Crown of Nightmares (The Venatrix Chronicles Book 7) by Sylvia Mercedes

Author:Sylvia Mercedes [Mercedes, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: FireWyrm Books
Published: 2020-07-19T16:00:00+00:00

Terryn fled across the plains of his mind, wading through the tall grasses. The last time he was here, the grass was green and lush, full of vibrant new life. Now it was dry, dead. Waiting for a single spark to set it all ablaze.

Darkness rolled in above him like a thunderhead. But this was no lightning storm brewing. This was oblivis, pure oblivis shot straight to his soul. It would tear him apart.

He knew what to do. Panting hard, he drove himself harder, forcing his legs to take longer and longer strides as he leapt through the dead rustling grass. Nisirdi. Nisirdi had successfully burned out the oblivis he’d breathed earlier that day, when the Phantomwitch tried to leave him in the Haunts. Surely his shade could manage the feat again. He just had to find his light-dragon.

The ground beneath his feet groaned, shifted. Began to tear. The landscape broke in hairline cracks which grew, widening by the second. Darkness seemed to pour up from the deeps like a flood of shadows sweeping over the plains.

Terryn skidded to a stop as a crack opened right in front of him. He cursed, turned, and bolted another way. But the ground broke again, and he was only just nimble enough to leap, flying across the empty drop. He hit the far side, legs dangling, arms scrambling, and managed to pull his body up. He got to his feet, drew breath, and took three steps.

The ground gave way beneath him, and he fell.

Down, down, down into darkness deep and suffocating.

“Nisirdi!” he cried. But no answer came.

He landed hard. Had he been in his mortal body, he would have broken every bone. As it was, his mind struggled to comprehend that he wasn’t broken, that this body was a mere projection and therefore not limited to mortal failings. He lay for some while with pain shooting through every limb and bursting in his brain. But eventually the pain subsided and there was only darkness.

Then . . . light. Faint white light, far away but clear.

Terryn gathered his arms beneath him, pushed up onto his hands and knees, and managed to get to his feet. He seemed to be in a tunnel. A vague impression of rock surrounded him and arched over his head. There was nothing down here except that distant glow, and he started toward it. It must be Nisirdi. It must be. And if he could find his light-dragon, surely he could still be saved.

“Terryn! Terryn!”

He stopped. That was Gerard’s voice calling from just behind him, a little to his right. The urge to turn, to look, was nearly overwhelming.

But no. He mustn’t turn. He knew what this was—a lure to keep him from achieving his goal. Gerard was not here, not really. This was his own mind suffering under poison. He could not help Gerard; he could not help anyone unless he could get free.

Steeling his will, Terryn continued. Gerard called after him, his voice strained and sad. “Terryn! Terryn, help me!”

Each step away from that voice was an agony.

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