Myths and Gargoyles by Jamie Hawke (interesting books to read in english txt) 📕

The last thing I processed was her lying down next to me, draping an arm over my chest, and mumbling something about how it had been so long and how she craved the comfort of a man.

Before I could respond, even smile at the thought, sleep took me.

78

I’ve always been impressed by how real some dreams can feel, and that night’s dream felt as real as could be. At first there was darkness, with me aware that I was asleep but not dreaming, exactly. Then light surged around me and my eyes adjusted until I was able to see that I stood next to a pile of hay, a barn not far off, and the sun was setting. Muddy slop under my feet pulled at my shoes as I attempted to take my first step, working my way toward a small, makeshift fence.

Something grunted behind me and I turned to see a large pig staring me down. At first, I thought nothing of this. It was a dream. A pig in a dream wasn’t normal for me, but not a big deal, either.

Another step, and then more grunting came, sloshing, and I realized the pig was charging for me. My legs couldn’t move fast enough, and in a matter of seconds—as my first foot lifted to go for the fence—the pig slammed into my stable leg, knocking it out from under me. I landed in the mud with a sucking sound, tasting it in my mouth like shit and grass and rotten oranges. Then the pig was there again, coming right at me.

Scrambling to get out of the way, one thought hit me as hard as a kick from Ebrill in the nuts—this wasn’t a fucking dream.

No dream I’d ever had felt so real. Tasting the shit in the mud? Feeling the ache in the back of my leg where that Mr. Bacon had rammed into me? This wasn’t right. I managed to reach the fence, kick back, and catch the pig on the snout with enough momentum to push myself over.

This time I landed with a thud on mud-splattered dirt and grass, where I lay staring up at the orange-speckled sky for a few moments. Wake the fuck up, I told myself over and over, that voice in the back of my head arguing each time that it wasn’t a dream. But it had to be one, because how the hell else could this make sense?

A voice sounded. A figure blocked out the sky and then there was another. Both were speaking in a harsh tongue I didn’t understand. One knelt down, sniffed me, touched my shirt, and shouted something.

Starting to freak out, I closed my eyes, again willing myself to wake up, or at least understand what the hell was going on.

Suddenly, their words made sense—not like they were speaking English, but like I could tell what they were saying even without really understanding. My powers, like with Ebrill, I imagined… although my powers had never worked in a dream.

“… men aren’t fucking witches!” the first man said, who I could now see was older, with a gray mustache and peppered, long hair.

“Do you not see his clothes? His… his everything! A fucking witch, I tell you!”

It only hit me then that, maybe, just maybe, this was the same way I had been communicating with Ebrill. Now that I thought about it and had something to reference it against, her voice had this similar sensation to it, as if my mind were converting her language, and mine to hers.

If that was true, I could respond to these guys.

“I’m not a witch,” I said, interrupting the second one’s argument about burning me.

Both turned to me, eyes narrowing. Now even the older one nodded as he said, “Damn, you’re right. A fucking witch.”

“No, I—”

A thud hit me, and I was out. I would have thought that would be it, that the pain would end the nightmare. Nope. Instead I faded in and out, groggily processing being dragged across the ground, tied up in the barn, and left there while the men went off to fetch someone.

As annoying as the rope was on my wrist, this at least gave me time to think. By this point, I had accepted that it wasn’t a dream. Maybe someone was using magic to get into my head? I wouldn’t put it past Steph and whoever she was working with, not after the way she had betrayed me. So, this was clearly some ruse to get me to give up information, or maybe my body was sleep-walking through it, opening the door to invite the demons in again.

Whatever it was, I needed to keep my wits about me. Play it smart.

All of that thinking went out the window, though, when I noticed a small head and beady little eyes watching me from a rafter above. It vanished in a flash of little wings, leaving me to wonder how including a fairy in this little mind-fuck helped their cause. In any other situation that might have completely thrown me, but since my body was currently being cuddled by a gargoyle and I’d been fighting witches and death knights, maybe not so much right now.

What did throw me was when a set of yellow, snake-like eyes set in a green, goblin face appeared directly in front of me, glaring. Its skin was wrinkled and leathery, teeth pointed and black, and breath like the inside of a dead rat’s intestines.

“This one?” the goblin asked, close enough to lick my cheek, but thank God he didn’t. “Let’s see if we can’t get it out of him.”

He was nude aside from a belt with a loincloth, but pulled out a serrated dagger from the back of his belt, holding it at my neck, letting the cold steel test my resolve.

“So, boy, which coven do you belong to?”

I stared back, not showing any weakness, resolved to find a way out of this. Clearly, denying being a witch wasn’t