[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]
There was only silence after the thunder, silence and the sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, and all three sounded far too loud. There was something to that silence, something that sent a frisson of fear skittering down his spine. His fingers fisted in the sheets for a moment as he sucked in one breath, then another.
Something felt wrong.
“I curse you, Brighíd. I curse you down through the generations. I will have my vengeance. You wait and see.”
“No,” he murmured. It’s just a fever-dream. That’s all. That’s all it is—all it can be.
It didn’t feel like a fever-dream, though. It felt like something real, something his soul had fought long and hard to forget, as if forgetting would make it less potent, would wash it away.
“Shit,” he whispered to no one. “Shit, shit.”
You have to. No one else can. No one else knows.
It wasn’t true, of course. Marin and Matt would know, perhaps even Phelan, too. The question was whether or not they remembered. Since there had been no mention of it, he wasn’t sure that they did.
And if none of them remember it, then—
A curse escaped his lips and before he knew it, he was lurching out of bed, stumbling and crashing to a knee alongside it. The room spun slowly around him; he felt light-headed, his heart beating fast, too fast. A chill sunk into his bones even as he forced himself to his feet, shuffling toward the dresser.
I have to get out there. I have to find her. Damn it all. He felt clumsy, uncoordinated. Waves of hot and cold crashed over him, arrhythmic and disorienting. He fumbled for clothes, for clean pants and a shirt. A pair of his sandals waited by the door—boots would be impossible.
It felt like it took too long to dress. The thunder was close and he could hear the wind now.
As he stumbled out the door, Thom prayed he wouldn’t be too late.