“What is this?” He looked between us, brows and nose wrinkling in alarm. “What’s happening here?”

“She told you what a cauchemar looks like.” Though Coco didn’t look at Célie—didn’t acknowledge her existence whatsoever—I suspected her admission was the only apology Célie would receive. “Don’t be an ass. Listen.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Beau inclined his head in Célie’s direction. She stood a little straighter. “My apologies, madame,” he muttered, sounding like a peevish child. “What I meant was has anyone ever fought a cauchemar? Some actual experience might be the difference between surviving this encounter intact and having our heads thrown to sea.”

“Is that your fear?” Lou tilted her own head to study him. She’d grown unusually silent since reaching the lighthouse. Unusually still. Until now, her eyes hadn’t wavered from the thick shadows at the base of the tower. “Decapitation?”

His frown matched her own. “I—well, it doesn’t seem particularly pleasant, no.”

“But do you fear it?” she pressed. “Does it haunt your dreams?”

Beau scoffed at the peculiar question, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Show me someone who doesn’t fear decapitation, and I’ll show you a liar.”

“Why?” Coco’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Lou?”

Lou’s gaze returned to the shadows. She stared at them as if trying to decipher something. As if listening to an unspoken language. “A cauchemar is a nightmare,” she explained in an offhand voice. Still distracted. “It’ll appear differently to each of us, assuming the form of our greatest fears.”

A beat of horrific silence passed as her words sank in.

Our greatest fears. An uncanny awareness skittered down my spine, as if even now, the creature watched us. Learned us. I didn’t even know my greatest fear. I’d never given it thought. Never given it voice. It seemed the cauchemar would do it for me.

“Have you—have you fought one?” Coco asked Lou. “A cauchemar?”

A sly grin crept across Lou’s face. Still she studied the shadows. “Once. A long time ago.”

“What shape did it take?” Beau demanded.

Her eyes snapped to his. “That’s very personal, Beauregard. What shape will it take for you?” When she stepped toward him, he took a hasty step back. “Not decapitation. Not drowning either.” She cocked her head and stalked closer, circling him now. She didn’t grin. Didn’t mock. “No, your fear isn’t quite so vital, is it? You fear something else. Something peripheral.” When she inhaled deeply, her eyes lighting with recognition, I seized her hand and yanked her to my side.

“This isn’t the time or place,” I said tersely. “We need to focus.”

“By all means, Chass”—she waved to the rotten door—“lead the way.”

We all stared at it. No one moved.

I peered behind us to the village, to the dozens of pinpricks of light. The sun had risen. The townspeople had gathered. They’d start their trek soon. We had half an hour—maybe a quarter more—before they ascended on us. On the unwitting monster inside.

You should stay out of it, boy. This isn’t your fight.

I squared my shoulders.

With a deep breath, I moved to open the door, but Célie—Célie—beat me to it.

Her hand seemed paler and smaller than usual against the dark wood, but she didn’t hesitate. She pushed with all her might—once, twice, three times—until the hinges finally swung open with a shriek. The sound pierced the early morning silence, frightening a pair of seagulls from the rafters. Beau cursed and jumped.

So did Lou.

With one last, deep breath, I stepped inside.

Le Cauchemar

Reid

The lower floors had no windows to let in the early morning sun, so the lighthouse’s interior remained dark. The air dank. Stale. Broken glass littered the floor, glinting in the narrow swath of light from the door. A small, frightened creature skittered across it, and the shards tinkled under its tiny paws. I looked closer.

Mirrors. Broken mirrors.

They each reflected different pieces of the circular room—rusted hooks on the walls, coiled ropes atop them, bowed beams overhead. A moldy bed sat in one corner, along with a tarnished iron pot. Remnants of the last keeper who’d lived here. I moved farther into the hodgepodge space, watching as the reflections shifted. Now Célie’s wide eye. Now Beau’s drawn mouth. Now Coco’s tense shoulders. Lou kept a hand on my lower back.

Beyond our footsteps, no other sound penetrated the silence.

Perhaps the creature had already moved on. Perhaps Father Achille had been mistaken.

The door slammed shut behind us.

Both Coco and Célie leapt into Beau with identical shrieks. He somehow missed both of them, however, startling sideways with a vicious curse. The two had no choice but to clutch each other as I stormed past, wrenching the door open once more. “We’re fine,” I said firmly. “It was the wind.”

That same wind caressed my cheeks now, bringing with it a soft bout of laughter.

Was that . . . ?

My heart nearly seized.

Looking around wildly, I pivoted in a full circle. The others imitated my movements with panicked expressions. “What is it?” Coco flicked a knife from her sleeve. “Did you hear something?”

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. “I thought I heard . . .” The Archbishop, I almost finished, but the words caught in my throat. I thought I’d heard the Archbishop. But that couldn’t be. He wasn’t here. He never laughed. I didn’t fear him.

It was La Fôret des Yeux all over again. Instead of trees, the cauchemar mocked me, twisting my thoughts into nightmares. It could’ve hidden in the shadows. Célie had described a hulking beast, but perhaps it could change shape. We knew virtually nothing about this creature or its abilities. Its appetite.

I took a steadying breath.

Cauchemars are notoriously cruel, but this creature hasn’t yet attacked.

Cruel or no, it hadn’t harmed anyone. That laugh—it was a figment of my imagination. A defense mechanism the cauchemar had cultivated to protect itself. To protect itself. Not to attack. Not to kill or maim or eat.

Still, its tactics weren’t exactly endearing. When the laughter returned a second later, I slipped a blade from my bandolier, whirling toward the source.

It hadn’t been the cauchemar at all.

It’d been Lou.

I slowly lowered my blade.

Oblivious, she leaned around me to peer into the room, still chuckling softly. “I can smell the fear in this place. It’s potent. Alive.” When we stared at her, nonplussed, she pointed to the walls. “Can you not scent it? It coats the ropes”—her finger turned to the soft floorboards—“paints the glass. The entire room is slick with it.”

“No,” I said stiffly, wanting to throttle her. “I don’t scent anything.”

“Perhaps it’s your fear I smell, then, not the cauchemar.” When the wind gusted through once more, her grin faded, and she tilted her head again. Listening. “It does feel different, though. It feels . . .” But she kept the words she would’ve spoken, trailing into silence instead. Her hand clenched on my back. “I think we should leave.”