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The memory comes before the face does: the distorted cadence, the horrible certainty of it, the way those words once echoed against stone while I sat trapped behind rusted bars. My lungs seize as a figure steps out of the shadows beside the bed, and the black-and-bronze mask catches the faintest sliver of moonlight. The horns curve upward over his head.

The empty eyeholes stare directly into mine.

“It’s just you and me.”

The scream tears out of me before I can stop it.

The bedroom door flies open so hard it strikes the wall, flooding the room with yellow light. Slade charges through with his gun already drawn, his expression changing the instant he sees me pressed against the headboard.

“What happened? What's wrong?”

I point toward the other side of the room, but there is nothing there.

Nothing but the dark mahogany furniture. No Beast. No mask. No horns. Just the chair beside the window and the heavy curtains hanging perfectly still.

I drag in a breath that trembles all the way through me. “It must have been a dream.”

Slade doesn't lower his weapon.

He crosses the room, checking every corner before moving into the bathroom. He opens the closet, checks behind the door, then crouches to look beneath the bed. The sheer practicality of his movements slowly begins to pull me back into myself, even as the last remnants of fear cling stubbornly to my skin.

“Really,” I insist when he straightens. My heartbeat has begun to return to normal, although I can still feel it pounding. “It was just my overactive imagination.”

His eyes remain on me for another long moment before he finally holsters his weapon. “I'll be right outside if you need anything.”

Before he closes the door, I ask, “Where's Timothy?”

“He ran out for a while.” Slade gives me a tight, sympathetic smile. “He should be back soon.”

The answer should reassure me, but it doesn't. I slide back beneath the blankets and as I’m closing my eyes my fingers rub up against something hard under my pillow. I make out the warm handle and leather sheath. I tell myself that the thing I saw was nothing more than the final echo of a memory I spent hours dragging into the light. My body slowly loosens, my breathing evens out, and the room begins to dissolve around me. I am almost asleep when my eyes snap open again.

Something is wrong.

I don't know if it’s the lingering feeling from my dream, or what, but I sit up slowly and call out, “Slade?”

When he doesn’t answer, that weird paranoia creeps back up my spine.

I throw the blankets aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet sink into the soft carpet as I cross the room, every step feeling unnaturally loud in the silence. With the knife in my hand, I reach the door and ease it open, expecting to see Slade standing in his usual position outside, but the hallway is empty.

My stomach drops.

“Slade?” I step into the hall. “You out here?”

Then I see his shoes. They're sticking out from around the corner. For one stupid second, relief floods me. He's there. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe something happened. Maybe—I round the corner and see him crumpled against the wall.

“Slade!”

I drop beside him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him toward me. His head rolls loosely against the wall. His eyes are closed. He's unconscious. My fingers fly to his throat, steadying them until I find a pulse.

Thank God.

I suck in a shaky breath and glance toward the hallway behind me.

That is when I see her.

At the far end of the corridor, standing perfectly still beneath a dim wall sconce, is a figure dressed in dark robes. The mask catches the light. Black metal with a bronze sheen. And above it, those massive ridged horns curve toward the ceiling.

I close my eyes and pinch the skin on my forearm between two fingers. Wake up, Arianette. Wake up!