"You’re bringing her in tonight?"
"I’m bringing her home," I correct him.
I walk toward the door, stepping over Alexei’s corpse without a second glance. The blood on my shoes is a nuisance, but it’s a small price to pay.
I’m done being a ghost.
Tonight, the monster comes out from under the bed.
And he’s taking the girl with him.
CHAPTER 3
THE MONSTER IN THE BEDROOM
POV: IVY
The dream is always the same.
I’m running through a forest of black trees, their branches skeletal and sharp, clawing at my clothes like desperate fingers. The ground is mud—thick, sucking mud that smells like copper and rot. I can’t breathe. My lungs burn with the effort, screaming for oxygen that isn’t there.
I don’t know what I’m running from, but I can hear it. A low, rhythmic thudding behind me. Heavy footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.
I trip. The mud swallows my hands, cold and slimy. I scramble to get up, but a shadow falls over me, blotting out the pale, sickly moon.
I wake up with a gasp, my body jerking upright in bed.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, bruised rhythm that echoes the terror of the nightmare. I press a hand to my chest, trying to force air into my lungs. My skin is damp with cold sweat, my t-shirt clinging uncomfortably to my back.
It was just a dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut, counting backward from ten. A coping mechanism my therapist suggested years ago, back when my mother died and the anxiety attacks started. Ten. Nine. Eight.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of my apartment. Vanilla. Old paper.
And... something else.
My eyes snap open.
The air has shifted again. It’s heavier, charged with static electricity, like the atmosphere right before a lightning strike. The silence in the room isn’t empty; it’s expectant.
I reach up to my throat. The cold metal of the birdcage necklace is still there. I fell asleep with it on. I couldn't bring myself to take it off. It felt wrong to remove it, like taking off a wedding ring I hadn’t agreed to wear but couldn't refuse.
I slowly turn my head toward the window.
The blinds are drawn, just as I left them. The new industrial lock is engaged. The room is bathed in the weak, orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the slats, creating stripes of shadow across the floorboards.
Everything looks normal.
But my skin is crawling. The fine hairs on my arms are standing up, prickling with an instinctive warning that predates language.
Run.
I throw the duvet off my legs. I need a weapon. I don’t have a gun—this is New York City, and I’m a broke student—but I have my art supplies.
I slide out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold wood. My eyes dart to the desk across the room. My X-Acto knife is there,sitting on top of my sketchbook. It’s small, but the blade is fresh. It can cut through canvas and cardstock like butter. It can cut skin, too.
I take a step toward the desk.
