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She was having the dream again.
The superficial details of it tended to vary, like the location or people present, but the beginning and ending were painfully consistent.
The dream always began with Madoc at the door.
Last time, she had dreamed herself big enough to fend him off. Vivienne and Taryn had been with her, and both were able to escape while she wrestled their fey father. She wasn't so lucky this time. This time, Jude was small. She looked down at her stubby little fingers, covered in ketchup, and knew she would not be able to put up another fight.
She could only hope it would be over quickly.
Her old apartment with Heather and Vivi was the location for tonight's iteration of the dream. Heather was standing behind her, just a pink-haired teenager here, screaming at the sight of Madoc's sword as it hissed free of its sheath. Madoc never spoke in the dreams, he only carried out his task in icy silence. Jude wished he would speak. She wanted to argue with him, to scream and swear and bask in the catharsis of mutual anger. She hated the wondering. The waiting.
Madoc took a step forward. Heather's hands landed protectively on her shoulders.
It suddenly occurred to Jude that this was the first time Heather had been present in the dream. She had witnessed Madoc carrying out the silent, slow-motion murders of her sisters, birth parents and members of the court of shadows, but never Heather. Sweet, hospitable Heather. Her subconscious was cruel in its casting.
Deciding she was not ready for the sight of Heather bleeding out on the floor, Jude put her tiny self in the way of Madoc's sword. It didn't hurt. Not really. It just made the world spin.
The dream always ended with her.
When she fell, she always landed on the fancy rug. The one her mother wouldn't let her walk on in muddy boots. It didn't matter whether or not the dream took place in her childhood home, because it always ended with this rug turning red all around her.
☕ 🐍 🗡️ 🍄 🖤
Jude woke on the couch clutching an empty teacup between strained, sweaty hands.
Her phone was buzzing in her pocket. She had missed three calls from her milkman and just one from Bryern. She quickly returned the milkman's calls, her voice little more than a croak as she explained why she hadn't been at the cafe for her delivery. She spun a lie about a head cold and emphasised her sleepy timbre to make it convincing. Being the grandfatherly sort, the milkman required a lot of assurance before he believed she was indeed safe.
