The Dreams Thief (Otherworld Book 1), page 1
The Dreams Thief
(Otherworld Book 1)
Bella Dunn
Text copyright © 2024 Bella Dunn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Some historical characters, real events and places, and popular references are mentioned for context only. Names, characters, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No Artificial Intelligence was used to create any part of this book.
Warning: Contains Mature language, Intense Violence, Graphic Sexual Situations.
Expect magic, both Seelie and Unseelie and remember that the Fae live amongst us…
“How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning?”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 3.
Table of Contents
PART I: GLENNLOCH
Chapter 1 The End
Chapter 2 The Inheritance
Chapter 3 Serendipity
Chapter 4 Doppelganger
Chapter 5 Shock and Awe
Chapter 6 Triarell’s Grove
Chapter 7 Lady Lochellen
Chapter 8 A Ghost or Two
Chapter 9 The Endells
Chapter 10 Lammas Fair
Chapter 11 Crow’s Nest
Chapter 12 The Fae Live Amongst Us
Chapter 13 Unbridled Power
Chapter 14 The Bridge of Time
Chapter 15 Enchanter
PART II: THE OTHERWORLD
Chapter 16 Haunted
Chapter 17 Release
Chapter 18 Changeling
Chapter 19 Riddles
Chapter 20 Bloodline
Chapter 21 Treasure Hunt
Chapter 22 A Friend from the Past
Chapter 23 Mrs Clisham
Chapter 24 The Spiritual World
Chapter 25 Servitude
Chapter 26 Where Our Spirits Rest
Chapter 27 The Lost Wolf
Chapter 28 Broken Chains
Chapter 29 Lightning
Chapter 30 Sacrifice
Chapter 31 Chaos
Chapter 32 The Beginning
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PART I:
GLENNLOCH
Chapter 1
The End
Scotland, 1760.
Another lightning struck.
The wind whistled ferociously past his ears while he rode like a madman across the Highlands, as if he were being chased by the Devil, yet Brun MacLugh did not dare to stop, not even for a moment. His body ached and his eyes burned with exhaustion but time was slipping through his fingers like the thin sands of an hourglass.
He could not fail again. Not this time.
I will not fail again, he repeated to himself, even though he knew that the words were nothing more than a fool’s prayer.
To his left, the usually blue waters of the loch had acquired a deep tone of lead, even darker than the sky above. Brun urged the animal into a desperate gallop, although he could feel the horse’s fear through its soaked skin. The animal could sense the danger as well as he did.
Both the natural and the supernatural one.
The storm raged savagely overhead as if the heavens were breaking apart. Lightnings flashed so bright that turned the dark night into day, closely followed by thunderclaps that were deafening enough to shatter glass. Rain and sleet fell in a continuous sheet of water and ice, slamming the ground without pause, as if all water in the world were being poured over the Highlands that evening. Brun was drenched to the bones, but he did not allow such minor discomforts to slow him down.
After the Kilchurn Castle’s tower was damaged by lightning a sennight before, it had rained without stop, the tell-tale signs which he knew all too well: the Dreams Thief had returned and there was no doubt who his next victim would be…
Dread made his guts churn and his heart pump faster. He was not afraid to fight his faceless enemy, but if he failed this time…
I will not fail again!
From under the drenched cowl of his hood, he made out the shadowed contours of Glennloch. The familiar nine-foot tall iron gate came into view between gusts of wild wind that pushed seamless sheets of water left and right, like watery ghosts dancing in the dark.
“At last!” he muttered in relief, patting his horse’s neck, quietly praising the animal for making through that horrible storm.
As the gate loomed closer, Brun stretched out a hand, feeling his ring become fire-hot. Its magic gem turned from gray into bright red and red sparks burst out of his fingers, fusing together into a glowing ball of fire as big as his fist. He punched the air and the fire ball shot forward, blowing up the gate off its hinges as if they had been hit by a war cannon. The wind was so strong that the two iron halves flew asunder like sheets of paper.
Brun galloped up the driveway without slowing down, sensing the manor’s protective spells hindering his passage for nothing more than an exhale, probing him, before granting him passage.
The magic wards were much weaker than they should have been.
Heavens, am I too late?
He sank the spurs on the horse’s flanks, desperate to cover the final yards as fast as he could. The beast whined in protest but complied, equally fuelled by its desperation to find shelter.
The strong gale forced the silver birches lining the driveway to bend low. Their thick trunks creaked noisily like old galleons harboured at the port, making him think of courtiers dropping into low bows as he sped past the trees.
The manor’s massive arched door loomed dead ahead, but he did not slow down. The string for the bell wiped madly up and down, however that was hardly the time to call for servants and be proper.
Brun yanked the reins hard and the horse reared back with a loud neigh. Using the horse’s weight to push through the heavy door, he burst into the entrance hall with a deafening bang that echoed through the silent manor.
In a matter of moments, servants poured from every possible door, staring at him in horror and crying in fear, probably believing him to be a highwayman. Brun was conscious he was not showing his best figure, but after a week on the road with nary a pause to sleep or eat, one could hardly expect him to be properly attired.
Besides, given the urgency of his purposes there, any concerns about his appearance were presently irrelevant.
He hopped off the horse and his soaked boots landed on the dark wood floor with a loud splosh, splattering mud and grime on rugs and pieces of furniture. Brun scanned the faces around him and his heart sank.
Neither Stewart nor MacTaggart were there.
“Where is your mistress?” his voice boomed in the hall, making servants shrink away into the corners of the room or behind half-opened doors. Some muttered prayers, crossing themselves, no doubt believing him to be an evil spirit, a demon or other similar nonsense people thought those days. The Witch Trials had been all but banned for a few decades now, but amongst the common folk the fear of the unholy was ever present.
The servants exchanged anxious glances, lowering their faces. Brun’s jaws tensed.
“I have asked a question!” he bellowed again, “Where is your mistress? Where is Lady Lochellen?”
A choked voice came from the top of the staircase.
“She is gone.”
Brun lost the air of his lungs.
He looked up finding an old man staring down at him from the landing, clutching the wooden balustrade as if ready to tear it into pieces with his bare bony fingers. It took Brun a few moments to recognise the man, who seemed to have aged fifty years in the five since he had last seen him.
Lord Colin Lochellen was donning a wine-coloured robe wrapped around his lanky and sagged frame, and his hair, which had once been auburn, hung in loose silver strands about his shoulders. Black circles marked his eyes, the sign of many sleepless nights or that death was looming close.
Bile rose to his throat.
“When?” he demanded, unfastening his cloak and allowing it to fall on the floor, ignoring the horrified gasps of the maids.
“Two nights past,” Colin replied and even his voice sounded like that of a dying grandfather, almost completely devoid of its former power.
It was as if the floor had suddenly been pulled from under his feet and for moment Brun thought he would collapse limply like his soaked cloak.
“Bastard!” he cursed aloud, mustering all his self-control not to scream, “What of Stewart and MacTaggart?”
Colin shook his gray head, “Stewart is dead. We found his body stashed in the larder three days ago.”
Brun lowered his eyes in mourning. He and Alasdair Stewart had been raised together as brothers.
“As for MacTaggart…” Colin went on.
His eyes narrowed, already guessing what Colin’s next words would be, but he waited for them, nonetheless.
“He vanished.”
His jaws clenched. To his woe, his suspicions turned out to be true.
It was all his fault. He had allowed h
“You don’t think…” Colin muttered, horror colouring his features.
Brun did not reply, starting towards the stairs, but his body slammed against an invisible barrier.
Heaving impatiently, he glared at Colin, “Let me see her.”
Colin pressed his lips into a thin line, rage flashing across his eyes, filling him with a spark of life even if for the briefest moment.
“There is nothing you can do for her now,” he snapped, but his voice shook. His tone was hard, his old animosity ever so vivid.
“Regardless, I want to see her!” Brun retorted but reading the sorrow in the man’s face he added with a gentler tone, switching to a language none of the servants could understand, “Please, Ryul! I beg you.”
Colin – or Ryul Waesvyre, which was his true name – was taken aback by Brun’s tone and his hard expression softened, not with compassion, but in shared mourning. His shoulders slumped and Brun noticed that even his spine had curved under the weight of his failing body.
“Very well,” Ryul yielded lowering his gaze and then waving his hand towards the staircase in a casual gesture, as if inviting Brun to come up.
The air at the landing shimmered almost imperceptibly, confirming that Ryul had released the magic shields protecting the manor’s living quarters.
Whatever good they had done…
Once the enchantment was lifted, Brun climbed the long staircase three steps at a time thanks to his long legs. Being over six feet tall had its advantages, he mused grimly as he halted in front of Ryul and tilted his head in greeting.
The older man’s appearance was even worse at close inspection. Ryul’s once bronze skin was now marked by age spots and bore a grayish unhealthy hue. His high cheekbones were poking out of his face in sharp angles and his golden eyes were devoid of any spark of life, sunk deep into their orbits. Brun had seen enough death to know that Ryul would not walk amongst the living for much longer.
“I am truly sorry, Ryul,” Brun’s voice was thick with regret, “I came as soon as I recognised the signs…”
Ryul did not reply immediately, studying him for a long moment. He had the ability of reading other people’s emotions, thus Brun knew it would be pointless to try and conceal anything from him, even weak as Ryul clearly was.
It no longer made any difference anyway.
“I know, Brun. I know you did everything you could…”
Nonetheless, it was not enough, Ryul’s voice seem to say and Brun closed his hands into tight fists, his chapped nails digging into the cold flesh of his wet palms.
Ryul stretched his now aged and gnarly hands. His palms were bandaged, but fresh blood was seeping through the clumsily tied dressings, “I tried to save her… But it was for naught…” he whimpered, confirming Brun’s suspicions that he had even resorted to forbidden spells in a desperate bid to save his wife, seeking to extract his very life’s essence from his blood. He made a shaky gesture showing the way, while the other hand clung to his velvet robe to ward off a chill only those sensing the cold embrace of death could feel.
Brun followed him through the half-lit hall into an ample chamber decorated with the blue and silver colours of the Endellys Clan, the real name of the Lochellen Clan.
His heart tightened when he saw her body lying lifeless on the four-poster bed and it took more effort than he thought possible not to fall on his knees and tear his eyes out in an attempt to erase the blasphemous image from existence.
Even in her deathbed, Triarell Endellys – or Lady Elizabeth Endell as she was known in the human world – was stunning. She had always been the most beautiful of the Endellys sisters.
Her long ebony hair blanketed the pillows as if a measure of silk had been carelessly discarded there. Brun drew close to the bed where she would slowly drift into death and gently squeezed her hand. It was cold as ice.
Lifeless.
“Oh Triarell, please forgive me…” his chest hurt, but he could not cry. He could not even remember when he had cried for the last time.
Possibly at his mother’s breast.
He had loved Triarell to the edge of insanity and now there was only a dark void in his heart.
Ryul’s frail hand patted him on the shoulder in a pathetic attempt of an empty comforting gesture that made him flinch. Brun was well aware that Ryul had only tolerated him all those years.
“Fayla arrived yesterday,” Ryul broke the mournful silence, “She is waiting for you.”
Brun shivered at those words but made no reply, not entirely surprised. He cast a last glance on Triarell’s empty body. The last of the Endellys.
Their last hope of defeating the Dreams Thief.
Gone.
He allowed his tired gaze to linger on Ryul. He and Fayla were now the last ones of their kind, and Brun doubted the former would last much longer.
They were the last Fae in the human world.
Except for the Dreams Thief that is…
Fayla would be very disappointed in him for his failure. His only task, his sole purpose had been to protect the Endellys Sisters and he had failed, time and time again.
He shivered, reckoning that she would almost certainly punish him. Ryul might even demand it.
Nevertheless Brun was not afraid. Any penance that his mentor – for lack of a better title – might dole out would still be inconsequential in face of the pain he would endure till the end of his days.
He glanced down at his ring, feeling a sliver of hope.
Soon it would all be over anyway. Already he could sense its power fading.
Perhaps Fayla would even strip him of it as punishment. A punishment which could turn out to be a blessing…
“Where is she?” his voice was flat, his eyes still frozen on Triarell’s face, trying to recall what her smile had looked like or how her crystalline voice had sounded.
“I am here, Brun,” the familiar soft voice came from behind him.
He turned round to stare into the gray eyes of his mentor.
Fayla Theynore was older than him by more than a millennium – she was older even than Ryul and Triarell – but like all members of the Fae race, she appeared to be not a day past her thirtieth birthday. Her silver-blond hair was tied in a myriad of thin plaits bundled together around her head, and the long-sleeved black gown was as sombre as her expression. A magic medallion hung around her elegant neck.
Brun bowed his head till his chin touched his chest.
“Fayla, I have failed,” he declared solemnly in lieu of greeting.
She fixed her ghostly eyes on him for a moment. Her face was placid as usual, but Brun could swear there was an intense emotion flashing on her irises.
Whatever it had been, it quickly blinked it away.
“You have,” she agreed candidly, making his face flush with shame. She ought to be furious with him, “but it was unavoidable.”
Brun’s eyes widened in shock, and he heard Ryul gasp in horror behind him.
“What can you possibly mean by that?” Brun gasped, stupefied.
Fayla moved her gaze to Ryul, calculating her next words as she always did and Brun knew she would tell them only half of what she had in her mind.
Knowing one’s fate is a dangerous thing, little Brun, she used to tell him when he was a wee child, One might end up causing fate to happen.
“The Dreams Thief has all the power now, and the Enchanters in this world are all but extinct.”
Brun looked askance at Ryul who had not even flinched at Fayla’s declaration. He was conscious that he would follow his wife soon enough. Like him, Ryul would also welcome death.
Then he return his gaze to Fayla. She was a scryer, and those with such talent often spoke in riddles.
But this time, with Triarell’s cold body lying beside him, he felt bitterness fill his chest. The woman he loved was dying, he had failed to protect her as it had been his duty and now Fayla was saying her death could not have been avoided?
“Finding Triarell’s empty body hinted at that, Fayla!”
She blinked, momentarily surprised by his sarcastic remark, but offered him a sympathetic smile.
“You shall gain nothing from feeling guilty, Brun. Your duty was in Glennloch, and yet you chose exile,” then her eyes drifted to Triarell, “What is done is done…”
