Chapter 43

We dropped the black canvas bag into the shallow water at the edge of the lake, neither Honey or I speaking but our rough breaths broadcasting panic and terror. The second the bag's weight tore the handles from our hands, I felt the dead weight of Nightmare's command lift from me and I sank to my knees in the mud.

Honey knelt beside me, shaking so violently that her teeth chattered when she wrapped her arms around me. "How do we stop her?"

"I don't know," I choked out, trying to speak past the tightness in my chest. Nightmare's magic left a residue, like oil covering my hands, taunting my soul.

I gagged, wanting to scour every trace of her off me.

Now I could move and breathe and think for myself again, I began to tremble. Why had it been so hard to pull a bag of hay? I knew hay was heavier than I might realise, but it wouldn't have been backbreaking for two people to drag a bag full of it.

"Cat?" Honey whispered when I pulled away from her and reached for the bag. In the shallow water, it had caught on a rock protruding from the lake and it had stuck only a few feet from the bank. I waded a step into the water, so icy and numb I didn't feel the cold water fill my shoes or soak my jeans. I had to know. I didn't want to, but I had to.

"Cat," Honey said, almost a warning, a plea. She didn't want to know, but I couldn't live with never knowing what we'd carried across the woods.

So I pulled down the zip—and staggered back onto the muddy bank, a shudder wracking me from head to toe.

It wasn't hay. It was a person—pale and cold and empty-eyed.

"Who is that?" Honey whispered, grabbing my arm so tightly it hurt.

I couldn't look away. My stomach cramped.

"It's Dean Fairchild."