Grim Fantasies: The Dream World Chronicles, #3

By Chynna Pace

The race is on to find the sleep thorn, a magical weapon that can put anyone in an eternal sleep. Alex wants it to eradicate her enemy—her enemy wants it for the same reason. When the new guy at the Circle promises to help Alex find the weapon, and a prophetic dreamer discovers its exact location, it seems like a done deal. But in the dream world, things are rarely what they seem, and on Alex's journey, betrayals and nightmares lurk in every corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chynna Pace
• Release date: Dec 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201311643

Book preview

Prologue

On a snowy midwinter night, darkness incarnate traveled in the swirling winds of a twister, a twister pulsing with emerald magic.

Darkness incarnate was many things, but he was not what one would expect: an ugly beast or a disfigured mastermind. He was a neglected child trapped in a vengeful adult body trapped in a teenage disguise. And this disguise lent him a flop of thick, glossy black hair, an average but slightly pudgy body, and small angular eyes that disappeared when he smiled. He was not smiling right then.

There was nothing to smile about on this cold, bitter night. So his eyes became like needles, piercing through the shadows as he was carried far away from the cemetery, to a place hundreds of miles away from New Britain.

His name was Nicholas, and he was very angry.

The place the tornado brought him to was an old, abandoned barn sitting broken and faded in the middle of a pasture in the middle of nowhere. The spinning winds slowed, lowering him toward the ground, then ceased movement altogether, and Nicholas alighted swiftly, in a huff.

With a lazy snap of his fingers, the green tornado was sucked out of the atmosphere, its form seeping into the grass at his feet. Out here, the grass reigned almost as powerfully as the darkness did. It was everywhere, surrounding him on all sides. Fields of it stretched long and wide in every direction. There were no homes, no civilization. Only this squat little shed that could hardly be called a barn.

Nicholas strode toward it with purpose and flung open the shabby door hanging half off its hinges.

And when he walked in, he walked, not into the dilapidated ruins of an old shack, but into a vast den. A den of black magic. A den of nightmares.

The interior stretched on endlessly, twisting and curving this way and that with a thousand staircases leading to a never ending series of levels. Doors, some open, some closed, met him everywhere he looked. They housed his followers: his nightmares, and those who had removed that ghastly crescent moon from their skin.

But most of them were gone. A fraction of the group, the ones Nicholas had sent to New Britain, were now dead. The others were out on jobs, in houses and hospitals and hotels, torturing humans with horrific imaginations.

Nicholas’s grand hiding place was empty.

Well, nearly empty.

Nicholas’s partner had arrived at the lair thirty minutes earlier, and was waiting for the boy in the room of couches and low-burning lamps that branched off the main entrance.

This partner was, like Nicholas himself, another boy-who-wasn’t-a-boy, but a creature of light and goodness who had switched to being a creature of darkness and evil. In that moment of time, lounging leisurely on one of the loveseats in the room, he was a youth of about seventeen who looked worthy of any typical set of hallways in any typical high school. His hair was wavy and dyed a neon shade of blue, and his smooth face held a number of moles and freckles. He wore a plain black sweatshirt and black jeans.

But this wasn’t any indication of his true appearance. Nicholas’s partner possessed, amongst his many powers and abilities, the gift to change his looks at will. Nobody, not even the evil boy he served, knew what he really looked like. An hour ago, when the two had set off for the cemetery lair, Nicholas’s partner had been a tan twenty something with spiked and bleached hair. Two weeks ago, when he’d first begun watching the girl named Aleksandra Rokosz, he’d been a ten year old with short-cropped brown hair and eyes like twin jade gems.

Even at that moment, his left knee jittered and his eyelids twitched, as they always did when he was dying to transform. The boy, whoever he was, couldn’t stand to be in one costume for too long.

When did you get here? Nicholas demanded, marching to the loveseat the boy sat on.

Half hour ago. Even his voice was disguised. Yesterday, he’d possessed a booming cadence like a drill sergeant. Right then, he spoke in soft, velvety tones and sounded like a slithering serpent.

Nicholas fumed. "You were supposed to keep an eye on Alex and signal me if she tried anything suspicious. If you had been acting as we’d planned, you would’ve seen that she showed up with nearly the entire blasted Circle!"

The boy stroked back his blue hair, the strands catching the golden light from the lamp on his right. He said, casually, I’m guessing you didn’t succeed in killing her.

A noise like a growl and a sob combined burst from Nicholas’s throat, and he said, Of course not. I underestimated those brats—both of them. Things are bad. All fifty hybrids are dead, and Zofia has become aware of her powers.

Oh dear, the boy murmured, tugging absently on the strings of his sweatshirt. He alternated between the left and the right string, elongating one while shortening the other, each of his lazy, uninterested movements maddening Nicholas more and more. His partner was brilliant and incredibly powerful, and having him on his side guaranteed his success. But this was one of the boy’s many quirks that Nicholas could not handle.

Still, for the moment his partner had more power than he did. So Nicholas suppressed his anger and asked calmly, "Why did you abandon the plan?"

The flippant youth sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically, then released his strings and pointed at something on the right side of the room.

That was when Nicholas noticed the soft breathing sounds and the light snoring in the room. He turned eastward and saw the human girl sprawled out on the dark leather couch. She was fast asleep. In an instant, Nicholas felt his throat dry up, become parched, and a painful emptiness gnawed at the walls of his stomach.

You’ve been so focused on destroying the girl, said his ally, "that you’ve neglected to feed. Do you realize it’s been weeks since your last fear dose?"

Wincing against the thirst, Nicholas swallowed and, keeping his eyes on the human, asked, You brought her for me?

Of course, the boy said. I knew you would need her. Forgive my absence, but I thought your wellbeing to be of much more consequence than the murder of a little girl. After all, how can you conquer the world if you starve to death? Now go—you look famished.

The boy was right. It had been too long since Nicholas last hunted. Ever since the Rokosz girls moved to town, he’d been distracted. Too distracted. No wonder tonight had been a failure. His magic simply wasn’t at its strongest!

But not for long. Thanks to his right hand man.

I appreciate it, he said, before dashing to the leather couch and pouncing on the sleeping girl’s chest.

She instantly grew restless as Nicholas’s magic surrounded her, the green mist of his power thickening around her like a veil. He anchored himself to her, gathered a dream of utmost horror and hopelessness, infusing his own anger and disappointment into the nightmare, and then sent it through her skull into her brain. He watched the effect play out as the nightmare seeped into her imagination like a drug might hit one’s bloodstream.

Then it was all over. The fear exuded from her, as tangible as a scent. Nicholas inhaled it, tasted it, swallowed it, and the girl’s terror filled him up. Within seconds, his strength returned, and the irritation that had been chewing on his nerves subsided. After a moment of relishing it, he hopped off the girl and went back to his partner. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and faced him directly.

Thanks for that, he said, licking his lips as if he’d just savored a delicious meal.

No problem. Back to his carefree self, the teenager now lost himself in the mindless task of picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails.

Now—back to business. Nicholas cleared his throat, took charge of the situation.

The boy’s heavily-lidded eyes lifted toward him. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, You have a new plan?

Yes. Nicholas rolled his shoulders back and jutted his chin outwards, trying to emulate the power that radiated from his higher-up ally even when he was just sitting there twiddling his thumbs. Another clear of his throat—then, "It’s obvious that some subtlety is needed. Trying to destroy her directly is futile—she has too many people protecting her. Besides, she knows how I operate; she’ll be expecting my next attack. What she won’t expect is someone she thinks she can trust, someone she really likes, leading her into a private spot and killing her before she even realizes what’s happened."

Tilting his head to one side, the boy narrowed his eyes, finally showing some interest. So…what? You’re going to possess one of her friends? Create another doppelganger hybrid?

Now Nicholas began to smile, for he felt proud of himself when he came up with ideas that surprised people, that weren’t expected of him.

Not exactly, he teased, giving no further information.

The youth sat forward a bit, his eyes brightening. This is the most diabolical I’ve ever seen you. What are you planning?

In answer, Nicholas brought his smile down to a simpering smirk. He stood up and strode casually toward the edge of the room. But on his way out, just as he reached the threshold and was a second away from leaving his partner altogether, he turned and called to him over his shoulder.

Prepare yourself, he said. This will be your greatest mission yet.

Chapter 1

It looks nice, but I’ll miss the red. Red’s my favorite color.

Nostalgically, wistfully, I stepped back to the edge of the bedroom and appraised the finished project, the work finally done after two months of slow, laborious progress. A voice at my shoulder gave a light chuckle.

The voice said, I should’ve known it would be, since it was always mine. And in a way, it still is. But it’s time for a change. Sometimes, you can love something so much that it pains you, and even something as simple as a color can represent memories you’d rather forget. But yes, daughter, I’ll miss the red too.

I turned my head, and looked at him.

Stefan Rokosz stood beside me in his room, gentle and smiling. His rich golden hair was swept off his forehead, tousled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, but the disheveled look only made him that much more handsome. He wore a green-and-black checkered flannel shirt and distressed jeans flecked with beige paint, the hems of which hung low over his wide bare feet. He looked like a rock musician or a hipster on his way to a poetry reading at a coffeehouse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was like a character in a book come to life. Surreal. After all these years, here he was, the man who had become as elusive and yet as whimsical as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

And he called me daughter. A word even more enchanting than the magic flowing through my veins.

When he turned, catching me staring, I hastily averted my gaze, switching it once more to the view before me.

Thanks to me and my father’s brilliant teamwork, his bedroom was no longer what it had been when I stumbled into it for the first time, four months ago now. The crimson-soaked teenager’s paradise was now a forty-something-year-old’s perfect habitat—a room with soothing plain beige walls and a crisp white bedspread and a television that wasn’t three decades too old.

I can’t believe it’s finally done, I mused aloud, part relieved, part sad. After all, how would Dad and I bond now that our father-daughter renovation project had come to an end?

He offered another soft laugh. I know. I thought we’d be doing this forever.

And that hesitant tone in his voice gave off the impression that he’d secretly been hoping for that.

There were two reasons why the endeavor had taken two months to complete. One was simple. I could’ve used magic—letting the power of my thoughts will the walls to paint themselves and the decorations to position themselves just right—but I chose not to, mainly to give Dad and I more time together by doing things the old-fashioned way, and also to keep from reminding him of the abilities he once had himself.

The other reason was time. There just wasn’t enough of it. What with my classes at the Circle, the homework I was expected to finish, and the nightly nightmare-hunting sessions, the only free time I had left was on the weekends.

So ever since last February, when Dad decided his room desperately needed an upgrade, I’d gone over to Matilda’s every Saturday and Sunday, and together we’d done away with the red paint and the Polish rock band posters and most everything from his teenage days. We went shopping and picked out new decorations and furniture. We threw away the clothes in his closet and went to thrift stores for his new wardrobe. We reorganized his book collection.

And now all that was left of the job was a cardboard box of books at my feet—the ones Dad no longer wanted for himself, but happily said I could have. They were all history books, texts that described the workings of the dream world. Although I had magic, I wanted to arm myself with knowledge of my heritage, and learn as much as I could about the past so I would be ready for whatever awaited me in the future.

I reached down into the box and pulled out the one on the top of the stack. The title on the front, written in the mysterious language of Lunaris, read: The Legend of the Sleep Thorn.

Frowning, I murmured, Legend? I thought the sleep thorn was a sure thing.

At least, that’s what it had seemed like to me when Mr. Gillespie had talked about Hypnos and his four sons, and Phobetor’s sacrifice to the world.

Dad leaned over my shoulder and shook his head. "It is real, but nobody has seen it in centuries, maybe even longer. It’s become a huge mystery."

With intrigue pumping through my veins, I flipped open the book and turned to the first page. I read its introduction aloud.

"At the dawn of a new dream, Hypnos instructed each of his four sons to sacrifice part of their magic for the greater good of Oneiroi. Phobetor, the hybrid beast who guards the dream world gates, extracted from his side a sharp-tipped stick known to all as the sleep thorn. The sleep thorn contains powerful magic and the blood of Phobetor himself. It is the only weapon in existence capable of putting anyone—Oneiros, Mora, and human alike—into a never ending sleep. Many vague accounts of the sleep thorn have occurred in the faraway past, but Phobetor’s gift has remained hidden for many a century, with no one claiming to know its whereabouts."

Dad sighed wishfully at the end of my dictation and said, Wouldn’t that be nice? The ability to put anyone in a never ending sleep. We could use that against…any potential enemies.

I kept my head lowered toward the book, but glanced at my father in my periphery, noting the way he avoided speaking Nicholas’s name. We hadn’t talked much about my half-brother during the past two months, and now, I was reminded of how uncomfortable it must be for Dad to even consider his son’s destruction, yet alone discuss it with his daughter. It was awkward, even for me.

But he was right. The sleep thorn could be used against Nicholas. If only there was a way to find it…

The door swung open behind us, drawing both of our attentions away from the view in front of us and onto the girl standing in the doorway behind us.

Zoey. Dad beamed at her. Back from your training already?

My sister had grown a lot in the last two months. Twelve now, she was almost as tall as me, and though she had never possessed much baby fat to begin with, what remained of her roundness was quickly fading, making the angles in her face even sharper and more pronounced than they already were. Where most people would just look gaunt or emaciated, Zoey was gorgeous. Her big, bulging eyes, her protruding mouth, her dark curls that hung several inches longer now—it was all so beautiful. I wondered if she knew how pretty she was, how many hearts she’d be breaking once her teenage years were upon her.

She answered, shortly, It’s seven o’clock. This is when I always get done.

Dad gasped and peered down at his wrist, though there wasn’t a watch there to look back at him. "Already? Man, time sure does fly when you’re having fun. He rubbed my shoulder softly, then asked Zo, How was training, butterfly?"

Fine.

Ever since the night of the cemetery, when Zoey came to the rescue and revealed a newfound level of her abilities, her training had been the focus of the household. During the week she went to classes and private tutoring with Circle teachers, and on the weekends, she and Matilda were together from morning to evening. She practiced, learned, and became more acquainted with magic—how to use it, how not to use it, and how to be mindful of her own boundaries. Everyone around her was of the same mind: as the prophesized savior of the dream world, and as a kid with a unique power, her training was of utmost importance.

She stood there in denim shorts and a black T-shirt, her eyes straying over the bedroom behind us, taking in all the changes. A strange look came over her face, one so subtle it was indecipherable.

I could’ve helped, she said.

No, no, no, butterfly. Sweetly, Dad moved toward her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Your training is far more important than what color my walls are. Smiling, he leaned in to kiss her forehead, and I watched her face flush with redness from her chin to her hairline. She smiled.

Okay. Maybe we can do something together when Alex and Kacper go out tonight.

Dad ruffled her curls. I’d love that.

By the way, I said, feeling my stomach rumble, did Matilda mention anything about dinner? I’m gonna starve to death.

Zoey didn’t look at me as she answered, Matilda’s got an appointment with some guy having dreams about lobsters, so she put Kacper in charge of dinner.

My eyes widened and my stomach rumbled ominously. Oh gosh. I better go check on him—make sure he isn’t accidentally poisoning us.

And with that I hurried out of the room, leaving my sister and father to themselves.

Down the hall I went—and when I reached the stairwell, I instantly picked up a strong whiff of a familiar scent: sesame oil and chocolate. I felt confused, but relieved that the smell wasn’t a noxious one. That, at least, was promising.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, noting with curiosity the absence of noise coming from the kitchen. When Matilda prepared dinner, it sounded like a tornado was storming through the room, making foods pop and sizzle and rumble, and dishes and silverware clink.

But even when I stood directly against the kitchen door, I could hear nothing. I peeked inside, and sure enough—I couldn’t even see anything. The room was empty. No sign of Kacper. Still, the smell persisted, and it seemed to be wafting in the air to my left, where the dining room was, so I followed it and stumbled into the room next door—

Just in time to see Kacper standing at the table with his hand hovering over it and his eyes squeezed shut. A breath later, the air beneath his hand shimmered, and a plate appeared out of nowhere, a platter of mini burger sliders.

I gasped. "You little cheater! I should’ve known when Zoey said you were making dinner that it didn’t involve any actual cooking."

My tone was halfway playful, but when Kacper lifted his head, his face was bright red and guiltier than a kid caught with the cookie jar.

He bit his lip, holding back a grin, then said, Look. Just because thought-magically prepared food doesn’t have all the nutrients of actual food doesn’t mean it’s not just as satisfying.

Crossing my arms, I teased, "Well, what if I want some nutrients?"

Strictly speaking, our bodies don’t actually need them.

He shrugged, but I scoffed.

"What about my dad? You forget we have a human in the house."

Kacper looked indifferent. Oh, yeah. Him.

With a mock-exasperated sigh, I trained my gaze away from him and onto the table. The sliders weren’t the only thing laid out there. There was a heaping bowl of fried rice, and a dish bearing a mountain of warm brownies. But that wasn’t all—glasses of pink lemonade and a tray of fat, California-style burritos and vats of coffee ice cream were spread out too. And after picking out each dish, I realized the constant theme of it all.

All my favorite foods, I said, my voice shocked. "Why did you make—no, wait, why did you think—all my favorite foods? Do you have some bad news for me or something?"

I stared at the side of his pale face, dreading the answer.

Kacper and I hadn’t seen much of each other during these past months. I mean, sure, we were together every night from midnight till dawn when we killed nightmares together with the other members of our crew. But that was work, and he was there as our supervisor, so there wasn’t much time for leisurely conversation.

And during the day, he was busy with his own stuff: earning money through his piano lessons, and hanging out with the other older, certified members of the Circle.

So this was the first time I was seeing him—truly seeing him, without our surroundings being pitch black or misty green—in weeks. Like Zoey, his hair had gotten longer. Now instead of brushing his earlobes like before, it reached his shoulders, hanging there like thick black curtains.

He claimed he was absent so much as a tactic to get me focused, so that I could learn more without any distractions, and fortify myself for the looming threat of the prophecy. But I didn’t see how not sitting with me at lunch or hurrying the other way every time I passed him in the halls could help me prepare for facing Nicholas again.

Sometimes, I got the feeling he just wanted to be rid of me. We were, after all, two years apart—and, in a way, two worlds apart. He was a certified Oneiros, separate from the academy. He had his own set of friends and responsibilities. He was eighteen, an adult. I was still a schoolgirl. Maybe he was annoyed with me. Maybe he felt I was holding him back. Maybe he regretted becoming my Keeper.

He turned to me suddenly, and I shut those thoughts down as if worried he might hear them.

Well… There went that sheepish grin again. Technically, yes. But there’s good news, too!

I rolled my eyes. Oh, great. Which are you gonna give me first?

He looked uncomfortable, facing the table so I wasn’t looking at him directly. Which would you like first?

A groan spilled from my lips. Ugh, I don’t know. The good, I guess.

Kacper offered a broad smile and held his arms out, as if to hug me or present me with an amazing award. Then he declared, Congratulations—you’ve been promoted!

More perplexed than impressed, I asked, Promoted to what exactly?

Now he was the one to roll his eyes. He sighed and shoved a hand in his back pocket. There was a crinkly sound, like of paper or plastic—and then he drew out a wrinkly note and handed it to me.

Mr. Ellis gave this to me during our meeting today, he said as I turned the sheet of paper over in my hands, looking at it critically. He asked me to give it to you.

With my eyebrows arched, I said, You had a meeting with Mr. Ellis? What about?

Uh…I’m getting to that.

He was uncomfortable again. Not sure what to think of it, I pushed it out of my mind and instead put all my focus onto the paper.

It was a letter. At the top was an emblem—a black and white version of the Somnus. My eyes roamed over the half moon and the stars surrounding it, then they landed on the little bit of text beneath it. The New Britain Circle.

And a few spaces underneath that was the greeting: To Ms. Aleksandra Rokosz.

I felt my eyebrows draw together in a frown. Bewildered, I read the two paragraphs printed on the white page. They were brief, and to the point. But that didn’t make them any less baffling.

Apparently, Mr. Ellis had promoted me to head of year eleven.

This isn’t real, is it? I questioned, turning my wide eyes onto Kacper. I mean, I thought the Drew twins were head of year.

"They were, Kacper corrected. But they’ve just gotten their certification, so they’re not part of the academy anymore."

Stunned, I returned my gaze to the letter, and reread the last paragraph several times, trying to get the message to sink in.

For your admirable courage, selflessness,

and loyalty to the Circle and its members,

displayed in most recent events,

we commend you, Ms. Rokosz,

and ask that you would take on the honorable role

of being head of year eleven at the academy.

Admirable courage? I said, my tone drenched in disbelief. You all are the ones who killed Nicholas’s hybrids.

Kacper rolled his eyes dramatically. "You have got to stop with the whole modesty thing. It’s annoying."

I snorted. This is just weird to me.

Only you would think getting promoted to head of year is weird.

No, I mean, I’m happy about it, I said, folding up the letter and cramming it into the front pocket of my jeans.

At least, I thought I was happy about it. It was hard to tell, what with the extreme confusion and everything. I still couldn’t grasp why Mr. Ellis would want me heading the whole eleventh year. I wasn’t even a natural-born Oneiros. My dad was, in the eyes of most of the dream world, a criminal. All I really had going for me was the prophecy, but even that was more about Zoey than me.

"What does head of year even do?" I asked, wondering how I would handle an extra responsibility on top of my already hectic schedule.

Kacper shrugged and wiggled his fingers above the table once more, filling one of the few remaining empty spots with a pot of my favorite French onion soup. I don’t know, he muttered. Mr. Ellis says you’ll have to meet with him tomorrow to talk about it.

I frowned at the coils of steam rolling off the cheesy golden-brown surface of the soup, then asked, Alright. What about the bad?

Huh?

The bad news, Kacper.

Oh, that. He sniffed, fiddled with the hem of his T-shirt, then strode down the length of the dining room table, busying himself with straightening plates and glasses. And, in that frantic, preoccupied state, he mumbled absently, as if it was of no importance, Well, I’ve been promoted too.

Despite the casual tone in his voice, and his claim that this was the bad news, I took this as a very exciting event, and a bright smile spread across my face.

That’s great, Kacper! What have you been promoted to?

He paused on the other side of the table, standing just behind Matilda’s usual chair. He lifted his head, and when our eyes met, I glimpsed a feverish glow in his that made something in my stomach lurch.

There’s this thing called the Guild, he said, resting his arms on the back of the chair in front of him. Well, its proper term is The Inspired and Altruistic Guild of Extraordinary Dream Catching Elites. My parents were its founding members.

Feeling a keen sense of intrigue, especially since I had an inkling of where this was going, I asked, What does this guild do?

He stared at me boldly now, his eyes glittering, his lips quivering with hints of a grin. Oh, it’s great, he said. The members—there’re about five or six of them—travel all over searching for the most vivid, most beautiful, most enchanting human dreams in the world. And they catch them, and bottle them.

Dreams can be bottled? I asked, pulling out my usual chair and plopping down in it, as if I were sitting at a campfire and Kacper was telling me a riveting tale.

He copied my movement, taking Matilda’s seat and resting his elbows on the table. Leaning forward—the tips of his hair nearly grazing the fried rice in the process—he said, Almost anything can be bottled, Alex.

I blinked, finding myself yet again astonished by everything I didn’t know about the world around me.

Eager to know more, I asked, And what do they do with all the bottled dreams?

"We—I mean, they—donate them. They travel to all sorts of places where people have it rough: towns suffering from extreme poverty, third-world countries, prisons, hospitals. And they visit people when they’re asleep and they destroy their nightmares and then give them the bottled dream."

I smiled at him, starry-eyed, amazed at the beauty of this idea. But then, a second later, I was frowning as something occurred to me.

What about the people who dream these amazing dreams? Isn’t it cruel to steal their dreams away?

Kacper’s jewel-like gaze held onto mine, firm and unyielding. "The humans they collect from are special. They’re daydreamers and lucid dreamers and artists and children. They’re different from regular dreamers in that they have an overactive, undying imagination—they’re constantly creating new dreams, new fantasies. When one dream is taken, their brains automatically start forming another one. And in turn, their dreams are given to those who have no imagination, no hope, those who need sweet dreams more than others.

And the awesome thing about it is that when dreams are bottled, they become endless. They can be replayed over and over as many times as the dreamer wishes. And they’re strikingly vivid—so vivid that they become like virtual reality games that can transport someone into the world of that dream, and it feels like they’re really there, like they’re experiencing everything for themselves. It’s the purest and most effective form of medicine—it neither harms nor alters the human body, yet it provides pleasure and healing in the most magical way.

As he described it all, a tingly feeling rushed through me. It was one of the most amazing things I’d learned yet about the dream world. And to think, Kacper’s parents had been part of the founding of this concept—no wonder he was so proud of it.

Kacper, that’s incredible, I said. And Mr. Ellis…he’s asked you to join the Guild?

He breathed in and out, deeply, as if trying to contain his joy. Yes, he said, finally showing me a peek of his smile.

Wow. I sat back and shook my head, watching him with awe. I knew Kacper was good, at being a nightmare-fighting warrior, at being loyal, at being a faithful friend. But if he was being chosen for such an elite group, he was even more amazing than