City of Nightmares


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 To everyone who supported my first trilogy—
 this book wouldn’t exist without you.
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Rebecca Schaeffer
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 1
 My sister’s worst nightmare was a giant, man-eating spider.
 I know because that’s what she turned into when she went to sleep for the last time.
 So I understand something about what it’s like to have a family member turn into a giant bug and try to eat you. It’s not hard to find people in this city who’ve lost loved ones to Nightmares, whether they became one or were killed by one. But people who turned into homicidal giant bugs are actually surprisingly rare.
 I suppose most people have much worse fears than bugs.
 “And how did you know my husband?” Mrs. Sanden asks us.
 She’s in her forties, white, auburn hair just beginning to show signs of graying at the temples. She stands as stiffly as her starched, white button-up shirt and long, black skirt. 
 She’s small and looks even smaller in her tiny apartment. Like most apartments in Newham, it’s basically one room—double bed in one corner across from a tiny kitchenette against the wall and an attempt at a sitting room with one skinny sofa and table. Every available surface is covered in flowers.
 A large wooden telephone watches me from the wall, the two brass bells on the front eerily resembling eyes and a long speaker dangling beneath like an elephant’s nose.
 “I’m afraid we never had the pleasure of meeting your husband,” I say, stepping into the apartment. The door will be open for the next few hours, and people who knew the deceased will come and pay their respects. Priya leans against the wall in the hall—there isn’t really room for both of us in the entryway.
 Mrs. Sanden frowns a moment, taking in my distinctive powder-blue waistcoat and black trousers. Her expression shifts in understanding. “Oh. You’re from that cult.”
 My mouth tightens. “It’s not a cult.”
 “Put your flowers down and get out.” Mrs. Sanden’s lips thin. “I don’t need you or whatever scam you have.”
 “Oof,” Priya says with a grin, speaking for the first time since we’ve arrived. “Tough crowd.”
 I roll my eyes. “You could help.”
 “Me?” Priya widens her eyes innocently. “Are you sure?”
 A wicked smile pulls at the corner of her lips, and she tips her head slightly, her short, black-and-turquoise ombre hair falling over her forehead. The hall lighting sharpens her already-sharp cheekbones and adds a reddish tint to her warm brown skin.
 “No, actually,” I admit. “I take that back. Don’t help.”
 “Are you sure?” Priya’s smile gets slyer. “I could—”
 “Do you want to get kicked out?” I ask mildly. “Because after last time, the Director will definitely kick us both out.”
 Priya’s mouth clamps shut and she frowns, casting me an annoyed look. I’ve won and she knows it. She may not like this gig, but she needs it.
 Frankly, so do I.
 “Are you going to leave the flowers?” Mrs. Sanden snaps, clearly irritated by our existence. This is common. Most people think of us like door-to-door salesman but for religious services. Which is only sort of accurate, but most people don’t really stick around long enough for me to explain.
 “Yeah.” I take the flowers I brought and place them on top of the sideboard, on a pile of similar bouquets. Hanging on the wall above the flowers is a black-and-white picture of a white man with a large, bushy, black beard. He’s smiling broadly. Even in the black-and-white photo, I can see the outline of the blue scales that covered his cheekbones.
 Contagious Nightmare.
 I tug at my gloves, ensuring they’re secure. I know he’s dead, and his body isn’t even here because he turned into a Nightmare in his sleep, and even if it were, the blue scales weren’t contagious by touch. But I still make sure my gloves are secure.
 The blue scales were from the southern sea dragon, a Nightmare killed a decade ago. When it died, its blood spread in the water of Grand Lake, and anyone who drank that water grew scales, the severity of the scaling depending on how much blood they consumed. Given that most of the southern part of the country got its water from that lake, a lot of people have scales.
 “There,” Mrs. Sanden says. “You’ve put the flowers down. Now get out.”
 “Of course,” I tell her, voice calm and measured. “If that’s what you wish.”
 I take a pamphlet from my bag and place it on top of the flowers.
 “Oh no,” Mrs. Sanden says, marching forward. “You keep that. I’m not going to therapy or talking about my feelings or any of that nonsense. Especially not with you.”
 “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Mrs. Sanden,” I reassure her, pressing the pamphlet into her hand. She stares at it as though not sure how she managed to end up holding it.
 The front reads YOU ARE NOT ALONE. WE CAN HELP. PAY-WHAT-YOU-CAN-AFFORD NIGHTMARE TRAUMA THERAPY.
 “We’re only here to tell you what’s available,” I tell her. “You’re under no obligation to do anything you don’t want to do.”
 Behind me, Priya is trying not to fidget, fiddling with something under her long, black coat. Probably a weapon. She’s dressed like she hopes, part way through this meeting, a Nightmare will burst through the wall and she