Page 32 of Realm of Dreams & Shadows

Slowly, he shakes his head. “Cora, calm down. Think about what you’re saying. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, hello? Maybe you’ve dreamt about me—and I’m flattered. But in your dreams? What does that even mean?”

I grimace, because of course he’s right. He’s only in my dreams because my mind puts him there. That’s how dreams work, after all.

Or that’s how they’re supposed to work.

But that wasn’t a real dream. It was the kind of dream that killed my mother…and Chase was there too. Just like Adric was.

I’m right. I know I’m right. The dreams are real. He was there.

And, yeah, it sounds crazy, but I know it’s true.

More, I’m certain that he knows it too.

What I don’t understand is why he’s so determined to make me believe I’m tripping.

“Chase—”

He holds up a hand, something flickering across his face as he cuts me off. Confusion? Recognition?

I just don’t know.

A moment passes, and he sighs. “Give it a rest, Cora. I’m just a guy who helped you once. Don’t build me up in your mind as some sort of superhero.”

“No,” I whisper. I have to be right. Because if I’m not, then maybe I’m losing my mind.

He stares at me for a long, tense moment. I hold my breath, willing him to break, to tell me something, anything, that will help me make sense of what’s happening.

Instead, he gathers up the herbs he’s cut. “I have to go.”

“Of course, you do.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

He flinches as if I’ve struck him, and for a brief moment, his carefully constructed walls seem to crack. Then they snap back, and when he speaks, his voice is as tight as his expression. “I wish I could help you. I really do.” He reaches out, his fingertips brushing my cheek.

“Please,” he says. “Please stay away from Whitehall House.” And then he slides past me, his shoulder barely grazing mine as he heads for the gate.

I shiver, the brief contact having sent a jolt through me, just like the last time we touched. An intense, sizzling awareness, like static electricity, only deeper.

I frown. That’s just not normal.

He pauses at the gate, his eyes meeting mine. “Trust me,” he whispers.

“Chase!” I call out, but I’m too late. He’s already gone.

I stare at the empty space where he stood, frustration and confusion warring within me. He knows something. So why the hell won’t he tell me?

But despite racking my brain for answers, I don’t have a clue.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of mundane tasks—restocking shelves, ringing up customers, making the occasional latte. Mr. Griffin doesn’t mention Chase’s appearance in the garden, and I don’t bring it up. But I catch him watching me sometimes, his expression thoughtful.

By the time Mr. Griffin walks me through the lock-up procedure at eight, my mind is spinning with questions. Chase’s cryptic comments. Mr. Griffin’s knowing looks. The mysterious text warning me about Whitehall House.

They’re all connected. Too bad for me I don’t know how.

The walk back to campus is brief but eerie. The Spanish colonial architecture casts looming silhouettes against the night sky. Gas lamps flicker along the main thoroughfare, their light too weak to fully illuminate the space between buildings.

I quicken my pace, unable to shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Twice, I stop and turn around, certain I’ll catch someone following me, but the street behind me remains empty.

Just paranoia, I tell myself. The aftereffect of too little sleep and too much stress.