Page 49 of Bride of Mist
She focused on his throat, at the pulse that throbbed there. Her target.
Her hand tightened on theduandaoas she counted the slow pulses. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Then they began to increase in speed. His throat bobbed. His face twitched. His eyes fluttered. His brow creased.
He must be dreaming.
She bit her lip, shifting her grip on the dagger. Should she wait until he stopped? Wasn’t it bad luck to slay a person in the middle of a dream?
As the blade hovered inches from his throat, his mouth fell open, and he began to gasp. Shallow, uneven breaths of frantic fright.
She raised the dagger, torn between wanting to put a stop to the dreadful sounds and fearing she might be the stuff of his nightmares.
Grunts of alarm caught in his throat. All at once, his chest heaved upward as he struggled against the bonds of the dream.
Panicking, she slammed her left hand flat on his chest. Pressed him down. Braced herself to make the cut across his neck.
Then he uttered a sound in the empty quiet. A sound that racked his chest. A sound that shook her to her core. A single, anguished sob that came from the depths of his soul.
Her heart plummeted.
Pity weakened her will.
Her grip faltered on the dagger.
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t kill him. Not now. Not while he suffered in the grips of whatever nightmarish beast had him in its clutches.
She began to wonder if she could kill him at all.
Silently cursing her inconvenient compassion and her disappointing lack of conviction, she jostled his chest, trying to wake him from his torment.
“Wake up,” she whispered. “Wake up, damn you. ’Tis only a bad dream.”
Trapped in his delusion, he writhed under her hand.
She raised her voice. “Come on, mac Darragh. Wake up.”
Still he wrestled with invisible demons.
Finally she clapped at his cheek to rouse him. “Wake! Up!”
When his eyes blinked open, they were still glazed and unseeing, as if he languished in the land of dreams.
“You’re fine. You’re safe,” she told him. “’Twas only a nightmare.”
He turned his head then to look at her. The mist vanished from his eyes. But the horror lingered.
“Nay,” he breathed. “’Twasn’t. ’Twasn’t a nightmare. ’Twas real.” His brow crumpled in torment, and his voice was hoarse. “’Twas real.”
Then he spied the dagger in her hand. “How did ye…” He didn’t finish the question. He made no move to counter her or defend himself. He didn’t raise the sword. He didn’t throw her off his body. In fact, his chest caved beneath her hand in defeat.
Then he uttered one raw whisper that chilled her heart. “Do it.”
She gulped.
“Go on,” he insisted. “Do it.” The agony in his voice sliced across her spirit like a knife.
She felt an appalling lump in her own throat. Damn it! What was happening?
