Chapter Fifteen

In Catalan legend and popular culture, the Pesanta (Catalan pronunciation: [pəˈzantə]) is an enormous dog (or sometimes a cat) that goes into people's houses in the night and puts itself on their chests making it difficult for them to breathe and causing them the most horrible nightmares. The Pesanta is black and hairy, with steel paws, but with holes so it can't take anything.

(Hope)

She was soaked to the bone.

The incessant rain had propelled them up the rocky cliffside, seeking safety from the rising water in the canyon below. If that wasn't enough to drive them, the howling of monsters in the darkness certainly served as motivation.

They had finally found a suitable overhang that provided some shelter from the driving sheets of rain. However, it did little to protect them from the howling wind that still sliced its way through every crevice in the rock.

She was sitting next to Clarke in the cramped alcove—they hadn't spoken since their reunion outside of the cave and an awkward silence hung heavy between them.

She had hugged him— Like actually reached out and hugged him.

Just a few days ago, the idea of hugging Agent Clarke would have been inconceivable. But now…it was complicated.

Whatever this connection was, it was definitely getting stronger by the day. She let her mind wander to what Gwyllion had said—they were bonded physically, magically… emotionally.

She buried her head in her hands, suddenly much too warm, despite her soaking wet clothes.

Clarke, on the other hand, was shaking like a leaf.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly.

Of course he wasn't— he had left his shirt in the cave, leaving him exposed and shivering.

She couldn't help but notice how lean and muscular he was—like a swimmer.

It wasn't like she was trying to check him out or anything… he just seemed to be shirtless—a lot. First at the sand pit, then with the river monster, then again in the cave...

God, why was he always losing his shirt?

"I'm fine," he responded, pulling his knees closer to his chest, effectively bringing her back to reality.

"Clearly," she retorted, rolling her eyes.

He just shrugged, evidently not in the mood to argue.

"Should I make a fire?" she asked, looking for something to use as fuel.

"No," he answered resolutely. "It's not worth it; It'll only advertise our location to whatever's been howling out there."

He was right, starting a fire would be like rolling out the welcome mat for whatever was lurking out in the darkness.

"Okay, let me try something then," she said, untying her jacket from around her waist.

It was still wet, but it had made it through her brawl with the dragons relatively unscathed.

"W—what?" he asked, trying and failing to stop his teeth from chattering.

"Recoquo," she murmured, running her hands over the jacket. The garment began to change, reforming itself into a dark tunic, big enough for him to wear as a shirt.

"Here," she said, offering it to him.

He hesitated for a moment before accepting her offer.

"Thank you," he said, pulling it over his head. "You didn't have to do that. Your shirt— it's still torn."

"I can fix it," she said, pulling on the hem. "Little alterations aren't hard, as long as I have the material to work with."

"Exsarcio," she whispered.

She felt the fabric pull as it stitched itself back together. The sensation reminded her of how Clarke had healed the scratches across her back—he had been so close then too. She felt her cheeks growing warm again.

"Are you okay?" Clarke asked her. "You look like you have a fever."

"I'm fine," she said a little too quickly. "I mean, I think I'm just shaken up from everything…"

He nodded, thoughtful.

The awkward silence descended upon them once more, leaving each of them alone with their thoughts.

She noticed him clenching and unclenching his jaw from the corner of her eye. He was clearly agitated by something, but she wasn't sure if she should ask.

Apparently, she didn't need to—their connection flared up once more. She could feel his emotions brushing against her mind.

He was definitely wrestling with something. It was a conflicted feeling, laced with a distinct sense of nervousness.

Hope wished that he would just say whatever was bothering him, being stuck on the periphery of his mental state was driving her crazy.

"Clarke—" she began, but he interrupted her.

"I'm sorry if what I did made you uncomfortable," he said. "Earlier, I mean. When I asked to—" he let the thought trail off. He was distinctly avoiding eye contact.

"No," she assured him. "I mean, it was actually kind of… nice."

He seemed surprised by her answer, smiling in response, albeit somewhat sheepishly.

She just stared at him. She didn't know what to say when he was like this—when he let the mask slip and actually acted like a person. It made her…nervous.

"I'm just glad that I'm getting to know Landon's brother," she added in an attempt to fill the silence.

"Ah," he said simply. He moved to get up, taking care not to brush against her as he did so.

"What are you doing?" she asked with uncertainty.

"Moving over there," he said, nodding to the opposite side of the overhang.

"I'm going to try to get some sleep," he said as he laid down on his side, facing away from her.

The space was so cramped that he was only about six feet away, but the message was clear— there might as well have been a wall between them.

"Oh, okay," she answered. "I guess I will too."

He made a non-committal noise, keeping his back to her. His lanky frame barely fit in the space and she could tell that his feet were probably getting wet.

She curled up on her side, wrapping her arms around her chest.

She hated moments like this when she had to face the truth that she still hadn't completed her mission.

She had to face the reality that the longer she spent in this dimension, an untold number of days were unfolding at home. Her friends could be in danger, all because she hasn't been able to track down Malivore.

What if she is too late and Malivore ends up escaping before she can destroy him? Or worse, what if she does the wrong thing and ends up causing another death?

Her mother's final moments flashed before her eyes, escaping from the box of memories she tried to keep contained.

Her mother, father, Elijah… all of the people she had lost. It had been her fault, directly or indirectly, it didn't matter.

She felt like crying, like breaking down completely, but she couldn't—not yet. So she bit her lip instead, so hard it began to bleed. It was what she needed— she focused on the pain, losing herself to the feeling.

"Hope!" Clarke snapped.

She froze, his voice pulled her from her panic, but she didn't dare turn around.

"I can feel you. I don't know what you're thinking about, but just—just try to breathe," he said, somewhat softer this time.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly.

If she said anything more, she was afraid she'd never stop.

He sighed.

"I know," he said finally. At first it struck her as an odd thing to say, but she figured he did know. Surely, he could feel just how sorry she was— about everything.

They were quiet after that, and she urged sleep to overtake her troubled mind.

—

Hope awoke with a start, panicked and confused; she wasn't sure when she had finally managed to fall asleep, but her stiff muscles indicated that she had been out for a while.

A mysterious feeling of unease coursed through her, accompanied by the distinct feeling of being watched.

She bolted upright, looking around for the feeling's source, but it had become so dark that she could scarcely see a few feet in front of her.

Instinctually, she looked for Clarke, finding she could vaguely make out his form in the darkness.

However, the longer she looked, the more something seemed off—the shape seemed much larger than it should be.

"Post tenebras spero lucem," she whispered, summoning a glowing orb in the palm of her hand.

She gasped—the light revealed a monstrous, dog-like creature sitting on Clarke's chest.

The creature was covered in dark, shaggy fur and appeared to be using its strangely shaped silver paws to hold Clarke down.

"Hey!" she shouted, preparing to cast a spell, but she hesitated—if she wasn't careful, she could accidentally hit Clarke too.

The creature turned to face her, emitting a low, guttural growl.

Before she could yell to wake up Clarke, the creature leapt off of him and ran out of the alcove, vanishing like a living shadow into the darkness.

What the hell was that?

"Erghhhh—"

She turned her attention back to Clarke, who was currently groaning in his sleep.

"Hey! Wake up," she called to him, still keeping an eye out into the darkness, in case the creature returned.

"Clarke!" she called again, turning her full attention back to him when he didn't respond.

He began to shake rather violently, almost as if he was wrestling with an invisible foe. The feeling of unease she felt earlier returned, even worse than before.

It felt like she was having a panic attack, but Clarke was clearly the one who was in distress.

"What did that thing do to you?" she whispered, moving to his side.

She raised a hand to shake him awake, but paused— if she touched him, would that wake him up, or make things worse?

"No!" Clarke shouted emphatically in his sleep, thrashing once again. She was genuinely afraid he was going to hurt himself.

"Clarke, wake up. It's okay—you're okay," she tried to assure him.

Just then, she noticed a single tear running down his cheek. She couldn't tell if it was the result of sadness or pain, but it didn't matter. She wasn't going to let him suffer any longer.

She reached out and grabbed his arm, shaking him as gently as she could. The feeling of anxiety multiplied tenfold as soon as she made contact.

She couldn't be sure whether it was something the creature had done, or their connection, or both, but the feeling was overwhelming.

She closed her eyes to steady herself, but as soon as she did, she felt as if the ground had fallen out beneath her. She was suddenly weightless.

She opened her eyes in panic, bringing the world back into focus. The only problem was that it wasn't the right world, at least, she wasn't in the alcove anymore.

She was standing in someone's living room. It was furnished with expensive looking antiques and floor to ceiling bookshelves.

Where was she?

"Gwyllion?" she asked hesitantly, figuring this may be another example of faerie glamour. But there was no response.

She took a closer look at the room; it reminded her of Dr. Satlzman's office, although more foreboding. Some of the objects on the shelves had a distinctly dark aura about them—including what appeared to be an actual human skull.

Lovely.

She moved closer to the shelf, running her fingers across the books' spines. Some of these books were seriously old— and rare.

Most of them appeared to be on mythology and folklore. She recognized Greek, Latin, French, German… but there were many more languages she didn't recognize. Whoever owned these books must be some kind of researcher.

There was a desk in the corner with a laptop and notebook placed neatly on top. It was so tidy that she found it hard to believe that anyone actually lived here. She opened up the notebook to the page marked by a red silk ribbon.

She held the ribbon gently in her hand, feeling a strange desire to possess it. She hastily tied it around her wrist, feeling an immediate sense of peace.

Odd.

She glanced down at the page, finding it filled with notes in a tight, spidery cursive. Hope squinted, trying to make out the stranger's writing, but it was nearly impossible.

She had lost herself in concentration when suddenly, she heard an ominous click behind her.

She spun around to find Clarke standing behind her, his gun aimed squarely at her chest.

"Clarke!" she yelped in surprise. "What are you—?"

"Who the hell are you and how did you get into my apartment?" he asked, moving his finger to the trigger.

This was going to be a problem…