I spun around a corner in a headlong rush but somehow managed to have the presence of mind to realize that a shadow fell into the passage in front of me. Someone was coming for me, and I could tell by the gigantic form that it wasn’t Jonathan. Sensing great danger, I quickly stepped back and slipped around the corner, pressing up against the cold stone blocks and holding my breath, praying not to be detected.

I could tell by the sound of footsteps that whatever had been coming for me had paused in the passage directly ahead. I listened for breathing but heard nothing. What could it be? So far in my dreams, I’d seen only Jonathan and a woman’s hand, which I assumed belonged to the queen of the underworld. But by the size of my pursuer’s shadow, it seemed unlikely to be her. Still, who else could it be? As unnerving as the whole thing was, this was exactly what I’d hoped for, wasn’t it, to confront the queen and ask her to release Jonathan? Perhaps I didn’t need to ask Adair to send me to the underworld. Perhaps I could confront the queen in my dreams and find peace for Jonathan and for myself.

I drew in a deep breath and stuck my head around the corner—but only for a split second, before drawing it back in complete horror. It wasn’t the queen of the underworld waiting for me in the passage. And it wasn’t Jonathan.

It was a demon. It had to be a demon—what else would look like this? He stood seven feet if he stood an inch, so tall that he had to crouch in the tight passageway. He was so broad-shouldered and deep-chested that he might’ve been a bull standing on its hind legs. His face, too, was not unlike a bull’s, broad and snoutish and ugly beyond belief, and, to complete the bullish appearance, long horns protruded from the top of his head. The demon had a man’s arms, though massive as tree trunks; hands that were clawlike, with fingers ending in razor-sharp talons; and an animal’s legs, literally: thick, muscular hindquarters, huge sickle hocks of tendon and bone, fierce-looking cloven hooves. A long tail snaked behind him, twitching. He was all red flesh, as you’d imagine the devil to be, red flesh singed to blackness at the extremities, black legs up to his hocks like boots, black forearms as if gloved, black tail tufted at the tip. Red and black, except for his eyes, which were glittering topaz and had a vertical slit, like those of a reptile. His barrel chest heaved with every breath, as though he had been running or was sniffing the air to pick up a scent. My scent.

I turned and ran down the hall the way I’d come, as silently as I could, though my head clamored with the sound of my ragged breath, the thumping of my heart, blood sluicing in my ears. Don’t look back, I told myself over and over, sure that something terrible would happen to me if I did, that I’d turn to stone or salt, or would be sentenced to remain in the labyrinth forever. It’s only a dream, I also tried to tell myself. Yet I ran hard, sprinting down the passage, my soles barely touching the packed dirt floor.

When at last I thought I was a safe distance away, I stopped, panting heavily now, doubling over with my hands on my knees and nearly retching from the effort. In my dream state, I tried to recall what I’d seen exactly. The sight of the demon was already growing wispy. The residue of fear stayed with me, though. Dream or not, he was truly something to be afraid of; I felt it to my bones. However, as I stood there, doubled over and breathless, I berated myself. What kind of behavior was this? Did I honestly want to help Jonathan or not? I had to screw up my courage and go back down the corridor and face the creature. For Jonathan’s sake.

I stood up and took another deep breath. The pounding of my heart began to slow. Courage. I’d just about gathered my wits and was about to head back the way I’d come when, suddenly, the demon appeared around the corner. He was closer now, and I could see him in more detail. He had an obscene air about him, due no doubt to the genitalia openly displayed between his legs, swaying heavily with each step. There was no mistaking his yellow eyes falling on me heavily, deliberately, and I thought I saw the corner of his brutish mouth turn upward. He is coming for me. My scream froze in my throat. I couldn’t move and it was only with great luck that before he could lay one of those large, maniacal claws on me, I lurched awake in Adair’s arms.

SIX

“It was a dream. Just a dream.”

Adair meant to be reassuring. I knew that he wanted me to blink my eyes and see that I was in his study and not the horrible dungeon of my dreams; to catch my breath and say with an embarrassed chuckle, “Oh, you’re right of course. I see that now.” But I didn’t.

I didn’t need him to tell me it had been a dream. I knew I was awake now and on the other side. However, wisps of the dream were still trapped in my head, making it hard to separate nightmare from reality. I could still see the demon’s rippling red haunches and shoulders, as well as the golden eyes that had sized me up with such calculation. I could still smell the monster’s ashy, earthen odor.

“It was more than a dream. I know it.” I shuddered against the memory.

He didn’t release me. Instead, he started to rub my back as you might to console a child. “It was a bad dream, I’ll give you that. You had me worried . . . you were making horrible noises in your sleep. I thought you were choking. I tried to wake you up, but it was as though you were in a trance. I called your name and I even shook you, but you didn’t respond.”

“That’s what I mean—if it had been a regular dream, you should’ve been able to wake me. Something’s going on, I can feel it.” I let him hold me for a long moment and buried my face against his chest, breathing in his once familiar scent.

After I’d had a minute to gather my wits, Adair gently pulled me to my feet. “We’ve been cooped up in here too long. We should get out of the room for a while. Clear our thoughts. I think the girls have made lunch. There’s something delicious in the air, mushroom soup, perhaps? Why don’t we see what they’re up to?” He was trying to take my mind off my fright, and was probably right about our needing a change of scene: I couldn’t hide in the study forever.

We followed the aroma down to the cavernous kitchen, where the two girls were huddled over a huge stockpot on the stove. They lifted their heads when we entered.

“Ah, look who’s here. Come to join us?” Terry asked, stepping to the worktable. She wiped her hands on her apron before taking up a massive chef’s knife to mince parsley.

“Still among the living, are you? We thought maybe you’d died in there.” Robin’s rejoinder fell flat, like the taunt of an insecure young child.

“We’re catching up on old times,” Adair said. A wooden bowl held slices of rustic homemade bread. He fished one out.

“If you can bear to come up for air, you are welcome to join us for lunch,” Terry said briskly as she scooped up a handful of parsley and dropped it into the pot. “It’s just about ready.”

“It smells heavenly,” I offered, and then I thought of Adair’s description of the hallucinogenic meal the witch sisters had made for him and wondered where the mushrooms had come from, if they could’ve been gathered on the mystical island.

Robin danced up to me, and said, “I was about to go down to the wine cellar to get something to go with lunch. We’ve nothing suitable up here. Do you want to come with me? It’s quite impressive. I’ve never seen so many bottles in one place at one time before, except at a grocer’s.”

I’d been into the labyrinth belowstairs only once, the morning when I’d gotten hopelessly lost, and had resolved not to venture down again, but there didn’t seem to be any danger in going with Robin. “All right,” I said. “I’d like to make myself useful.”

She took me through a nondescript door at the rear of the kitchen, which opened onto a long set of stone steps descending into darkness. Robin didn’t seem intimidated by the cellar in the least; she knew where all the light pulls were, and what’s more, she kept up a stream of chatter as she led the way deeper and deeper under the fortress. The plaster walls eventually gave way to brick, and then stone. It felt as though we’d burrowed straight down toward the center of the earth, a strangely far distance from the living quarters for a wine cellar, but perhaps necessary due to the vicissitudes of the rock and creeping seawater. The halls here were very dark, with few overhead lights. I was starting to wish that she’d brought a flashlight.

“This way,” she said cheerily as we entered a very narrow hall. I was seized by a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, as though the walls were starting to press in on me. Then we passed a door that seemed familiar, though I knew I hadn’t been this way before. I stopped to take a closer look, letting Robin go on ahead. The door was old and scarred, gouged by something very sharp by the look of it. I put a hand to the wood and it swung open, as though whatever was inside had been waiting for me.

I groped along the wall for a light switch, but there was none. The light from the hall, dim as it was, was sufficient; as I looked around, I again felt a sense of déjà vu. It was then I realized that the floor underfoot was packed dirt, smooth from disuse. And the walls were stone, made of very large, precisely cut blocks. In a flash, I knew it was the room from my dreams.

I wanted to scream but it was as though I was back in my nocturnal prison and I couldn’t, my voice trapped in my throat. I turned to the door and it suddenly swung shut in front of me. I thought I’d seen the fleetest glimpse of Robin at the door, a smile on her sly face, her hand on the iron latch. I started pounding on the door, calling, “Let me out, let me out!” as soon as my voice came back to me. I struggled with the latch but it wouldn’t work, the mechanism frozen in place. “Robin, this isn’t funny. Let me out now!” I shouted, but I heard nothing on the other side of the door, not even the patter of retreating footsteps.