Dreams Lie Beneath

by Rebecca Ross

like,

vampire?

“You are an apprentice, but you wage war beside him on new moon nights. And you are just as strong and skilled as him. I have watched you fight in the streets on the darkest nights. You will surpass him, Clementine. Your magic shines brighter than his.”

Or perhaps you dream of learning deviah magic and combining the two. I would indeed like to see an enchanted drawing of yours someday, Clementine.”

Since I was eight, my father had instructed me in avertana magic, a defensive magic that lent its strength to spars and duels. We often faced spells bent by malicious intent, which made for dangerous and unpredictable situations, such as the new moon nights. And I liked avertana more for those things, but I also had started thinking of the other two studies of magic, metamara and deviah—but deviah in particular. To take one’s skill and create an enchanted object was no simple feat, and I had read of magicians who had devoted decades of their lives to reach such achievement.

she extended her fist—knuckles like hills, veins like rivers beneath her papery skin, fingers full of coins.

It was quaint, if one forgot the curse of the adjacent mountains.

Well versed in magic, the duke had cast a curse as he lay dying. No death and no dreams for those in his court who had been touched by the betrayal. They would live endlessly, watching as those they loved grew old and perished without them. And without dreams . . . their own hearts would become dry and brittle.

One does not realize how powerful a dream is, in the sleeping world as well as the waking one, until it has been stolen from them.

When summer surrendered to autumn, my father inevitably fell prey to a fever and a cough, blaming it on a final bloom of some vengeful valley weed. And while he always recovered within a few days, I still didn’t know what to do with him when he was like this.

Children’s nightmares were always the worst. They were the recordings that kept me up at night when I read them. They were the dreams I dreaded to see stalking the streets on new moon nights.

And by precarious, I meant spontaneous, when magic came to me in the moment. The sort of magic he was afraid of. That was why he was diligent in studying the nightmares, so he could prepare potential spells. His memory was immense and deep, and while I admired him for it . . . my strongest magic was forged from intuition.

I knew what he saw in me. I was young and reckless. His one and only daughter, who favored the wilder, natural study of magic. My ideas and spells scared him sometimes, although he would never say such a thing aloud. Because without me, Papa would never take a risk.

“You know, it’s not a bad thing to be fearful every now and then. The fear reminds you of limits, of what lines you should not cross. Of the doors you shouldn’t open.”

“It’s one of Mama’s old dresses,” I said. “She sent it to me last year.”

Depending on what energy force the magicians preferred to cast with, we needed things like food, drink, sleep, good company, books, art, music, and solitude to refill, or risked burning ourselves into oblivion.

“Do you mind if I cast a cantrip, Mr. Madigan?” My father sounded wary. “What sort of spell is necessary during dinner?” “To see what ingredients are in the food. I have a delicate disposition.” I snorted, only to draw everyone’s attention. I raised my glass to them and drank, to hide the curl of my lips. “Just eat the food, Lee,” Phelan murmured with a twinge of mortification.

I forced myself to eat. I was sitting across from Phelan, and I noticed how he cut his meat into proper bites, how he handled his fork and knife. I made a point to be his opposite. My cutlery screeched against my plate, provoking winces from the men, and I put a hunk of meat in my mouth, my fork upside down.

“We don’t want any bad blood between us, Mr. Madigan. Nor do we want there to be any unnecessary injuries tonight.” He is noble of heart, I thought. Or considers himself to be. Which almost made me laugh, because there was nothing honorable in arriving to another magician’s territory unannounced and seeking to steal it. “Do you want me to surrender without a fight, then, Mr. Phelan?” Papa countered, his voice edged with ire. “Do you want me to surrender this town and its inhabitants after I’ve given years of my life protecting it? Is that how wardenship works in the city you hail from?” Phelan had the decency to appear briefly shamed.

its fangs were still caught in my leg, and a hand I didn’t recognize carefully unhinged the serpent and tossed it overboard. My gaze rose. Phelan Vesper.

“Thank you,” I breathed. My hand slipped from his cheek and promptly shot a hole in the boat with a beam of magic. He startled as the water began to surge around our ankles. I leapt to the nearest roof, struggling to find purchase in the thatch. I scrambled up to the apex of the roof and glanced back to see Phelan furiously trying to mend his boat, in vain. It was a moment from being completely submerged, and he glared at me. “Your gratitude is noted, Miss Madigan,” he said, and jumped onto the same roof as me.

I walked past Phelan to the kitchen counter, where the teapot was still warm, and poured myself a cup. Imonie set down a pitcher of cream and the honeypot, as she knew my preferences, and I put far too much into my tea, stirring it around and around, my thoughts far away.

My face warmed when I saw him holding my drawings, these intimate pieces of my heart. He paused to study one, transfixed, and I snatched it from his hands.

Those doors have not been open since, nor will they until the remaining wraiths—the heiress, the lady-in-waiting, the advisor, the guard, the master of coin, and the spymistress—all who once planned the duke’s demise, return as one to break the curse.”

I felt heat rise in my face and I read it again, just to be certain it was the right Phelan. The pompous, impolite, selfish, tragically handsome Phelan. The aristocrat who had stolen my home and disgraced me. Bumping into his haughty mother the day before at the art shop had only roused the worst of my feelings. Toward him, toward Lennox. Toward a family that felt as if they could take whatever they desired and suffer no consequences for it.

“I will take half of your heart and turn it into stone. It will divide you, and you will turn colder. Because half of who you once were will be no more, you will need to surrender half of something you love to hold the spell. Your art or your magic, most likely, since those are two things that have always been with you, growing alongside you year by year.” She took a sip of her wine, but her gaze never left mine. “So what will you choose to give up, Clementine Madigan? Your art or your magic?”

I wanted to be unremarkable upon appearance. I wanted to be underestimated, overlooked, on the verge of being forgotten. I wanted a trustworthy face that inspired friendship, a face that could draw out a secret. A face that one would never assume hid something vengeful beneath it. It was time to speak my burning question. One forged from my greatest fear. “How long will this magic of disguise last?” “The longevity of this spell depends on you, mortal girl,” Mazarine replied. “On how well you guard the stone half of your heart. Be vigilant and your disguise will last unto death. But should the stone within you crack . . . the rest will soon crumble, little by little, until your disguise falls away.”

“Yes. Forgive me, I thought . . . I thought you were someone else for a moment.”

I stopped by a fountain brimming with wishful pennies and sat down on its stone ledge, pressing my palm to my chest, where my heart beat its new, strange rhythm.

I cast a bet as to how long it would take him to begin purchasing new garments for me. It was my intention to steal from his coffer, bit by bit, without him even realizing it. Just as he had stolen my home and livelihood. Just as he had made me pack up everything in a whirlwind with hardly a day to grieve over what I had lost.

damn girl

A reflection of wild auburn hair and large brown eyes and pressed lips, as if I were holding a song in my chest.

“Our relationship is one built on favors and debts,” he replied, still avoiding eye contact with me. “And I swiftly learned that we don’t work well together, and I needed a different partner on the new moon nights.”

I smiled, and warmth began to seep in my chest. It emanated a shallow ache, the sort of ache one feels when they have run too far, or when they are about to be reunited with someone they have missed for years.

“I confess, Miss Neven, that there was a moment when I thought your intentions were to kill me. And then I realized how absurd that was, and that you were testing me as I wanted to test you. You challenged me as if you were a nightmare on a new moon, and I knew then that you were the one that I wanted beside me.”

there was a strange scent in the air, like rotting parchment, followed by the sweetness of bergamot.

“And someone decided to sleep in my guest room last night,” he countered with an arched brow, looking up from his paper.

Why Is this so hot

The sound of him speaking my name was like an unexpected kiss on the mouth.

His socks were surprisingly mismatched. It was the most undone I had ever seen him.

I let my hand slip away, fingertip by fingertip, and watched his deep inhale, as if I had left a scorch mark behind. “Now. Summon her.”

“Is this punishment?” he whispered. Yes, I wanted to say. Punishment for stealing my home, for burning my artwork. For not being as I expected.

They were like swinging hammers, eager to form a crack within me, and I was struggling to know how to filter them into my life. Things such as memories of home, Deacon’s smile, Nura’s and Olivette’s friendship. The way I sometimes caught Phelan looking at me.

Screaming

I reached out to touch his arm, and he stopped, as if I had burned him.

He was silent, but he continued to hold my hand, pressed against his heart. I could feel the frantic beat, pounding against my palm. A rhythm that made me realize things had started to shift between us. I didn’t hate him as I had before. How could I after this harrowing night had bound us together, in fear and courage and wounds?

“Phelan speaks of you often, Miss Neven.” And I didn’t know why he would say such a thing until the duke shocked me further by adding, “Would you want to be a duchess?”

Screaming again

And I opened my mouth to ask more about the belt, to tell him I knew Olivette, but something gave me pause. A warning, as if I had felt a draft. “No. Good day to you, sir.”

“My brother is a warden of a few streets that have fallen on hard times and cannot pay the duke’s tax. So Mr. Vesper’s donation is much appreciated.”

“This house is far too quiet at night without you,” I said. That brought him back to me. He met my gaze, and I wondered what he saw in my eyes, because Phelan smiled.

“Leaving so soon, Anna?” “Well, you’re knee deep in books,” I said, waving my hand. “We can talk more tomorrow.” “Talk more about what?” he asked. “The fact that you missed me?”

“Then let me be the first to confess. I missed you.” “I have no doubt.” “I should have taken you with me.”

“And what can I do about that?” “Distract me.” He shouldn’t challenge me with such a thing. I could give him all sorts of distractions, and I raised my hand and grasped the ribbon that held his hair at the nape of his neck. Slowly, I pulled it loose, and I listened to his breaths quicken as his dark hair spilled around his shoulders. Not once did he look away from me as my hands deftly unfastened the top two buttons of his waistcoat. My fingertips traced the faint scar my rapier had left on his cheekbone. I stepped back to regard him. “Yes, you look much better as a rogue.”

Perhaps it was because of the late hour, somewhere long past midnight when reality begins to blur into recklessness. Or perhaps it was because we were both exhausted. Or because I liked him more than I wanted to, and the thought of him suffering through the night so I wouldn’t have to vexed me. Or perhaps it was merely because I had never allowed myself to dream at night, and I longed to experience it.