“Are you here to welcome me to—what did she call it—the Waiting Place?”
“You’re not dead,” I say. “And you’re not going to die. Do you hear me?” A powerful memory hits me—the first Trial, Marcus attacking her, the Shrike’s too-light body against mine as I carried her down the mountain.
“You’re going to live. You’re going to find whoever did this to you. You’re going to make them pay. Get up. Get to safety.” Urgency grips me. I must say these words to her. I feel that knowledge in my bones. Her pupils dilate; her body straightens.
“You are Blood Shrike of the Empire,” I say. “And you are meant to survive. Get up.”
When she finds my eyes, her own are glassy. I catch my breath, for they are so real—the shape, the emotions, the color of them, like the violet heart of a quiet sea. The way her face changes beneath her mask, the stiffness of her jaw as she grits her teeth.
But then she fades, as does the city. Silence descends. Darkness. When I open my eyes again, I expect to be back in the Waiting Place. But this time, I’m in a room I’ve never seen. The smooth wood floor is swept clean and strewn with mirrored cushions. There is a faint, familiar fragrance in the air, and my heart thuds faster, my body recognizing the scent before my mind does.
The door opens and Laia enters. Her dark hair has fallen loose from her braid, and she chews on her lip as she always does when she’s deep in thought. The faint glow of a torch seeps in from the hallway behind her, lighting her face a soft gold-brown. Purple half-moons shadow her eyes.
The ocean thunders distantly, the creak of fishing boats a strange countermelody to that roar.
I step toward her, gripped by a soul-deep longing for her to be real. I want to hear her speak my name. I want to dip my hands into the cool shade of her hair, to take solace in her gaze.
She freezes when she sees me, her mouth falling into an O. “You—you’re here. How—”
“It’s a dream,” I say. “I’m in the Waiting Place. I fell asleep.”
“A dream?” She shakes her head. “No, Elias. You’re real. I was just downstairs talking to Musa—”
Who the bleeding hells is Musa?
“Jealous?” She laughs, and immediately I want to hear her laugh again. “Now I know this isn’t a dream. Dream Elias would know that he never needs to be jealous.”
“I’m not—” I consider. “Never mind. I am jealous. Tell me he’s old, at least? Or grouchy? Or maybe a bit stupid?”
“He’s young. And handsome. And smart.”
I snort. “He’s probably rubbish in be—” Laia smacks me on the arm. “Battle,” I say quickly. “I was going to say battle.”
“He doesn’t hold a candle to you.” Laia shakes her head. “I must be more exhausted than I thought—but I—I could have sworn I was awake. I feel awake. Did you windwalk here? How could you, if you were sleeping?”
“I wish it weren’t a dream,” I say. “I do. But it has to be, otherwise I couldn’t—”
I reach out my hand, and for a moment it hovers near hers. I take it, for once not dreading the interference of the ghosts, and she squeezes. Her palm fits perfectly against mine, and I lift her hand and brush my lips across her fingers.
“I couldn’t do this.” I speak softly. “The ghosts—the Waiting Place—they wouldn’t let me.”
“Then tell me, dream Elias,” she murmurs. “What did you say to me? The night you left me in the Tribal desert. The night you left me the note. What did you say?”
“I said—” I shake my head. Mamie Rila used to say that dreams are the bits of ourselves we can’t face in the day, coming to visit at night. If I had never left Laia that night . . . if Keenan had never gotten the chance to betray her . . . if I’d not been caught by the Warden . . . if I’d never vowed to stay in the Waiting Place . . .
Then I wouldn’t be stuck there. For eternity.
This dream version of Laia questions me because I question myself. Part of me knows I should pay attention to those questions. That they are a weakness I should crush.
But most of me just wants to revel in the fact that I am seeing Laia and I wasn’t sure I ever would again.
“I miss you.” She pushes back a curl, and I can’t take my eyes off the skin of her wrist, disappearing into a bell-shaped sleeve, or the hollow in her neck, or the shape of her legs, long and perfectly curved in riding breeches. It’s a dream, Elias, I remind myself sternly, trying to ignore how badly I want to feel those legs wrapped around me. Of course her legs look incredible and perfect and I wish we could—
When she puts her hand to my face, I savor the whorls in her fingertips, the gentle scrape of her nails. I look down into her eyes, golden and endless and full of all the desire I feel. I don’t want this to disappear. I don’t want to wake up to ghosts howling and jinn plotting.
I unravel her braid. She takes my other hand and puts it on her hip, and I trace the curve with a light touch that makes her close her eyes.
“Why is it like this?” she asks. “Why must we be apart? I miss what we should have been, Elias. Is that possible—”
Her hand drops to my chest, to the shredded remains of my shirt, torn in the battle with the ghosts.
“What the skies happened to you?” She looks me over with a healer’s concern. “And why do you smell like smoke?”
Self-examination again. Her questions are my own subconscious, holding me accountable for my mistakes.
“Efrits burned down Shaeva’s—my—house. Part of a jinn trick to torment me.”
“No.” She pales. “Why? The Nightbringer?”
“Perhaps. He must have sent the efrits, and the jinn in the grove told them when it was safe to enter the Forest.” I shake my head. “I’m nothing like Shaeva, Laia. I’m not getting the ghosts through fast enough. Three of them escaped and did terrible things. I can’t control the jinn. And I can’t stop the ghosts’ suffering.”
“It is my fault.” Laia slumps. “If I hadn’t trusted him—given him the armlet—he wouldn’t have gone after her. Shaeva should never have died.”
It’s such a Laia thing to say that I stare at her, perplexed. This is a dream, is it not? And the Blood Shrike . . . I hope that was a dream.
I expect Laia to say something I would think. Instead, she continues to berate herself. “I ask myself every day why I did not see him for what he was—”
“No.” I brush away the tears from her black eyelashes. “Don’t blame yourself.” My voice is low, scratchy—why have I forgotten how to talk? “Please, it’s not—”
She lifts her face, and my desire for her pools low and sudden. I can’t stop myself from pulling her body to mine. She gasps softly and rises. Her lips against mine are urgent. She doesn’t know when she’ll kiss me again. The same frantic need courses through me.
My mind shouts at me that this is too real. But no ghosts trouble us. I want her. She wants me. And we have wanted each other for so long.
She pulls away from the kiss, and I’m certain I will wake up, that this skies-given time with her, devoid of ghosts railing at us or Mauth pulling at me, is about to end. But she only shoves away the remnants of my shirt before running her nails gently across my skin, sighing with pleasure or want or both.
I can’t bear her lips away from mine, so I dip down again, but on my way I’m distracted by her shoulder. I find myself kissing it, then nipping at her neck, a primal part of me deeply satisfied by the moan I elicit from her, by the way her body relaxes into mine.
As her breath heaves, more ragged with every kiss on her throat, I feel her twine her leg around mine—yes—and I drop my hands to lift her up. The bed is too far, but there’s a wall, and when I pin her against it, she rakes her hand across my back, murmuring, “Yes, Elias, yes,” until I am shaking with need.
“The things,” I whisper in her ear, “that I want to do to you . . .”