Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(17)

The small flame of my candle throws shadows onto the walls as I move hesitantly down the hallway. The sound of the wind is almost like words now. I go over to one of the other closed doors. Try the handle. It doesn’t turn. The house is as hollow and empty as the chambers of a shell.

Arien watches me from his room as I pace back and forth. “You’re going to wear a path in the floor.”

He rifles through the bedside table, finds a sparklight, and touches it to the lamp next to his bed. Then he starts to unpack his bag. I can still hear the sound. I follow it into Arien’s room, my candle held high as I strain to listen. It’s louder. It’s changed.

A wet hush. Like … water. Like there’s water beneath the plaster of the walls, dripping down, and—

I put my hand on the wall, and it stops. “Did you just hear it that time?”

“Leta. I think you should go to bed. It’s late.” When I don’t move, Arien gives me a gentle push. “Come on. You don’t need to stalk around with that look on your face all night.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re imagining every single terrible thing that might happen to me.”

“I’m sure there’s a few things I haven’t been able to think of yet.” We go over to the bed and sit down together. I lean my chin against his shoulder. “What did Rowan say to you last night at the wayside cottage? What does he want from you?”

Arien bends down and unlaces his boots, then kicks them off. “He said he can help me. With my shadows. He can help me control them.”

“But they’re only—” My mouth tastes bitter and a fresh shiver runs over me. Only dreams.

“No.” He stares ahead and refuses to meet my gaze. “No, they’re not.”

Night after night I watched his eyes turn dark. I felt the shadows prickle across my skin as they spilled from his hands. I told myself I wasn’t afraid. That they wouldn’t hurt me. Only dreams. They overcame him; they spilled through him. But they didn’t belong to him.

I look down at the candle and watch the flame dance inside the jar. I breathe in the smell of honeyed wax. “Arien, do you really think you should trust him?”

He lies down with a sigh and turns his back to me. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

“You know what happened to his family. What he did to them.”

“Please, Leta.” He burrows his face against the pillow. “Just go to bed. It’s not like the Monster of Lakesedge is going to come up here tonight to devour us.”

“He might.”

“You’ll be first. Because you’ve annoyed him so much.”

“I’d like to see him try.” I get to my feet and pick up the candle, then go across the hall and into my room.

It’s stuffy with a scent of camphor and fireplace soot. Neglect fills the shadowed corners. I set down my candle, open the window to let in some fresh air. But outside is hot and still. The curtains drape around me in dust-filled wisps. I look out into the darkness, but there’s nothing to see. Only the low slope of the hills, the silhouette of trees, and the star-specked sky above the darkened landscape.

If the lake is there, it’s hidden by the night.

When I pull back the cloth that’s draped over my bed, there’s only a bare, unmade mattress. I drop my satchel onto the floor, then lie down, curled up on my side with my boots still on and my sore knees tucked up inside the hem of my dress. This is the first time I’ve slept alone, in my own space. Though the stretch of hall between Arien’s room and mine isn’t much larger than the distance between our beds in the cottage, it feels as vast as an ocean.

My eyes are heavy. I fight against it for a moment, but they dip closed. I’m so tired that my bones feel bruised, and the medicine Clover gave us has dulled everything to a blur. My vision starts to dim. My limbs go heavy. I’m laid out in a field, and vines have wrapped around my whole body and smothered me.

The candle gutters out.

I’m half-sunk in sleep when the cries come.

The sounds cut through the dark. Tangled, thorn-edged howls. I sit up and stare toward the open door. I can see the huddled shape of Arien, asleep in his own room. It isn’t him.

I hold my breath and peer into the darkness, trying to make sense of the cries as they come again. At first, they’re incoherent, mixed with the hollow thud of my pulse. Then they begin to shape themselves into words.

Elan … Elan … please …

It isn’t Arien. But this is the same sound. The same cries. It’s the sound of nightmares. The word echoes over and again until it loses meaning. A name, a plea, a helpless prayer.

Elan … please …

The curtain is a ghostly smear across the window. Night is pressed against the glass. I reach for my satchel and shakily unbuckle the fastenings. Inside, beneath my sweater and my spare dress and my stones, is a small, solid shape. An icon.

Arien painted it for me. Mother never let us into her workshop, but she would sometimes give him scraps of wood or leftover daubs of paint. This one is the first he made. The strokes of color are broad and blurred, like a face seen in a dream. More a wash of color than actual features. The edges are worn smooth from the rub of my thumb, and the frame is shaped to fit neatly inside my hand with a curve that follows my palm.

I run my fingers along the wood. The shape of a chant forms in my mouth—a messier, more indistinct thing than any litany. Keep us safe, keep us safe, let this not be a mistake …