Forbidden Visions: The Dream World Chronicles, #5

By Chynna Pace

Alex is sure the key to saving her loved ones—and the dream world—is the sleep thorn.

But in order to get it back, she must earn her enemy's trust. In hopes of stealing the elusive sleep thorn, Alex moves into Morpheus's lair, where she discovers all the horrific secrets behind the missing dream world hunters. She schemes to trick Morpheus into giving her the thorn, but when he realizes her plan, Alex is forced to run for her life. With the help of her friends, and an unlikely ally, she might just be able to escape danger long enough to come up with a new plan. But the stakes are higher than ever. If she fails, it may just mean the end of the dream world. Forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chynna Pace
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215282847

Book preview

Prologue

The dining room smelled of fear and crackled with whispers.

Kacper and Stefan were poring in side-by-side silence over the pages of the Book of Dreams. Boy and man, each something different yet equally vital to the girl they were tracking. They bent their heads over the Somnus Record, which lay open before them on the dining table. They fixed their stares on Alex Rokosz’s location, and did not remove them until their eyes stung with dryness. And even then, they refused to look away, for the location kept changing as she traveled, and they wanted to know every facet of her route in case something went wrong.

The whispers surrounded them, heightening their fear like the foreboding sound of a skipping record. At opposite ends of the table, Cherry whispered with Azure, and the Sandman whispered with his sister, Mira. Too tense to sit, Matilda stood by the door as if secretly wishing Alex would walk through it and declare this all a bad, stupid joke. With her was the tall, warm-toned Mr. Ellis, soothing in his height and fatherly aura. He usually always had a smile on his face, but right then, as he exchanged lowly hissed words with Matilda, he looked grimmer than a herald of death.

Stefan moved suddenly, an abrupt, forward jerk of his head as he leaned in for a closer look. She’s stopped moving.

For the longest time, deep, soul-sucking worry had gripped Kacper. In its clutches, he’d lost all focus. His eyes had glazed over, seeing nothing in the book but blurry yellowed paper as his thoughts turned in circles and his inner conscience berated him for letting Alex go.

But at her father’s declaration, he shook the melancholy away at once. His eyes sharpened again, narrowing on the page.

Meanwhile, the other four heads around the table lifted in unison, all of them startled out of their conversations by the prospect of a revelation. Only Matilda and Mr. Ellis remained unaffected by Stefan’s announcement; they continued to whisper, the shadows on their faces ever darkening.

Where is she? The Sandman prodded.

Blond bushy eyebrows knitted together on Stefan’s smooth forehead. Somewhere called Emporium. It’s in Pennsylvania. There’s nothing exact, though. A minute ago it said she was on Route 46—now…nothing.

"Wait a second. Did you just say Emporium?"

One messy, golden head raised. Next to it, an even messier, obsidian-black head lifted in the same second. Kacper and Stefan trained their eyes on Azure Katz, whose vivid green eyes shone with a different emotion than the bewilderment she’d been displaying for the past hour.

Yes, answered Stefan curtly. Why?

"Because I know Emporium, that’s why. The girl’s white-blond hair rustled on her shoulders as she rose from her chair and pattered around the table with quick steps. She hovered over the Book of Dreams, eyeing the location it listed, and continued, I live in St. Marys. It’s barely twenty miles from Emporium. In fact, we even go there sometimes—when Dad starts craving the hoagies from Luigi’s. She paused to straighten up and cast her eyes over all the dream world members in the room, the people with magic, the people who would know a lot more about this than she did. And, hesitantly, she asked, Why would the bad guys’ lair be so close to my house? That can’t be a coincidence…can it? I mean—out of all the places in the world…"

In the silence that followed, Azure watched everyone’s faces in hopes of receiving a reassuring answer. She waited for them to prove her suspicions wrong, to say that it, in fact, was just a coincidence. That the eerie chill cruising down her spine wasn’t to be trusted.

But when Mira Blackwater, the pretty woman with the long silvery hair spoke up, the question that danced off her lips took Azure by surprise.

Azure, honey, she said, about your mother…did she ever prophesy?

The answer seemed so obvious that Azure blinked her eyes slowly, as if struggling to see the trick question hiding behind the old woman’s eyes.

Of course she did. All the time. That was her business—everyone used to make fun of me for being the ‘crazy fortuneteller’s daughter’.

She owned a fortunetelling business? asked the Sandman, prodding for more details.

Azure’s hand, moving instinctively and of its own accord, rested on the lump beneath her shirt. Though the cloth of her T-shirt separated her from direct contact with the necklace, the habit of it soothed her.

She dropped her hand and said, Yes. All my life.

Were any of her prophecies about you?

This startling question came from Kacper. The odd-looking boy with the giant, bulging eyes and swollen lips that looked like they’d been punched. As Azure looked at him, she tried to decide if he was just ugly or a bizarre, supermodel brand of good-looking. Finally settling on a midpoint slightly closer to the former, she answered, No. Why would they be? They were for the customers.

"But did you ever hear these prophecies?"

Azure feared she would get whiplash as her attention was once again yanked in the Sandman’s direction. "No. She used the guest room in our house—it was kind of hidden from the rest of the house, out of hearing range. I wasn’t allowed in there when she had people over. I wasn’t even allowed in there when she didn’t. I think she wanted to make sure I couldn’t get my hands on the book."

What book?

Azure’s eyes flitted to the redheaded girl who’d spoken. Cherry’s devil-may-care attitude and almost lazy manner made her the only one who didn’t intimidate Azure. But in that moment she was just as somber as the rest of them.

With coils of anxiety writhing in her gut, Azure turned her eyes away from the girl’s piercing gold ones, instead focusing on the tapestries on the wall before her. It was her record book, she explained, taking in the gruesome depictions of nightmares being hunted. She would write down all the details about every single customer. Their name, how long they were there, what prophecy she gave them.

Why do you think she didn’t want you to have it, dear?

Suddenly feeling wobbly on her feet, Azure pulled out the chair nearest her and sank into it. She addressed her very distant grandmother in a tired, drained voice. I was destructive as a kid. Always drawing on the walls, breaking things on accident, spilling stuff. She probably just didn’t want me to rip the pages out or something, I don’t know. Look, can we please stop talking about Mom? It’s not —her voice gave an embarrassing crack— it’s not something I’m comfortable with.

As her eyes misted over, she hung her head, the table before her going in and out of focus.

A brief pause. And then Miss Blackwater said, softly, Of course, sweetheart. It’s just…this book. It might be important. Do you still have it?

Azure shrugged. I think so. I have a box of Mom’s stuff in my closet. It might be in there.

Excellent. If you do manage to find it, please let us know, honey.

Relieved that the topic had changed to specific ways she could take action to help Alex, instead of her dead mother, Azure finally raised her head again. She confessed, I’ll only be in St. Marys for a week though. School’s letting out for break, and I plan on telling Dad I want to spend the summer with Aunt Elaine. I can bring you guys the book when I come back here.

Even better. The silver-haired woman passed the younger girl a warm smile. Then the whole table descended into silence once more.

It was then that disaster struck.

It came in the form of a brisk knock on Matilda’s door and, when the door was opened, an angry blond man.

He was Darcie Painter’s father, but most importantly, he was a man of the Council. Normally, he oozed the unshakable self-assurance of a politician. Right then, he looked an unpleasant combination of drained and furious. Drained from losing his daughter, and being forced to air out such loss in front of everyone in the dream world both on television and in person. Furious because Gregory Ellis, the man who was in charge of the Circle and the security of its inhabitants, had let this happen—and then possessed the audacity to get up in the midst of it all and leave.

Naturally, Mr. Painter had followed him.

His boiling ire had increased a hundredfold when his wild goose chase had led him to Matilda Rokosz’s doorstep. He couldn’t stand the sight of the building that had once housed his former best friend, the one who’d betrayed the dream world with his criminal life of human mingling and Insomnias. He hated it even more because Mr. Ellis was there.

Why had the man promised to stay with him during this trying time, and then left a second later—to Matilda’s house? What here could possibly be more important than what he was facing?

These were the burning questions he intended to get answers for as he banged his fist on the front door.

Instantly, as if they all were puppets whose strings had been tugged by the unknown visitor, each of them lifted their heads. Even Matilda and Mr. Ellis were prompted, for the first time, to suspend their whispers.

A silence that seemed to last an eternity filled the room with a tense energy. The lull tightened as everyone waited with bated breath—then abruptly snapped with the next vigorous knock. The sound seemed to fill the entire house. And this time, it was followed by a harsh voice.

Don’t hide from me, Gregory! I know you’re in there!

In the dining room, all eyes fell on the man in question. Gregory Ellis paled; his chest rose and fell as he shifted his body toward the voice.

I should’ve known he would follow me…

Who? The question burst from Matilda and Kacper at the same time.

The door flew open, magically unlocked by the desperate imagination of Mr. Painter. Pale blue fog clung to his fingertips as he strode in, the fading aftermath of the command his thoughts had spelled out. Tall and daunting, even in grief, he stood, a slowly cracking pillar in the foyer. Then, feeling the force of eight pairs of eyes on him, he turned.

And Stefan Rokosz was the first thing he saw.

Just as a friend stands out in a crowd, one’s enemies are just as easily spotted.

Time stood dangerously still for a moment, the men exchanging hard stares that exuded a dozen different emotions. Regret was there in its minutest form, but anger and betrayal were the strongest.

Then, dropping the word like it was the bitterest venom, Stefan said, Tom.

Mr. Painter uttered, with even more animosity, Stefan.

Both their eyes shifted, unable to handle the sight of each other’s faces.

To the ornate rug blanketing the scuffed hardwood floor, the intruder murmured, with the sort of light-footed deviousness that made one imagine hungry panthers slinking in the shadows, Thought you were on the run. Hiding from your crimes.

Stefan’s gut boiled as over a decade of anger that had quietly smoldered under the surface was suddenly unearthed. Before he could stop himself, he spat, I wasn’t under the impression loving my wife and children was a crime. By that standard, I suppose your wife and daughter could be considered crimes, too.

Matilda’s eyes flew across the room to her son, her black pupils wide like a frightened animal. Stefan had gone too far, but he realized it too late.

At once, something in Mr. Painter snapped and he tried to lunge at Stefan, but ended up pouncing into the shielding chest of Mr. Ellis instead. Shouts and snarls filled the air, most of them from the offended man, his round face bulging and red, his teeth bared.

Mr. Ellis held the man back with a grip tighter than iron, but he could only restrain his body—nothing could be done for his mouth.

"DON’T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT MY DAUGHTER!" he bellowed.

Stefan stood, opened his mouth, readied a cold-hearted comeback on the tip of his tongue. But Thomas Painter’s eyes stopped him. When he saw the tears, his stomach clenched, and he was forced to sit back down, lips pursed tight. He would never forgive Tom for what he did to him and his family. But the man had also just lost his daughter to the schemes of Morpheus, a fate Stefan wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mr. Painter, please. Always gentle no matter the situation, Mr. Ellis pleaded with the Councilman in soft, coaxing tones. Now is not the time for violence, alright? This is a critical situation, and it requires utmost calm. Now tell me—what are you doing here? Why have you followed me?

Gradually, his cajoling began to take effect. The color in the blond man’s face weakened from furious, blistering red to the pale shade of bubblegum that had been chewed to the point of losing its flavor.

His body slowed, then stilled.

Mr. Ellis was finally able to release him and take a step back.

Yet although his roaring rage had waned, dwindling in force, it still lingered. But now when he spoke, it manifested in his voice and words instead of his physical urges. Like a dog whose bark he would use to the fullest after having his bite stifled.

"You left, Mr. Painter snapped, at the most crucial moment of my entire life, when you promised not to. And I want to know why. The dream world is in upheaval, hundreds are being kidnapped without rhyme or reason, my own daughter was taken, and the Council is expected to have all the answers! At such a time as this, what in the name of Hypnos would possess you to pay a friendly visit to your old pal Matilda?"

There was a harsh grating sound as one of the chairs drew back from the table.

He isn’t visiting, said the Sandman as he stood. He’s here to receive information on a situation that may, in the grand scheme of things, be of greater importance than your problems, Mr. Painter.

Sanford! his sister chastised.

Like a rekindled fire, Mr. Painter looked livid again. But when he looked at the man who had spoken, at the blue dust covering nearly every inch of his body from head to toe, he turned ashen. Sandman?

The Sandman confirmed it with a single nod.

And Thomas Painter sunk, defeated, against the wall behind him. The powerful aura he had spent decades constructing to perfection began to crumble at his feet.

What on earth is going on? he whispered. The question didn’t just demand an explanation for the Sandman’s and Mr. Ellis’s presence, but for everything. The kidnapping of his daughter. The disappearing Somnus records. The horrors that were plaguing the dream world with every passing second.

Mr. Ellis glanced at Matilda, then at Stefan, and finally at Kacper. Silently, he questioned each of them, using thought-magic to appeal to their minds instead of their ears. Alex’s grandmother and father, despite their worried looks, gave resigned nods. But her Keeper turned fierce; crimson color bleeding through his cheeks, he shook his head. Whatever the director had suggested, it was clear Kacper was vehemently against it.

With compassionate eyes, Mr. Ellis said, Sorry, Kacper. It’s two against one.

Then, turning to Mr. Painter, he began to explain everything. Well, not quite everything—not all the intricate details that made up the whole story. Only the main points: the prophecy, the war the dream world was about to face, the half-Mora named Nicholas’s sinister schemes to destroy all Oneiroi, and Alex’s plan to stop him.

He didn’t reveal that the half-nightmare also had an accomplice, and that the accomplice was a son of Hypnos. He also didn’t reveal that the half-nightmare was Stefan’s secret son, born of a mistake he made in his teens.

But that didn’t stop Mr. Painter from immediately pouncing on Stefan, throwing all the blame on him.

You see! he exclaimed, wagging his finger at his former friend. "This is all your fault! None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you breaking the law!"

In an instant, his posture was straightened, his threatening aura reinstated. He shed the weary skin of a man who’s just lost his daughter and put on the ruthless, callous skin of a leader reassuming all charge and authority.

There were shouts of protest in Stefan’s defense, but Mr. Painter’s booming voice rose above them all.

"Your daughter is the reason for all this chaos! And would she be here right now if you hadn’t fraternized with humans, disgracing yourself and the Rokosz name forever? I don’t think so! The world would not be in ruins, and my Darcie would not be rotting away in some madman’s clutches!"

A sound like a feral growl came from Kacper’s throat. The next second he was out of his chair and wrestling against the grip Stefan had immediately latched onto his wrist.

For your information, Kacper roared, the prophecy was made years before Alex was even born. This time in history was always meant to happen—you should just be glad you have a guaranteed savior!

Mr. Painter looked at the wild-eyed teenager with a mixture of disgust and shock. Kacper Novak! Don’t tell me they’ve brainwashed you as well? Please, boy. Your parents were wonderful members of Oneiroi society. Don’t let these traitors infect you with their ridiculous worldviews.

Kacper’s mouth stretched wide as a scornful laugh ripped from his throat. "Oh, yes! Absolutely! My parents were wonderful members of the dream world. Because they weren’t prejudiced and cruel like you!"

Kacper, please, Matilda urged quietly.

Yes! Mr. Painter barked, clenching his fists. Keep your boy in check! I refuse to be shouted at by a mere youth. He sniffed and tugged at his tie. It is unfortunate that you all should have such skewed opinions on right and wrong. Especially you, Sandman, and Miss Blackwater. You are both such legendary figures, rooted in dream world history…

Legendary figures who, by the way, were born from a human mother and Oneiros father! Kacper pointed out ragingly.

Mr. Painter ignored him. "But alas, you are all just insignificant common folk who, thank Hypnos, are not in charge of the fate of our society. But as a member of the Council, I am. And since no one else is being sensible right now—letting a dangerous halfling twit try to defeat the greatest threat our world has ever seen—I suppose that responsibility falls on me. It is my duty to do whatever I feel is best in order to ensure the dream world’s safety."

With this, the room fell silent, as if the words spoken held an enchantment that stole all the sound from everyone’s throats.

But Mr. Ellis, with a lift of his eyebrows and a gruff tone that betrayed his usual softness, broke the spell. What do you mean, Tom? What are you going to do?

What should have been done twenty years ago.

He lifted his hand, and out from his palm floated twin hoops of blue. They might have been innocent smoke rings, but Matilda knew what they were and who they were meant for. With a desperate fling of her tiny body, she threw herself in front of her son. But Mr. Painter, whose eyes held an unsettling glint now, merely flicked his hand and sent her flying toward the opposite end of the room. Kacper jumped up and rushed to her aid, frantically dreaming up a cushion against the wall that stopped Matilda’s crash from being too painful.

And all the while, the blue rings, wrist-sized, crept toward Stefan, who sat frozen in disbelief. Liquid sorrow filled his eyes as he gazed upon his old friend. As the circles closed around his wrists, no longer wisps of smoke, but hard, impenetrable handcuffs, he whispered, You’ll hate me till the end, won’t you?

Coldly, Mr. Painter confirmed, I hate all lawbreakers.

He strode forward, reaching out to pull his captive to his feet. But Mr. Ellis leapt into his path, intercepting him.

You have no right! he shouted.

This only made Mr. Painter curl his lip in a sinister smirk. Don’t I though? With the same disregard he’d shown Matilda, he pushed the director aside and faced Stefan directly. To him, and to everyone else in the room, he declared loudly, Stefan Rokosz, you are under arrest for marrying a human, fathering half-human children, and forsaking your Oneiros nature through the heinous act of the Insomnia. As the head of the Insomnia & Other Crimes division of the Council, I reserve the right to incarcerate you now. Come with me.

Nothing could be done. Everyone who started forward in protest, who yelled out words of indignation or tightened their thoughts with defensive images, was thrust out of the way by the merciless magic of Thomas Painter. He refused to let up until their throats had been silenced and their advances stopped by invisible barriers.

Stefan rose on his own, refusing to be yanked by the vicious thoughts of the cruel man before him. He followed him out of the dining room, hard-faced, his wrists locked shamefully at his front. And as he was led from the house into the dark night, he didn’t think about how despicable Mr. Painter was. He didn’t think about the journey that lay before him or the prison cell that waited for him at the Council. He didn’t even think about the way everything was about to change.

His mind was filled with only two words. He screamed them, meditated on them, cried them out like a prayer to no one.

Alex. Zoey.

And with his daughters’ faces as the centermost images in his mind, he followed his former best friend to his doom.

Chapter 1

When I came back into the house, after stabbing my friends into eternal sleep and receiving the clap and kiss of welcome from my brother and his leader, making my induction into their gang official, the first thing Morpheus said to me was so normal, so unusually benign, it felt like receiving a dose of sugarcoated poison.

Want me to give you a tour of the place?

We stood in the narrow hall, where there were no doors, only a long stretch of floor and walls with sconces on them. I was beginning to hate those sconces. The green blazes within them did eerie things to the air, to Morpheus’s face, to my own insides. I never knew fire could be so cold, but the chill they forced on me was enough to set my teeth chattering.

Why don’t you have any normal fires? I asked. I feel like I’m in an igloo.

Morpheus snickered. "Oh, yeah. I forgot you’re still affected by the cold. Don’t worry—once you perform the Insomnia and take on Morae powers, that’ll go away. You’ll find you can’t handle not having the chill."

I froze, literally and figuratively. What?

What do you mean, what? Morpheus snorted. Obviously, you can’t serve the Nightmare Dominion with dream world powers inside you. Then, misinterpreting the horror I couldn’t wipe from my face, he added, Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. Of course, I’ve never felt it myself, but the others…well, Ivy described the slow burn of searing her Somnus off as…what was the word she used…cathartic? Therapeutic? One of those. In the meantime, put this on.

While I struggled to force my face back into its carefully constructed mask of indifference, telling myself that it wasn’t set in stone, that I could find a way to get out of destroying my Oneiros powers forever, Morpheus conjured up a coat made of sleek black fur. It smelled rotten but sweet, like decayed fruit. I held my breath to keep from gagging when he draped it around my shoulders.

Better?

Oh, yes. Much better, thanks.

Great. Now—how about that tour? He stretched his hand out, indicating the corridor ahead of us. As we started walking again, he explained, Our humble abode can seem pretty mazelike to one who doesn’t know where everything is. I wouldn’t want our precious new member getting lost, now would I?

His voice was playful, but with a dark undertone that made me wonder what would happen if I did get lost in this place—where I would end up and whether or not I’d ever be able to get myself out. I thought of the upper levels, the hall I’d seen in my dream with its oozing walls and doors hiding strange noises, and prayed those wouldn’t be part of the tour.

First, we went back to the main hall of the lair. I wasn’t sure where Nick and Ivy had gone, or if they were even still in the vicinity. The air was so quiet, making every clack of our shoes on the stone floors sound like a thunderclap. I looked down, caught my reflection in the gleaming black surface of the obsidian, and quickly smoothed my brow and stopped clenching my jaw.

The kitchen, Morpheus announced, veering to the left.

Of course, it was a room I had already been in, the room my sister’s friend Kit had led us through when he helped us sneak out. But as my companion led me forth, I looked at the dingy, cobweb-laden room as if I’d never seen it before.

Is there any actual food in here? I asked, lifting an eyebrow at the fridge, sealed shut with layers of grime, and the pile of dust-blanketed dishes in the sink that looked like they’d been sitting there since the eighteen hundreds.

Morpheus just looked at me out of the corner of his eye and chuckled lowly. Savoring an inside joke.

I was glad when we left that room, and the eerie insinuations his laughter left inside it.

Next, I was shown a casual room with couches, the long, nearly empty room I’d lost my sister in, and the room with thrones—the one Morpheus called their home theater, where he and Nick enjoyed watching the nightmares of their victims like films.

The best ones are those Ivy comes up with, he explained as we lingered in the doorway for a moment. She’s very creative when it comes to inventing new levels of fear. Oliver is good too. You can’t have a weak stomach when you watch his, though. His play out like a gory horror movie. But the nightmares Jax comes up with are just odd. You know the Oompa-Loompas in that book by Roald Dahl? Jax is the bizarre type to create a nightmare in which those things are chasing after you with axes. I wonder what your nightmare style will be like…

The idea of me having a nightmare style disturbed me to the core, so when we went back into the hall, I made an effort to change the subject.

How many floors is this place anyway? I peered up at the ceiling as I asked this, my eyes getting lost in the endless network of halls and stairs above me.

Morpheus shrugged. "I don’t know, really. We have a million rooms, a million nightmares. It goes on forever. Even I’m not sure of its vastness."

He gazed up with me for a moment, as entranced by the ever rising labyrinth as I was.

Then, breaking free of his stupor, he looked at me once more. Speaking of rooms! How about I show you all of our private lairs now?

* * *

I was nervous about going upstairs, the grimy scene of my memory not easily erased. But the second floor was surprisingly pleasant—well, as pleasant as a place with black walls, black floors, and green-flamed torches can be anyway. Essentially just an extension of the space downstairs, the corridors were sleek and presentable, free of mysterious ooze or suspicious noises. But the cold and the fear—those were constant.

This is where you’ll find all the elite members of the Dominion—the main nightmares in chief. Morpheus smirked as we turned off the landing and onto a hallway lined with more black doors. Nick and I…Ivy, Oliver, and Jax…and now you.

Wonderful, I said, again channeling that wicked girl inside me that would keep me alive during all this.

Morpheus stopped in front of the first door on the left. After he gave the wood a brisk knock, a low voice floated out from within.

Come in.

Then before he could open it, the door swung inward by itself. Or by the powers of the boy inside.

We saw him when the door opened all the way, allowing us a full view of the room and the guy within it. He was the tall somber one, the one who barely spoke. Unlike Jax and Ivy, this guy was so…forgettable. With hair and eyes a common shade of dark brown, set into a pale, nondescript face, he reminded me of a stick figure. A generic Joe you’d pass on the streets or in the grocery store and then never remember again.

His room seemed to reflect his plainness. It possessed about as much zest as a hospital room. No bed, just a beige, stiff-looking sofa. A colorless rug on the floor. One window, one long black curtain. Nothing else.

The smile on Morpheus’s face held a twinge of pride. Oliver’s been with me—us, I mean—the longest. Since he was a short, mousy little thing. Beat up on the playground left and right. Like a knobby-kneed punching bag.

I eyed Oliver nervously. This seemed like the kind of back story he wouldn’t want Morpheus revealing so casually. But he just slouched on the sofa and watched us, his face duller than ever.

I wondered at his age. Though his face was youthful, he seemed older than the other minions. Maybe nineteen or twenty. If Morpheus got him to join him when he was still young enough to play on playgrounds, that would mean he’d spent half his life with the dream world traitor. Was that why he was so plain? Had his rocky start in life, and spending his childhood in pure darkness, kept him from developing any of the color and vibrancy that made Ivy and Jax’s personalities so unforgettable?

It seemed sad.

But then I remembered how Morpheus had described Oliver’s penchant for gory nightmare scenes and shivered. Dull or not, he was evil. Just like the rest of them.

Next, we visited Jax. Walking into his room was like stepping into a virtual arcade. Everything was flashing neon colors and wild 4D simulations, booming sound effects and a heady scent of popcorn and sugary soda. In the midst of it all, Jax leapt and whirled here and there, shouting indistinct things at the holographic leprechauns in front of him, waving a glittery magic wand and spewing sparks from it that brought down the simulated creatures like bowling pins. He barely noticed us at first, until Morpheus clapped his hands and the video game scenery was replaced with a regular room. Not much different from Oliver’s, except for a few added elements of personality: electric green paint on the walls, a plush chair suspended from the ceiling in the shape of a game controller.

Jax, please, Morpheus scolded pleasantly. We have a guest.

Sorry. With a goofy chuckle, the skinny teenager sauntered forward. He nodded at me, sending a lock of gray hair flopping onto his forehead. So it’s true then. You’re joining us?

Yep. It’s true. I stared at him in wonder, noting his feverish vigor. How are you not winded after using all that magic? I mean, the power it would take to turn your entire bedroom into a video game…

To my surprise, Jax and Morpheus looked at each other and burst out laughing. The gray-haired boy was practically wheezing with amusement. I frowned, wondering what I had said to make them laugh so hard.

Morpheus’s chuckles slowed. As they faded from the air, he told me, "Silly Alex. Nightmare magic is different from Oneiros magic. We’re not restricted in our abilities as they are. Powers from the Dominion are boundless—we can use as much as we want, never suffering from fatigue, never having to stuff our mouths with sugar to replenish resources. Unless we want to, of course."

"And I always want to." Jax giggled, and suddenly he was holding a giant cupcake.

And when I say giant, I mean giant. The thing was bigger than his head, so big he had to hold it with both hands.

Want some? He proffered the massive sweet, which was so massive and glossy-perfect it looked like it belonged on someone’s lawn along with candy canes and other Christmas decorations.

Um—

But Morpheus answered for me before I could finish.

Of course she doesn’t, you dumb boy. He laughed, then turned to step back into the hall. Come on, Alex. There’s still a lot left to see.

Jax shrugged and closed his bedroom door. A second later, there was a loud SQUISH sound, as if Jax had just slammed the fluffy frosted top of the cupcake into his face.

Sorry about that, Morpheus said, his hooded eyes fixed intensely on me. "But you really don’t want that cupcake. And not just because it’s disgustingly huge. Any food created by nightmare magic will literally burn you to the ground unless you’ve taken on the powers yourself. But with that Somnus still on your arm, one nibble of that thing and you would’ve been dead at our feet."

A ribbon of ice snaked down my spine. Shuddering at the thought, I muttered, It’s good to know you don’t want me dead then.

Of course I don’t want you dead, Alex. A forbidden smile appeared on his lips. It was a beautiful smile. Too beautiful. In the same way water of an extremely hot temperature can actually begin to feel cold, Morpheus’s smile was so mesmerizing it began to seem poisonous.

But maybe it was just me. Maybe I was still on edge from learning I’d just nearly died.

Realizing what that meant, I added, But…Jax wants me dead?

Surely the jovial silver-haired kid knew what eating that cupcake would do to me. And yet, he’d offered it so amiably.

Morpheus didn’t answer my question directly. Instead he said, vaguely, Jax may seem happy and innocent, but you must remember—there’s a reason he fits so well here—with the shadows.

On that disturbing note, the tour continued. Next on the itinerary was Ivy’s room, which filled me with palpable unease before the door even opened.

My dread was not disappointed, though the eeriness