He was a neuroscientist, probably the smartest person Eliza knew, and one of the nicest. There was this pert civility about Gabriel Edinger that suggested a better-than-fair chance of bow ties in his future. When the sobs finally subsided and she lifted her head, Gabriel was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking compassionate and alarmed. The terror and the guilt smothered it all. She had not done, and nor would she ever do… that.īut when the dream entangled her, none of it mattered-not reason, not sense, not even the laws of physics. It was impossible, and with any distance from the dream Eliza could dismiss it as ridiculous. Nothing worse had ever been done, in all of time, and all of space, and the guilt was hers. It was… dear god, it was unspeakable, and it was immense. Guilt over what? That was the worst part. This feeling the dream left her with, it was knives of panic and horror resting bright atop a red and meaty wound-fester of guilt. But god, that was too bloodless a word for it. Something awful-a rank leviathan corpse left to rot on the shore of her mind. It came with the dream, every time, and didn't recede with it but stayed like something a tide had washed in. The terror-the terror, the terror-lingered, and there was something else. As bad as the dream was-and it was bad-the aftermath was worse, because she was conscious but still powerless. She doubled over and hid her face in her bedspread as the sobs welled up and took her over. Pressure building, the sting behind her eyelids, and all of it out of her control. The adrenaline crash could be pretty bad after the dream. Soon she wouldn't be able to control it, and she didn't want a witness. I've never heard anyone sound like that in real life. 'Sorry to wake you.'īlinking, Gabriel lowered the hammer.

Her heartbeat felt like cannon fire-doomful and deep and reverberating through her entire body, and though her mouth was dry and her breathing shallow, she tried to sound nonchalant. 'I do that sometimes.' She pushed herself upright in bed. He was sleep-disheveled and manically alert, holding the hammer high and ready. 'You… you were screaming,' said her roommate, Gabriel, darting looks into the corners and finding no sign of murderers. This was the first time, though, that she'd spoken them to a man who had burst heroically into her room, clutching a claw hammer, to save her from being murdered. How many times in her life had she spoken those words? More than she could count.

That's how it felt: like falling and landing hard. Nerve thrum and screaming blood, wild and churning and chasing and devouring and terrible and terrible and terrible-Ī voice.

Gods and monsters laini taylor