She hesitates for a moment. “I just…well, there’s one name that comes to mind when I see cardigans, especially this one, because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it before…on Lennon Ryder.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Anora and Roundtable

My sleep is restless, plagued with nightmares that feel more like memories.

I’m afraid.

My whole body feels alive, hypersensitive, like a live wire. Everything that should provide a cloak to keep me hidden encroaches like a maze. The wind, the night, the stars, feel like a weight, and I’m moving through it, following a path they created.

But I’m not afraid of them.

I’m afraid of what they left for me.

A warehouse with an ugly yellow light spilling down the front appears before me. A weapon materializes in my right hand. The feeling is familiar, comforting. The blade is a part of me, like my flesh, blood, and bones, and I think—If anything has happened to him, I will kill.

Inside, I find him. A pile of bones and skin and hair crumpled on the floor.

My chest squeezes so tight, I think it might explode.

He’s dead. His soul has already fled his body.

That happens when a death has been particularly traumatic.

That’s the last logical thought I have before I start to hyperventilate and a horrible, searing pain spreads through me. A blade explodes through my front—a curved scythe I recognize. I twist and shove my own blade through my attacker, but even as he falls, another enemy takes his place, cutting me down the front. I fall to my knees when I’m struck on the head.

Struck everywhere.

Over and over again.

Until there’s nothing.

* * *

I wake up with the sound of bones crushing and smelling smoke and jasmine. The taste of tears coats my tongue in a salty sludge. My sheets are tangled around my legs. My clothes cling to my skin, damp with sweat. The aftermath of the nightmare has my stomach churning. Shoving off the sheets, I stumble from bed into the bathroom and vomit. The acid burns the back of my throat and my nose, drawing tears.

“Anora!” Mom calls, and I scramble to my feet, shutting and locking the bathroom door.

“I’m up!” I call.

I should tell her I’m sick and skip school today, but after coming home so late, there’s no way she’ll let me. Last night, it was clear that whatever had been keeping her in her room was over, and she was in full-on Mom mode. Not only had she already told me that I’d be going to school no matter how little sleep I get, but she also said I’m grounded for a month.