Page 8 of Demon of Dreams

Was I being paranoid, or was there a reason to worry? How did he know I wasn’t a serial killer? Or maybe he didn’t care, becausehewas a serial killer.

I took a tremulous breath. Even if he was a killer, I felt better in his car than outside with those monsters or demons or whatever the hell they were.

“Thank you,” I said, once my breath began to slow down. “Seriously, thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. They were going to kill me.”

At least, I was pretty sure that was whatfireballs-launched-at-your-headmeant these days.

Finally, the driver spoke. “Who?”

“Who?” I gaped. “Those three…guys…behind me? All in black? Some kind of armor, or cloaks, or…”

I trailed off. The driver was looking like he was beginning to regret picking me up. I decided it might be time to shut my mouth. Maybe the monsters had been farther behind me than I realized, or the ravens had made them too hard to see.

“Well, thanks,” I said, then lapsed into silence.

The driver shrugged and turned on the radio. Staticky country filled the car.

He didn’t speak again for about fifteen minutes, when he asked, “Where are you headed?”

I bit my lip. “I’m not sure. Where are you going?”

“Mason City.”

I nodded. “Guess that’s where I’m headed, too.”

About half an hour later, the driver—we still hadn’t exchanged names—pulled off at a highway rest stop.

“Been driving all day,” he said. “Up from New Mexico. Happy to keep taking you to Mason City, but I need a nap.”

“Sure,” I said faintly. “That’s fine.”

Maybe this was some kind of serial killer trap, but I was more worried about the creatures I’d left behind. Was I far enough away from them? Where had they even come from? And who—or what—werethey?

I couldn’t say any of that out loud, but maybe I could use the break to think of a plan. Or at the very least, a next step. The driver leaned his seat back, tipped his ball cap over his face, and was snoring within a minute. It didn’t seem feigned.

My mind reviewed the night’s events. Had that all really happened, or had I imagined it? Was that why the driver didn’t see anything? Was I actually going crazy?

The thing was, I didn’t think I was. And if I wasn’t… If I wasn’t, that meant that what had happened tonight was real. The monsters. The ravens.

And the dream?

Vesperwood.

What did that mean? The demon in the dream had said it, and then the raven too. I’d never heard the word before. I pulled out my phone and typed the word into a search engine.

Nothing came up.

Or, well, nothing normal. No website. No famous law firm, or movie title, or politician, or small town in Vermont. The only results I got were a few weird posts from blogs that seemed to have gone defunct ten years ago.

Memento Vesperwood, one said.

Vesperwood. Mori et iterum vivere, said another.

A third post was just a mood-board of pictures. Woods and lakes and vintage-looking memorabilia. One of the pictures was of a coffee mug that saidSomebody in Wisconsin Loves Mein faded blue letters. The tags on the post said#MagicaeEtFabulaand#VesperwoodAcademy.

Considering I didn’t speak Latin, none of that was much help.

What was I doing? Mason City didn’t make any sense as a destination. I didn’t know anybody there. With Neil in New York, the closest person I had was Franny in Des Moines, and now I was headed in the opposite direction.

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