Free The Descent by Alma Katsu

I could see there was something peculiar about the British girls. When they were in high emotion, it seemed they could make the air crackle and pulse and practically warp around them in a way that made the hair at the back of my neck stand up. No, I didn’t think Adair’s hypothesis was incorrect, but I also couldn’t allow myself to agree with him for fear that it might be true.
    “You look exhausted,” he said, perhaps trying to change the subject so we wouldn’t be at odds any longer. “Why don’t you try to take a nap? I’ll be right here while you rest.”
    I’d been awake for more than two days straight. I was exhausted, though I was used to going without sleep for long stretches at a time; I’d often had bouts of insomnia, or perhaps it was just that in this strange immortal form, we didn’t need sleep the way mortals did. Still, I could tell I was on the brink of impairment, of falling into that surreal state where you couldn’t trust your senses and it was difficult to collect your thoughts. I did as Adair suggested, and snuggled under the arm he wrapped protectively around my shoulders.

    It came within seconds of falling asleep, as though the dream had been hiding in the closet or floating along the ceiling, waiting for me to close my eyes in order to pounce. I had nosooner closed my eyes than I was dragged down, down, down into pitch blackness, quickly drawn along the now familiar stone passageway against my will.
    I would’ve dug my heels in if I could, but it was impossible to resist, as though the dream had me by the arm and was pulling me forcibly to my destination. My head was clouded with the usual feelings of fear and dread, but beyond this I sensed something else was with me in the passage. There was a malevolent presence hovering over and around me, a spirit or spirits hurrying down the passage with me, excitedly feasting on my fear.
    In a flash, I was at the hated door and it swung open at the slightest touch. I stepped inside and followed the same wandering torchlight from my earlier dreams. The room had been strangely reconfigured, furnished like a boudoir even though the walls were still made of the same filthy stone blocks and the floor was still packed dirt, loosely strewn with straw. Directly in front of me stood a handsome mahogany bed, one befitting a king’s bedchamber. Luxurious red-and-gold curtains hung from the four posters, the curtains drawn back to reveal gleaming white sheets betraying not a speck of dirt from the filthy surroundings. The sheets were rumpled: obviously, someone had recently been sleeping there. A voluptuous chaise longue upholstered in red velvet sat at the foot of the bed, and off to the side was a folding screen, three large panels covered with silk painted with a river scene. Items of clothing had been thrown haphazardly atop the screen, as though someone had undressed hastily. All the pieces were men’s clothes from the period of my youth: breeches, an embroidered turquoise waistcoat and navy frock coat, a long white stock tie still pleatedwith wrinkles from when it had been wound around someone’s neck. No, not “someone’s” neck; I knew whose clothes these were. These clothes belonged to Jonathan.
    I knew for certain, in that strange way of dreams, that Jonathan had been in this room not long ago. He had been in this bed, and he had been forced to undress. But where was he now? Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, a ripple of black disappearing behind the edge of the door. Jonathan; again, I knew with certainty that he was being taken somewhere. I knew this just the same as I knew I had to catch up to him, or lose him forever.
    I hurried after them, Jonathan and his captor. I was led into a part of the passage I’d never been before, never having gone beyond the door in my previous dreams. The passage seemed to get narrower and narrower, until I could barely squeeze between the walls, and it twisted and turned so that I