And in the end, that’s what gets me through. The memory of him is what al ows me to close my eyes for a while and drift off into some other place, some better place. A place where it’s just him and me and none of our troubles exist.
I have no idea how long I slept—al I know is that the second I open my eyes and swipe my hand across my face, I see the landscape has morphed. The trail is stil impossibly narrow, there’s stil a huge, gaping chasm on either side, but the season has changed—it’s no longer winter, which means I’m no longer forced to huddle against a pounding cold blizzard.
Instead, I’m caught in a downpour, a relentless spring rain that turns the ground to mud and shows no sign of stopping.
I struggle to my feet, quickly slipping my arms out of the sleeves as I haul my jacket up over my head and tie those same sleeves under my chin in an attempt to keep from getting any more drenched than I already am. Tackling the trail one careful step at a time, having given up on inspiring thoughts, reminisces, or anything else, and reserving my focus for staying upright, staying steady, and not toppling over the side. And when the rain turns to a blazing hot sun that leaves the ground dry and cracked, I don’t bat an eye—and when that same sun is cooled by a warm, sultry breeze I know that summer has now turned to fal .
The cycle of seasons repeating itself until it no longer fazes me, until I form a routine. Bundling up and hibernating through winter, dodging the downpour of spring, peeling off my T-shirt ’til I’m down to my tank top when summer comes, then donning it again when summer turns to fal . Through it al , I just keep on keeping on, doing my best to ration my food and water supply, doing my best not to panic, and nearly succeeding with the latter until something happens that shocks me to the core.
Something I’ve never seen in these parts before.
Not even in the deepest depths of the Shadowland.
It grows dark.
Okay, maybe not pitch-black dark, but stil dark. Or at the very least, dim.
Like the beginning of nightfal , or the gloaming as it’s cal ed.
That eerie, gloomy moment when everything becomes a silhouette of itself.
That eerie, gloomy moment when it’s hard to distinguish individual objects from the shadows they cast.
I stop, my foot slipping, sending a flurry of rocks over the side, knowing that could’ve been me. My heart hammering furiously as I gather myself, gather my limbs, give myself a quick once-over, and ensure I’m okay.
“I don’t like this,” I say, my voice breaking the silence until it echoes al around me. Having now official y joined the ranks of al the other crazy people who talk to themselves. “Between the dark and that fog up ahead…” I frown, seeing the way the trail abruptly halts into a thick cloud of murky white mist that rises up from seemingly out of nowhere. Giving no indication of what might lie just beyond, and certainly providing no sign of the tree, no hint that I’m even on the right path. “This doesn’t look good,” I add, my voice so ominous it worsens my unease.
I glance al around, wondering what to do now. Observing the way the fog seems to grow and expand and slither straight toward me, pulsing in a way that makes it seem vital, alive. The sight of it making me wonder if I should maybe backtrack a bit, find a place where it’s clear and hang out ’til it lifts. But then I hesitate for so long the next thing I know it’s too late.
The mist is already here. Already upon me.
Having crept up so fast I’m swal owed in an instant. Lost in a swirl of white, drizzly haze as my fingers reach, grasp, and claw frantical y, trying to get my bearings, to clear even a smal bit out of my way.
But it’s no use. I’m drowning in a sea of white vapor that presses down al around. Stifling a scream when I lift my hands before me and realize I can’t even see my own fingers.
No longer sure which way is forward, which way is back, I reach for my flashlight and set it on low, but it doesn’t help. Doesn’t make a dent in this fog. And I’m veering dangerously close to succumbing to a raging, ful -blown, meltdown panic attack, when I hear him.
A distant voice that drifts toward me, creeping up from behind. The sound of it prompting me to cry out, to shout his name as loud as I can. My tone thready, high-pitched, letting him know that I’m here, that I won’t move, that I’l wait until he finds me.
Heaving a huge sob of relief when I feel the grab of his fingers, his hand on my sleeve, gripping tightly, pul ing me to him.
I huddle deep into the curve of his arms, bury my face in his chest, and press my forehead tightly to his neck, only to discover too late that it’s not Damen who holds me.
twenty-nine
“Ever.”
His cheek presses into my hair as his lips seek my ear, and though the voice is certainly male, it’s not one I recognize.
The mist continues to gather—rendering it impossible for me to determine just who the voice belongs to. His body pressing, conforming against mine, as I squinch my eyes shut, try to peer inside his head, but get nowhere fast. Whoever this is, he’s learned to put up one heck of a shield against such attacks.
I pul back, struggle to break free, but it’s no use. He’s unfeasibly strong and continues to cling like a drowning man intent on dragging me along.
“Careful,” he says, his face shifting, al owing for a gust of cold breath to blast al the way down the length of my neck, as the push of his fingers radiates through my clothes.
Cold breath.
Colder fingers.