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The infection comes as a fever in the night.
Still, it was the first time I stopped fearing the Nightmare—the voice in my head, the creature with strange yellow eyes and an eerie, smooth voice. Eleven years later, and I don’t fear him at all. Even if I should.
The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King… and the monster they became.”
The Shepherd King had made seventy-eight Providence Cards in descending order. There were twelve Black Horses, held exclusively by the King’s elite guard—the Destriers. Eleven Golden Eggs. Ten Prophets. Nine White Eagles. Eight Maidens. Seven Chalices. Six Wells. Five Iron Gates. Four Scythes. Three Mirrors. Two Nightmares. And one Twin Alders.
“There are so few of us, Miss Spindle. You are more special than you know. And it pains me to think I might have hurt you. I’m—sorry.”
My aunt had told me once that my strange charcoal eyes were special, beautiful even—a dark window to the soul beneath. But as I glanced back into the looking glass, the reflection of my black eyes flickering to that bright, eerie yellow, I had to wonder… whose soul was it? The Nightmare’s? Or mine?
“Hauth broke your wrist, Ravyn mangled his hand. Balance.”
But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare, I bartered my soul. I put a hand to my mouth, fingers shaking. My voice came out hollow. “But that would mean I absorbed your soul when I touched the Nightmare Card. Which makes you… the Shepherd King.” A growl, a sneer—oil, bile. His voice called, louder than it had ever been, as if he was closer. Stronger. Finally, my darling Elspeth, we understand one another.
“The highwayman meets the hangman. Always.”
“It is not they who bring the reckoning, Ravyn. It is you. It is us.”
“You’re very beautiful,” he mused. “Your eyes are so dark—so infinite.” He paused. “Like a maiden in a storybook. As if the Shepherd King had penned you himself.”
“I don’t want rest, Elspeth,” he murmured into my lips. “I want you.”
Life had sheltered them, like pearls kept in a velvet pouch. And I—I was not made of pearls. I was made of salt.
Are you going to let him suffer like this? the Nightmare whispered. I shut my eyes tighter. What will he think of me? Does it matter? Of course it matters. He matters. So don’t lie to him.