on my body stood on end, chills encapsulating me despite the unbearable heat of this strange land.
“It was foretold that you would be born for greatness, but now you belong to me.”
I awoke with a start, sweating, my skin ablaze like I really had been in that terrifying, fiery place. It took a few minutes for my pulse to calm down, and I couldn’t stop replaying that eerie voice in my head.
Obviously, it was just a nightmare. Some manifestation of the horror Granddad Martin had recounted while telling us about Oreylia. Though it was unnerving how I was convinced I could still smell the burning and sulphur.
The memory of it niggled at me throughout my shower, and by the time I got dressed, my agitation was clear by the frown line that had deepened between my eyebrows. I rubbed at it while I applied my moisturiser, but it wouldn’t smooth, the words still stuck in my head.
My dad was in the study when I came downstairs. The door was ajar as I passed by, and I heard him speaking to someone over the phone. “Yes, I agree that it’s highly unusual for us to have no suspect still, but we’re exploring all angles. Someone did this, and I won’t rest until they’re found and put behind bars. I won’t tolerate a killer roaming free in this city.”
He must’ve been speaking with another council member or perhaps a concerned member of the public. I stood by the doorway until I heard him hang up and emit a long sigh.
“I can hear you hovering out there.”
I peeped my head in sheepishly. “Sorry. I was wondering if you have a moment to talk?”
“I always have time for you, Darya. Come in.”
I stepped into the study and took a seat in front of my father’s desk.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
I clasped my hands together and sat forward. “Well, I was just wondering about when Mum was pregnant with me.”
He arched one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Or even way before then,” I went on. “Was there ever anything foretold about my birth? Some kind of prophecy, perhaps?” I couldn’t get last night’s dream out of my head. The voice had just sounded so real, like someone leaning across my bed, whispering in my ear while I slept.
Dad stilled, his expression sobering. “Why do you ask that?”
I shrugged. “I had a weird dream.”
“What kind of weird dream?”
“Well, it was more of a nightmare,” I said, then quickly described it to him. His expression was grave, and when he still said nothing, I asked, “What do you think it means?”
Dad quickly rose from his seat. “I’m not sure. I need to talk to your mother about it. She’s at Rita’s right now. I’ll go and see her there. In the meantime, you sit tight.”
“But I planned to go out.”
“Where?”
I swallowed thickly, not too keen on telling him I was going to the Market Below with Peter Girard. “Um, just out to meet Grace,” I lied.
“Okay, well, you can meet Grace, but come straight home afterwards.”
“I will,” I said, feeling terrible for lying.
When he was gone, I grabbed my things and hurried out, not wanting to be late for Peter. Normand Street was just one of several places to access the Market Below. This particular entrance was tucked away from the busy shopping streets. There was a permanent glamour around the manhole that led down into the sewers, which, yes, you had to walk through to reach the market. I mentally prepared myself for the high possibility of encountering a rat. Or several.
Peter was already there waiting when I arrived. He looked a little worse for wear, his hair scruffy, eyes tired. He still wore the same clothes he’d had on yesterday, but I didn’t think too much of it since I sometimes wore the same outfit two days in a row, too.
You’re late, his voice entered my mind as I approached, and a pleasant shiver ran through me. I couldn’t deny his deep timbre was enjoyable to hear in my head.
I glanced at my watch and rolled my eyes. I’m two minutes late.
