The best thing she can do is pretend they’re not there. She can micromanage her way through visions of the room filling with blood like in Presley’s dream. She can give orders past the crashing caused by Charlotte’s uncle. She can even focus on Presley well enough to avoid looking at the faceless hunter she had killed, looming in the doorway as he looms in her own nightmares.
Annoying. She has no sympathy for the human, only for the idea of taking her first lives. But dreams don’t care for such details.
No matter how Aemilia manages the hallucinations, there’s a deep dread of having to walk Lucio’s hellscape. It will add to her collection of horrors, sure, but there’s no telling how her magic is going to behave during the process. But it’s necessary, if it gives Lucio a piece to the puzzle of discovering a cause or a cure.
“Aemilia, darling, I think we should consider the fact that someone may be trying to kill us.“
Thierry’s words stomp down any bubbling feeling of refusing to cooperate. The horrors she sees are nothing compared to the horror they may have yet to face. When Lucio knocks on the door, Aemilia calls him in and she swings her legs up onto the bed. “No second thoughts?” she drawls as she wipes her clammy hands on her bedsheets.
