I’m used to the Circle. A place where everyone is too polite, too formal, too uptight. Personal space has always been part of the structure of communal society for dryads. Though I know why, I don’t understand it. It seems a sterile way of living.
But home brings me back to this strange place. I can’t really tell where I am or how far the academy is.
This could be a way station, maybe? Arcadia could be smaller than I thought. It was called the land of eternity, a place of famed beauty, soft lights and wonder, where pixies and magical creatures exist in peace and harmony. But the residents here look like… war victims.
We pass a person in a long black robe who stands at the platform, motionless, his eyes unseeing.
A hoodie wearer ambles by, his one functioning leg dragging behind him, and my heart bleeds for him. But I straighten and let him go by. Compassion and pity are two very different things. A person needs to feel independent and capable to gain any sense of worth. Even if they only have one leg, it doesn’t mean they’re helpless. Although aiding him would make me feel better, I’m not going to crush his determination and value because his gait seems awkward and uncomfortable.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I say and speed up to walk side-by-side with Harlow, who is doing his best to ignore me. I peek at him to see if I’m speaking to Jekyll or Hyde.
Harlow doesn’t look at me, but he frowns. “What were you expecting?”
“Um… I think more green.”
“Uhhh… it’s hard to grow things with little sun.” He waves a hand at the sky. “Green things grow if there’s lots of daylight.” I’m beginning to wonder if the claimed “soft lights” meant no sunlight? But everything in the brochure seemed bright and beautiful. Not this dreary overcast.
The train station is filled with people. Not one of them is an elf, sprite, pixie, shifter, or druid. What I see are goblins, trolls, orcs, and people I can’t identify, but they aren’t fae. Some of them look like walking corpses. If I have to go by smell alone, I’d say I’m in a mortuary.
We walk past the other travelers and into a wooden building. A huge mat sprawls the double doors, saying, Welcome to Dread.
I stop in my tracks. “What is that?” I point to the mat.
Harlow looks down, then up at me in incredulity. “It’s a door mat, love.”
I look up. “It says Welcome to Dread.”
“Well, yeah,” he answers in a “duh” tone. “The vampires need a welcome mat or they’d be asking for permission to enter the building all day long.”
“Va—Vampires?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, too busy brooding inwardly to notice my incredulity, my confusion, my anxiety or my fear.
“But we’re going to Arcadia, right?” I start looking around. The people with skin issues start to make much more sense now. Dread… Dread is the shadow realm. It’s the place… it’s the place everyone talks about in hushed whispers.
“Arcadia?” Harlow focuses on me, frowning.
Horror wars with confusion in his eyes. Then his mouth settles into a grim line. His hands fist, and a mask of cold determination slips over his face. “Riven,” he growls. “Now I know why he set me up for this task. Fucking bastard.”
“Riven?” I ask, shaking my head.
Harlow looks around, assessing the people around us. “Everly.” His attention comes back to me. “I’ve been ordered to take you to the count. You can simply follow my orders and come with me of your own free will…”
“Or?” That doesn’t sound good. In fact, it sounds pretty ominous. Tasked to take me to the count? What count?
“Or…” He takes in a deep breath and the look he gives me causes my panties to get even wetter than they already are. “I can force you to come with me. And by force, I mean I’ll have to touch you. And if I touch you again, I’m going to be balls deep inside you until you’re comatose. Then, I’ll deliver your drugged-up shell to the count anyway.”
“Don’t be crass,” I shoot back. But I have no idea what he’s talking about. I mean, I get the sex stuff. But Riven? The count? Dread?
“I’m not being crass. I’m being honest.”
My anxiety shoots through the roof and I start to shake. “But… Arcadia… the Academy of Enchantment…”
“Isn’t here.”
“Where is here?”
“Dread.”
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say with a shake of my head. “There’s been a mistake.”
I toss my eyes this way and that. I need to get back on the train. I’ve gotten off at the wrong station.
All at once, strange eyes focus on me. One of the limpers starts heading my way. Now that the opening of its hood points at me, I can see it. Jaundiced eyes roll in too-large sockets. A maniacal grin exposes yellow and rotten teeth. Another whips it head around almost comically as it struggles to right itself. There’s a hole in the middle of its face where its nose should be.
Zombies.
My unease climbs, and more people start displaying disturbing attention toward me. They have the distinct hungry gleam of a predator closing in on a lone doe. I’m like the only ripe apple of the season hanging from a high branch, tantalizing all the starving animals to claw, bite, shove, kick or do whatever they can on their way to me.
One guy, whose snow-white skin emphasizes his blood
