I threw my glass shard, and it stuck, point-first, in the creature’s shoulder. Lurching to my feet, I tore another knife from my bandolier. The cauchemar stood its ground. A rumbling noise built in its chest, but I ignored the growl and advanced. The others struggled to join me in vain. Another wave of fear crippled us before we could reach the beast.

Alone. I’m alone. Where is he? Where is he where is he where is he—

I gritted my teeth and continued, disoriented, stumbling against the flickering white like a drunkard.

“Speak.” A high, imperious voice. Her voice. “Or I shall pluck out your brother’s eyes. It is a fitting punishment, yes? He rendered you mute. I shall render him blind.” But I cannot speak. Drugged. The drug. It congeals in my system. The manacle at my throat chokes me. Moan. I try to moan, but she only laughs. His screams fill the air. His pleas.

Oh my God.

This wasn’t right. I didn’t fear torture. I wasn’t mute—

More images flashed. Broken pieces, fragmented horror. A swollen jaw. Irrepressible hunger. Empty syringes, the burning pain of infection. A chilling laugh and stale bread. And through it all, an acute, unbearable panic.

Where is he where is he where is he where is he

Wolves howling.

Eucalyptus.

Moonbeam hair.

Moonbeam hair.

I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing with Lou’s. With a shrill battle cry, she rushed forward, knife raised. I caught her around the waist, spinning her away from the cauchemar. It still waved its hands frenetically, as if—as if trying to tell me something. My stomach churned violently. “Hold. I think—I think it’s—”

In a clumsy, disjointed movement, the cauchemar pulled back its hood.

I stared at it.

Contrary to Célie’s description, the cauchemar didn’t have shadow-cloaked skin or sharp teeth. Its hair was matted, yes, but its swollen eyes inspired more fear than its namesake. Its broken jaw evoked more rage. My vision tunneled to its lacerated thigh, to the angry red streaks of disease on its russet skin. To the blood crusting its tattered pants. This cauchemar had been beaten. Badly.

It also wasn’t a cauchemar at all.

It was Thierry St. Martin.

Lou twisted from my grasp and sprinted toward him once more. Incredulous, I caught her wrist. “Lou, stop. Stop. This is—”

“Let me go,” she seethed, still struggling viciously. Frantic. Distraught. “Let me kill it—”

Anger flared hot and sudden. Tightening my grip, I dragged her back to my side and kept her there. “Stand down. I won’t ask again. This is Thierry. Remember? Thierry St. Martin.”

At his name, Thierry sagged with relief against the stone basin. I felt his presence in my mind—saw a picture of my own face—before he slurred a single word.

Reeeiddd.