at the lighthouse wouldn’t hurt anything. We could warn the cauchemar before the mob struck—perhaps even free it—and still leave by sunrise. It was the noble thing to do. Lou might’ve chosen the wrong path for us, but this felt a step in the right direction. Perhaps it would set us on a new course. A better one.
At the very least, it would delay our arrival to Chateau le Blanc. And perhaps . . .
“I vote no.” Coco’s voice cut sharp from beneath her hood. “Cauchemars are dangerous, and we can’t afford distractions. We should proceed to the Chateau.”
Lou grinned and nodded.
“If we help this cauchemar,” I murmured, “perhaps it’ll help us. Here is your mysterious ally, Cosette. No trees required.”
Though I couldn’t see her face, I could feel her glower.
Shaking my head, I handed Célie my blanket before returning to my pew. Lou didn’t let go of my hand. Her thumb traced the veins along my wrist. “We need Célie’s carriage,” I said. “Whether or not she returns home.”
Célie’s head snapped up. “A carriage would speed our travel considerably.”
“Yes.” I considered her for a long moment. Rather, I reconsidered her. A muscle twitched in my jaw at her hopeful expression, at the determined set of her shoulders. This was not the Célie I’d always known. “It would.”
Throwing his hands in the air, Achille stalked to the scullery to be rid of us. “Fools, all of you,” he said over his shoulder, voice grim. “A cauchemar is strongest at night. Act at first light before the mob attacks. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you. Fear makes people stupid.” With one last look between Célie and me, he shook his head. “But courage makes ’em stupid too.”
An Insidious Presence
Lou
From the darkness, a voice arises.
Not that voice. Not the terrible one that croons and beckons. This voice is sharper, biting, cutting. Familiar. It does not tempt me. It—it scolds me.
Wake up, it snaps. You aren’t dead yet.
But I do not know this word. I do not understand death.
No one does. That’s not the point—or maybe that’s the entire point. You’re fading.
Fading. The darkness offers oblivion. Sweet relief.
Fuck that. You’ve worked too hard and too long to give up now. Come on. You want more than oblivion. You want to live.
A ghostly chuckle reverberates through the shadows. Through the unending black. It curls around me, caressing the jagged edges of my consciousness, soothing the broken shards at my center. Surrender, little mouse. Let me devour you.
I hurt. With each pulse of the darkness, the pain intensifies until I cannot bear it.
It’s your heart. The sharp voice returns, louder now. Louder than even the rhythmic drumming. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Instinctively, I shy away, but I cannot hide from the sound. From the pain. It echoes everywhere, all around me. It’s still beating.
I try to process this, try to peer through the darkness to where a heart might indeed beat. But still I see nothing.
Don’t hide from it, Lou. Own your pain. Use it.
Lou. The word is familiar, like the exhalation on a laugh. The breath before jumping, the gasp when you fly instead. It’s a sigh of relief, of irritation, of disappointment. It’s a shout of anger and a cry of passion. It’s . . . me. I am not the darkness. I am something else entirely. And this voice—it’s mine.
There you are, it says—I say—in unabashed relief. About time too.
However, on the wings of one realization comes another, and I flex abruptly, pushing against the crushing black. It responds in kind, no longer simple darkness but a sentient presence all its own. An insidious presence. It feels wrong, somehow. Foreign. It shouldn’t be here—wherever here is—because this place . . . it belongs to me too. Like my heartbeat. Like my name. Though I flex again, testing my strength, spreading myself further, pushing and pushing and pushing, I meet only ironclad resistance.
The darkness is unyielding as stone.
A Game of Questions
Reid
Lou’s fingertips skimmed my leg in time with the others’ rhythmic breathing. With each inhale, she walked them upward. With each exhale, she turned her wrist, trailing downward with the back of her hand. Wind whistled through the cracks in the sanctuary, raising gooseflesh on my arms. I sat rigid beneath her touch, heart pounding in my throat at the subtle friction. Tense. Waiting. Sure enough, those fingers gradually crept up, up, up my thigh in slow seduction, but I caught her wrist, slid my hand to cover hers. To pin it