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1
Desperate Times
Could you outrun a nightmare?
Or carry someone you loved out of its path?
Probably not. But you could always run toward it. Or try your best to prepare for its coming. Especially when it came every night to torment the people you loved.
Rhea noted the long slanting path of orange light that filtered through the oak branches over the windows of their tiny tree home.
Less than six hours before the next attack.
Unless the time changed.
Please, she prayed, don't let the time change. No extension or addition. If anything, it could just go away.
She adjusted the coarse sheet of paper on the low table and resumed sketching. Fatigue burned her eyes. What she wouldn't give for a night and day of peace. This breakneck pace had only intensified. It could not last forever.
But no one—not them, not the elders, not the Paras, not the entirety of all the worlds' leaders combined—seemed any closer to finding an answer.
She rubbed her forehead and stared down at the dark lines on the page. They wavered a little, some of the markings less strong than others.
Usually drawing comforted her. Now though she felt only the desire to finish her illustrations so she could turn them in to her clients and get paid. She shook her head. Pity purchases. No doubt about that. But pity purchases purchased food as well as any other money.
It seemed like such a small thing. Like she was just staking out space for them to survive. To get through. To give Tiehro and Salanca, her spirit family, time to rest and hopefully to fight off this psychic plague or curse.
The pencil slipped between her fingers.
Fight it off...for how long?
The rest of the month?
The rest of the year?
The rest of their lives?
She set her jaw, tightening her grip over the pale wood. The lead scraped over the page with uneven pressure as she willed herself to sketch faster. There was no way to know for certain. And she needed to do something—to find some way to hope. She had to do something, or she was going to go mad herself. And then what good would she be?
A large firm hand grasped her shoulder. “You should be resting right now,” Tiehro said, his gravelly voice hoarser than usual.
She kept her focus on the page, though she knew what she'd see if she glanced up. His straight purple-black hair tangled and mussed over his filed-down horns, his amethyst eyes bloodshot and watery, and his jet-black eagle wings tucked firmly against his back and yet showing traces of molting. She pushed the anger at their situation down. It wouldn't accomplish anything good. "I don't think you slept long enough."
"Funny thing about sleep. When you want it, it never comes." He nudged her again, then stepped back. "You should at least close your eyes for a bit."
"If I rest now, I won’t get these done. If I don’t get these done, I can’t deliver them to my clients. If I don’t deliver them to my clients, we don’t get paid. If we don’t get paid, we can’t afford food. If we can’t afford food, we have to hunt or gather. In which case, none of us will be sleeping then either. And as drawing is significantly safer than hunting, I think this is the best choice.”
He staggered and caught himself on the coarse wall.
Her focus snapped to him at once. "It's getting worse?"
He held his hand over his eyes; his mouth twitched. "Just clumsy."
She set her jaw. He'd not only had to battle the nightmares but aura migraines and double vision. It had gotten so bad that as of last week, he couldn't fly. Setting the pencil and paper aside, she stood. "If you aren't careful, you're going to drop out of this tree. And then where will you be?"
"On the ground most likely," he said dryly. "A fall from this height wouldn't kill anyone though. Not unless they landed on a knife. Or a besred. You don't still keep that little blade in your shirt, do you? You might want to take that out in case you fall."
Of course she did. She always kept that little blade for sharpening her pencils. It was wrapped in rubber and stuck between her breasts. But it was never at risk for stabbing her. Even if it did, it wouldn't do much damage.
