“Love you, too,” he said.
* * *
—
I dreamed.
I sat on the edge of the abyss from my earlier encounter with the spell web. It loomed below me, both a bottomless, empty hole and a presence of blackness that was the embodiment of solid darkness.
Instead of the snow I’d walked in previously, the ground beneath me was something like the forest floor in the Douglas fir–dominated wilderness I’d grown up in. It was deeply packed with dried fir and pine needles until it made a cushiony layer over the hard ground. That was not the sort of ground one usually found on the edge of a cliff, since needles were easily scattered by a good hard wind. I dug my fingers into it.
Can’t argue with what is, I thought, tossing my handful of dirt and needles off into the abyss, feeling the tickle of the falling earth against the bare skin of my dangling foot. My other foot was tucked up and hooked under the knee of the leg that hung over the edge.
It didn’t feel like I was doing anything very dangerous. It felt like I was dangling my foot off the branch of a very tall tree I’d climbed. Just enough frightening to make my stomach tingle a bit. I twisted around until the abyss was to one side of me instead of in front of me, though I left one leg hanging off the edge.
Spread out on the ground in front of me was a white linen tablecloth set with an elegant tea service, the kind with porcelain so fine you can see your fingers through the sides. There was a plate with those little creamy sandwich cookies I associated with France but could now buy at Costco. There was also a plate of brownies, but those looked a little unreal, as if whoever had made up the plate couldn’t quite remember what they looked like.
A warm breeze rose from the abyss and caressed my bare foot, leaving sharp prickles behind. It wasn’t really painful, more like I’d gotten too close to a Fourth of July sparkler, the ones they give little kids. I was connected to the abyss in some way that made me uneasy. I started to pull my foot up, but Stefan spoke.
“Mercy.”
I hadn’t realized he was there, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the tablecloth. He wasn’t looking at me; he was frowning at the brownies.
I looked up at the sky, which was that bright cerulean blue that artists are so fond of. But I couldn’t locate the sun.
“Is this a dream?” I asked slowly. “Or are you doing this so you can talk to me?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Stefan said absently. “That would be too dangerous. Someone would notice. But everyone dreams.”
His words seemed important. I tried to make sure I’d remember them exactly. Marsilia’s words had been important, too, but I had only remembered the gist of what she had said. Hopefully I would do better with these.
“Dangerous for you?” I asked.
He laughed. And it was wrong. Stefan had a warm laugh, and this was full of broken things like dreams and hope.
“No,” he said, wiping his face as if there might have been tears on his cheeks. “Not for me. Marsilia and I, we are survivors. We are powerful enough to be useful, but not so powerful that we are threats. It’s our friends and allies that we have to sell out so we can survive.”
He looked up at me then and I sucked in a breath. Someone had gouged out his eyes.
I made as if to get up, to go to him, but he put up a hand. “No.”
There was such command in his voice that my body stopped moving without my volition. Suddenly my heart pounded, my hands and face felt numb, and I couldn’t breathe as one of those stupid panic attacks gripped me. I hadn’t had a panic attack in . . . maybe a whole week. The last one had been spurred by a dream, too. I’d dreamed of Tim and the drink from a fairy goblet that had stolen my will.
Just as Stefan had stolen my will.
If Stefan told me I was happy, I’d feel that way. It was the nature of the vampiric bond. If he told me to kill Adam . . .
“I don’t think that would work,” Stefan told me in a detached voice. “I don’t think anyone could make you kill Adam.” He paused. “Except maybe Adam himself, if he got you mad enough.”
I stared at him. There was nothing wrong with his eyes. They were the same rich brown as always, a couple of shades lighter than Adam’s. My panic attack had stopped. Just stopped. And I wondered if he’d told me not to be afraid. And not to remember that he’d told me so.
He turned his head to the abyss as if he were ashamed.
“I am sorry,” he told me. “I can’t— I’m not . . . Anyway. Marsilia and I have given you a game to play.” His fingers worried at the edge of the tablecloth that dangled over the ledge. “If you lose, you die. If you don’t play the game, you die. And even if you win . . .” He wiped his cheeks again. In a whisper he said, “I am so tired of the people I love dying while I go on and on.” He bowed his head and, still very quietly, asked, “Do you know the prayer? ‘If I should die before I wake . . .’ But the Lord doesn’t keep the souls of vampires safe, Mercy. Vampires don’t have souls.”