When I return to the inn, Willow is still asleep. I strip out of my jacket and slump down in a chair in the corner by the window, flipping the book open again and reading more about the origins of the Tether by moonlight.
As I get to the next passage, Willow startles in her sleep, moaning. I glance up and she’s still again, so I return to the page of my book.
But then I feel a cool draft whisper by, like a breeze has snuck through the window. I look over my shoulder, but the window is closed. Willow whimpers and gasps, and I snap my gaze on her again, leaning forward with my brows dipped.
She moans again and rustles about, as if fighting something. I close the book and stand, moving closer to the bed. She must be having a nightmare and I figure I should wake her, but as I lift my hand to touch her, something tight wraps around my throat. I stumble backwards as what feels like a pair of hands chokes me, squeezing as tightly as possible. I struggle for breath, my gaze shifting to the bed as Willow makes strangled noises while thrashing and moaning louder.
“Willow!” I choke out. “Willow—wake up…wake…up!” I flop onto my back as the grip grows tighter, suffocating me.
Willow sits upright in the bed, staring at me while holding her throat. Her eyes are nearly bulging out of her head, her lips turning purple, before she finally bursts a gasp and sucks in a large amount of air. After her gasp, the grip around my throat weakens, but I still feel the essence of it lingering.
“What the bloody fuck was that?” I pant, rubbing my throat.
“I—I saw it,” Willow says, breathless.
“Saw what?” I snap, sitting up.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she climbs out of the bed, and clearly her leg has healed because she rushes to the bathroom without so much as a stumble.
I push to a stand, still rubbing my throat as I follow her. She turns on the lamp built into the bathroom wall and looks at her reflection in the mirror. Tears form at the rims of her brown eyes as she rubs her throat, and as I stand behind her, I see exactly what she sees. Red marks are on her throat, the shape of fingers, as if someone grabbed her tight and refused to let go.
Then I look at my reflection, and there are markings around my throat the shape of fingers too, but they’re not like hers. They’re as black as ink. I glance at hers again, then mine. The fingers are the same size and in the same angle, like the person wrapped their hands around my neck from behind me.
Her eyes flicker up to mine in the mirror, and it only takes one name from her mouth for me to realize just how much danger we’re in.
“Mournwrath.”
