Julienne Blackthorne hung suspended in an endless void. Ensnared by the insidious webs of a dark, lingering nightmare, phantasmagoric images paraded constantly through her mind. Creating a twisted dreamscape, they stifled all reality, ushering her into a hellish world in which she comprehended she would ultimately die. The prolonged struggle to break free had drained her spirit and strength.

A slew of images ravaged her feverish brain as she mentally relived an actual terrifying experience. Through a veil of kaleidoscopic memories, she observed a glowing red pit. A being she believed to be Satan himself walked leisurely around it. He was a looming figure clothed head-to-foot in crimson robes. He seemed to be coming for her, his hands bearing down into her vision. His fingers, twisted into a claw, latched into her forehead with a viselike grip, digging sharp fingernails into her skin. A thousand splintering facets of agony spread through her as he ripped asunder the soft flesh of her face. Her blood flowed in rivulets, mingling with the sweat of her fear, stinging her eyes. She struggled to breathe, gasping as coppery slime assaulted her lips and she tasted her own blood. Fighting for air, she gagged when a crushing weight pounded into her chest. Like a giant spider’s victim paralyzed by the bite, she felt she’d been pierced and seeded with a strange alien life form, a thing that would eat her up from the inside.

Suddenly, her nightmare shattered.

But the pain remained.

* * *

The fire in the pit had burned out, and the dungeon was very cold and still. Cracking open swollen eyes, Julienne weakly shifted her head, trying to make out her surroundings. Torches cast eerie shadows, and the dungeon lay deserted beneath their hazed light. The thick sooty smoke they exuded hung like vapor around the stone walls and floor.

The atmosphere of the immense chamber was flat, tranquil and quiet, as though separated from all reality. The lingering scent of burnt flesh and congealed blood mingled, creating an odor that made it difficult to breathe. The nauseating stench singed the fragile lining of her nostrils; she began to pant heavily through her open mouth. Her guts heaved and she swallowed hard, resisting the urge to vomit.

She gagged, feeling a strange writhing sensation between her lungs. A thin film of sweat coated her skin. She was chilled despite the fever raging through her. And though she’d been badly wounded, there was a curious numbness in her body, as if she were anesthetized.

A grimace crossed her face; the movement of the muscles hurt. Without her willing them, her hands rose. She felt the wounds, tracing each with her fingers. She winced when her touch brought pain.

Her face was savagely disfigured, marked with raw cuts. All at once the memories resurrected themselves, chilling the blood in her veins. Details of the night she’d crossed into Sclyd solidified. Morgan…the temple of light…being captured by the Jansi warriors…being tortured…

In a spasm of terror, she wrenched her head to one side, begging the visions in her mind to go away, to leave her alone. There were so many, she wasn’t sure if they were real or part of a strange fantasy. But one memory was stark, for it accompanied an unspeakable agony.

A mad giggle escaped her throat. No other voices chimed in to comfort her. Silence all around.

She moved her mouth, but for a moment no human sound came forth.

“My face!” she keened in a hoarse whisper. She refused to cry. This place would extract no tears from her. Her body hurt; and when she remembered why, her ache went deeper, past the physical and into her soul. She didn’t want to remember or think. She wanted to close her eyes and forget this place, sink into the oblivion that was death so she wouldn’t hurt anymore.

Sclyd. I’ve come into another world now.

She stared dizzily about, the hopeless futility of her plight stabbing at her heart. Half-mad with the realization her horrible nightmare was no dream, her mind teetered on the brink between sanity and insanity, acceptance and denial warring inside her.

“Morgan,” she moaned softly, his name a sob on her lips. Her indistinct voice echoed in the vastness around her, repeated a thousand times over, as if the broken silence took glee in mocking her. Fear was beginning to loosen her hold on reason.

Still too weak to rise, she turned her head in the only other direction her neck would allow. Now holding only ashes, the great stone pit of her nightmares had gone cold hours ago. Instruments of torture stood silent, mute testimony to the many victims who had found their deaths in this unholy place. The sorcerer and his minions were gone.

How long have I been unconscious? She had no way of knowing.

The battle was over. The casualties had been counted, the dead claimed. Had her lover survived, or had he perished? She recalled very little of how she came to be unconscious. She only knew that she seemed to have been left behind, completely and utterly abandoned. If Morgan had not died, had he left her deliberately? She hadn’t forgotten his threat that he would leave her if she became a burden. Had she become a liability—expendable, disposable— because she was only a mortal?

Surely, he didn’t…surely he wouldn’t…

Did he leave me? Her heart pounded frantically, her thoughts becoming a weird babble as the last bit of composure deserted her. Unwelcome tears stung her eyes. Morgan was crafty, and she knew it. Morgan manipulated people, and she knew that, too.

Had he manipulated her, played her for a fool? He hadn’t wanted her to cross over into his world. Had he chosen to walk away, deciding to free himself of their bond in the only way possible? The fear, the doubt, began to gnaw at her mind, pushing her deeper into the mire of madness that shimmered like a dark pool in the depths of her soul.

You wanted to deny being mated to me. Is this your way of paying me back for defying you? Leaving me here to die?

Morgan, she knew, could be obdurate, detached, irresponsible and above all, much given to contradiction, but she’d never had reason to believe he truly wished to hurt her, or that he took the slightest pleasure in doing so. Though seemingly self-absorbed, he missed little. He was introspective, but his antennae were attuned to those around him. If he had survived and departed without her it was because he had to, not because he wanted to. She had to believe that.

She didn’t regret the decision she’d made to follow him, but she knew she’d acted rashly and the consequence dismayed her. She’d trusted him to protect her. Through the deep tide of confusion, she realized he wasn’t able to. But he wasn’t completely to blame. He’d warned her of the dangers. And she’d made her choice, choosing to let her heart rule her head. She had to accept the responsibility that she’d done this to herself. Realization, however, didn’t lessen her sense of hopeless abandonment.