DECIDOPHOBIA – FEAR OF MAKING DECISIONS

A world away, Erebus Salem was also dreaming.

The dreams had started two nights after meeting the Lahey girl. In them, he was at the red door. It was dark, with no moon or stars in sight. A single street lamp at the alley's opening emitted a weak light.

Erebus was shaking. Sweating. Panting. Had he been running? He reached out to touch the door.

The nightmare jumped—a record scratch, pulling him to a new scene. Now he was in a dark room. He caught the edges of what looked like judges' benches—seven of them. They encircled him. He could hear voices—murmurs in the shadows. Adjusting to the dark, he saw that each bench had a golden nameplate.

One read Jack, and straw and hay lay scattered about the floor in front of the bench. Above, perforating the darkness, two glowing, triangular shapes floated in the air above a big, glowing, razor-like smile. Looking almost like . . . a pumpkin.

"What the hell," Erebus whispered aloud.

"Ah"—a velvety female voice echoed through the room—"he speaks."

Hans & Greta was engraved on a double-wide bench. This one was covered in sweets of all kinds—baskets of chocolates, hard-boiled treats, lollipops, and cupcakes. A heavy-looking axe leaned against the wood.

A Russian voice whispered from behind a bench that read Chef. A thick silver steak knife was wedged into the wood next to his nameplate. Vegetables and roasted meats of all manner were spread around the base of his bench. The murmurs continued.

"Enough, all of you." The velvety voice echoed again and the whispering ceased. "We are the representatives of this council, and I believe we should act accordingly."

Her voice came from behind a pedestal marked Ira, decorated with animal horns and antlers that created an almost spiderweblike structure. Erebus saw the glint of blades between them, and small tea light candles.

More murmurs around the room. The voice spoke again. "Don't you think so, Hatter?"

"Oh! Yes!" someone said, giggling nervously behind the bench labeled Hatter. Scattered and toppled about it were teacups, small cakes, and a large white teapot. There were bloody handprints all over the pot and the dining ware.

"Yes, I thought you might."

Another deep, accented voice cut through the shadows. "Can this boy even hear us? Does he know we're here?" Small glass vials of powders were everywhere, jars of dried flowers and snake skins hung from strings. Bayou was engraved on his plate, sigils painted on the wood surrounding it.

"Oh, he can hear us," a new voice said.

The last pedestal. Mortem stood out bright and bold. Skulls and gems and dirt were scattered about the floor and hanging from the bench. In the shadows, two orange eyes stared out at Erebus.

Erebus spoke up: "Where am I?"

"Oh, my dear boy, you're in a dream," Ira said.

"Is this on the other side of the door? The red door?" he asked.

"Yes, darling. Anyone can get through as long as we permit it," Ira drawled.

Erebus turned to the Mortem pedestal, pointing to the shadows there. "You. You're the one who wrote the letter. You're the Necromancer."

There were murmurs and grunts of surprise. Mortem's eyes didn't waver.

"You talked about the Hallows. Is this it?" Erebus gestured around the small room.

"Erebus Salem." Ira sounded sympathetic, drawing his attention back to her. "This is nothing more than a dream to see if you are ready."

There was silence. Erebus felt the floor beneath his feet begin to sway.

"And you are," she said. The room started to spin—a swirling tornado of broken teacups, dust, knives, and sweets. The benches and the occupants behind them disappeared in the chaos.

Ira's voice echoed: "You will find your way to the Hallows in due time. Don't worry. We only wait for your counterpart. She isn't ready. You need to wait for her."

The world continued to spin.

"Eros," Ira's voice whispered through the mess. "Oh, how he looks like his mother . . ."

"Erebus"—the Old Necromancer's voice boomed in his head—"it's time to wake up."