“The Nightmare,” he said, quoting The Old Book of Alders, swinging his finger at me as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “Be wary the dark. Be wary the fright. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.” “Enough, Emory,” Elm groaned. When Emory’s smile deepened, the hairs along my neck stood on end. I was suddenly certain that when he’d touched my hand on the stairwell, Emory Yew and his strange, dark magic had truly seen every last one of my secrets. “It twists and it calls, through shadowy halls. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.”
