A Multitude of Dreams

by Mara Rutherford

But he said it mostly to make Nico blush, which wasn’t difficult; Nico blushed whenever anyone complimented him, teased him, or looked at him too long.

“Oof,” Nico said, rather poetically.

Run away across the sea; pray for blood immunity; Or die and be reborn again, and drink the blood of living men.

Who in their right mind would want to rule over a country of corpses?

Elisabeth was dead, and the man he’d once thought of as a father was a murderer. No, not a murderer. A monster.

And whatever Arnaud was, Nico was certain that Crane had recognized it. That Crane was it.

She felt as if a veil had slipped from her eyes. How much had been hidden in the shadows for all these years?

Hundreds of men and women, hundreds of different opinions and expectations, a multitude of dreams and nightmares... All waiting for her.

But that was the beauty of darkness: it obscured what shouldn’t be seen. By moonlight, death could masquerade as slumber.

He wanted to hate her. But she was the most beautiful thing Nico had ever seen in his life.

“Who are you?” she asked. And Nico, the fool who had once fancied himself a poet, found he had no words.

She knew what it meant to feel guilty for every positive emotion.

Wishing to be someone else was no more useful than wishing for someone to save her.

“I see.” “I’m not sure you do.” Seraphina was staring at her plate, but she could feel Prince Martin’s eyes on her. The prince leaned closer. “Then why don’t you show me.”

Nico looked into Jocelyn’s kind eyes, sighed, and told her everything.

Henry softened his tone to a patronizing coo. “Come, my dear. You know you’d only be a liability out there. Mott agrees with me.” To his credit, Mr. Mott glanced up, his face scarlet. “I didn’t say that.”

Mr. Mott glanced between the two of them, his gaze finally settling on Seraphina. “I agree that you’d be far safer here in the castle,” he said. “But you are a grown woman capable of making your own decisions.” He turned to Henry. “It’s up to Princess Imogen.”

When they had finished burying the head, Nico hefted his sword and drove it through Arnaud’s chest. The body twitched, probably from the force of the sword, and Greymont shrieked. Nico could barely smother his smirk.

His lips were seductively red, like he’d just eaten a bowl of strawberries. God, how she loathed strawberries.

Survivor’s guilt was the price you paid for living, and sometimes the cost was too high.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, Nico lifted her wrist to his lips and brushed the softest kiss against the delicate skin there. A little shudder went through her, but she never tried to pull away from him. He repeated the same thing with her other wrist, then laid it gently in her lap. “I forgive you,” he said, and closed his eyes as she whispered the words he’d needed to hear for four years. “I forgive you, too.”

She found she took perverse delight in making him blush. It was almost too easy.

“I’m looking for someone,” the girl said, her eyes darting between the two men. “Her name is Seraphina.”

“You’re alive.” “You’re bleeding,” Nico said, stepping away from the reborn toward her.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice as soft as his fine silk shirt. “Don’t you see? Women like me always get what they want.”