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“If someone says something, you can tell them the camera glitched,” she suggests.
“It looks better. Thank you.” I tilt her chin up and kiss her. She kisses me back carefully.
“It’s okay. I won’t break.”
“I know,” she mutters.
“I want to keep you safe.”
She looks at me; her eyes are full of longing, and I want to ask her what she meant, but I need to get ready for work.
“Last night was wonderful,” I start. I find it’s best to be direct with women; frankly, I haven’t had that good night in a long time—even with the post-coital paranormal activity.
Eleanor sighs. “I know it was. I ... I’d like to do it again sometime.”
“It’s a date,” I say, thumbing along her jawline.
Eleanor presses a chaste kiss against my lips. “I’ll hold you to that, but I must also get going. Evan will kill me if I’m late for this board meeting.” She claps her hand over her mouth, “Sorry!”
I wave it off.
She turns to leave, and I blurt, “Chamomile tea!”
“What?”
“I-uh, for your nightmares! There’s this really good tea at the Weatherby market; I use it sometimes. I’ve always had trouble sleeping. I can get you some if you’d like.”
“I’d like that,” Eleanor says with a grin.
Chapter 7
Eleanor
“You’reafool,”Beatrixhisses. I’ve come to expect her at night. I glare and try to throw a lamp at her, but I’m stuck. I’m dreaming. It’s another nightmare. No amount of chamomile can keep Beatrix from invading my subconscious like a squirrel in an attic. She’d be annoying if she weren’t so terrifying.
Beatrix’s ice-cold hands grip my chin, so I can’t look at the inky voids of her eyes. I try to tell myself I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up soon. Tips I learned in high school when I first started having nightmares, but it’s useless: the fear curdles rotten and cold in the bottom of my stomach.
Beatrix smells like old lake water and rotting meat. Her fingers are stiff, but she maintains a harsh grip on my face.
“You’re not real,” I retort.
“You’re a fool,” she repeats.
She slams her knee into my chest, and I wince. Her kneecap hits my chest with a hollow pop.
“Loving an Idylewylde man will only bring you pain,” she croaks. A gush of cold water spills out from her open mouth when she exhales. Her jaw pops. The water sloshes onto my chest. It’s thick and dark, sooty almost. I press my finger into the sludge.
“We slept together once. That’s not love,” I say weakly.
Beatrix grabs my chin again, “You know it is. You know you’re doomed. He will suck the life out of you. He will take you for everything you’ve got.”
She presses her clammy lips against my earlobe, “You can still get out. You can still escape. Go while you still can. GO!” She shrieks with the energy of a banshee.
Her shriek transforms into a shrill beep, and I lurch out of bed and slam my palm against the analog alarm clock on my bedside table.
I try to shake the dream's revenants away from my subconscious like clearing cobwebs out of an attic.
I walk to my closet and yank on a fair-isle sweater and a pair of jeans.
