The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,114
as I try to get my breathing under control.
That same heaviness from the dream is under my palm. The promise—the one I made about coming alone—it’s still there, burdensome and oppressive.
This is the moment when I realize I’m in way over my head. These witches are cleverer than I imagined. They have power and wit I can’t begin to comprehend.
Somehow, they bypassed my protection spell by communicating with me in the future, and now I’m bound to a promise I haven’t even made yet.
Maybe this isn’t a bad thing.
Since coming to Valora, my premonitions have evolved along with my body. Years ago, it was always as if I was a helpless bystander in my dreams. Forced to watch the events. Powerless to stop them.
The past two times I had a vision, I’ve been an active participant. And this time, our entire encounter with the witches went differently than the first.
More importantly, it ended differently.
Damon didn’t get shot.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I stare up at the ceiling of the tent as I process what this means.
I changed the future.
Somehow, someway, over the past week, my actions altered the outcome.
But the tradeoff isn’t exactly ideal. We’re presented with a new set of challenges. For one, the coven has Damon’s parents. Two, my freedom is at stake.
The only certainty right now? Shit’s going down tonight. A sense of urgency nags at me, and we don’t have much time to strategize or discuss.
Sitting up, I untangle myself from the blankets. I must’ve been kicking because the sheet is twisted around my feet. Once I get free, I reach for Damon, but I stop just inches away from his shoulder.
He’s sound asleep. So peaceful. Sometimes I envy the fact that he doesn’t dream. If he wants to rest, he can go to a place of nothingness.
I’m about to yank him from that escape.
I gently shake him. “Damon.”
His eyes fly open. Sensing my anxiety, he rolls off the bed and grabs his pants. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
Hushing him, I put a finger to my lips and nod. He tosses me my favorite green dress. As I unbutton my nightshirt, I quietly fill him in on what I saw—minus the part where I leave him in the field.
His face goes white at the mention of his parents.
“Any idea how they got involved?” I ask, putting my back to him as I rummage in my suitcase.
My hand closes around the syringe. I don’t know if I’ll need it. Still, it’s best to be prepared. Even if I never got any Glow, I’ll feel better having it. I slyly slip it into my pocket.
“My father’s a desperate ass,” Damon bites out. “When he first told me about you, he said he made a deal with a witch. He didn’t specify if it was someone from the coven, but I’d bet anything he got tricked by one of them. I’ll go tell Kirian and Zander.”
“Wait.” My whispered plea stops him halfway to the door. “The witches said to come alone.”
“Don’t the bad guys always say that?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t playing around.” I rub my sternum. “I swore, Damon.”
His eyes drop to my heart. “How can an oath you make in the future be held up now?”
“I don’t know, but it is.”
“We can’t leave without telling someone.” Damon shakes his head. “That would be foolish.”
I think for a second before slipping on my shoes. “I’ll go to Astrid.”
Holding up a hand, Damon signals for me to wait. He stands completely still, listening to the quiet sounds outside of our tent. There’s a fire crackling somewhere nearby, and I hear someone poking the logs with a stick.
Not to mention, there’s a guard stationed by our door.
Damon joins me at the end of the bed and dips his mouth to my ear. “How are we supposed to get out of here without being seen? If the soldiers on patrol see us leaving, they’ll know something’s up.”
A sly smile lifts my lips. “Remember how you said you should trust me?”
“Yeah,” Damon responds slowly. Apprehensively.
“Well, it’s a good time to practice that.”
The invisibility spell on the bedsheet worked, and I did it all by myself this time. As I enter Astrid’s small tent, I feel the braided texture of her rug under my slippers. My toes flex against the little bumps.
“Astrid,” I whisper-yell, tiptoeing toward her cot.
Rolling over, she mumbles a few incoherent words, looks around, then closes her eyes again.