JUNE 7, DEAD OF NIGHT
I’m losing Skye.
She lay beside me in the dark, my arm curved around her waist. Her last nightmare had just faded; her trembling finally stopped.
But she wasn’t asleep.
Not by a long shot.
Lately she barely slept at all. She was a walking ghost. Pale, eyes rimmed in gray, drifting through the day, a shadow of herself.
It made me furious, because I was so damn helpless.
Skye relaxed, then to my relief, she finally drifted off. She’d barely slept five minutes before she tensed.
“No!” she rasped, her entire body rigid, her fists balled tight around the sheet.
“Skye,” I whispered. “It’s just a dream.”
I caught the wisp of a giggle. A cruel cackle, cloaked in the dark. But it wasn’t Skye laughing, and nothing about the night was funny.
It was a remnant of Nil.
You let us go, I thought. Fury ripped through my veins. It’s over.
You left, came the thought, cold and amused. But I never let you go.
Fifteen minutes later Skye’s nightmare roared back.
Wake, dream, scream, repeat.
When the day broke, I shook off the dark. It was time to get Skye help, now. And I knew exactly who to call.
I slipped onto the balcony and rang Skye’s dad.
He answered in seconds. “Rives?” Concern rippled through his voice. “Is everything all right?”
“I need your help.” I paused. “Something’s wrong with Skye, and it has to do with Nil.”