A Dream of Death and Magic (Chaos of Esta Anderson #1) Read Online Sarina Langer

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Chaos of Esta Anderson Series by Sarina Langer

Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69349 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)

If only we could choose who we fall in love with. I might have known better then. But he smiles at me again, our eyes meet, and I think that I’m dumb enough to have chosen him anyway.

Esta Anderson’s life is missing something.
She feels there should be… more to, well, everything, and her ambitions of being a photographer aren’t exactly going as planned, either. But she’s determined to change at least the latter this summer. She just isn’t sure how—inspiration has been a bit of a bitch lately.
She’s also a lucid dreamer who knows her dreamscape better than her actual neighbourhood. So, when one day she finds a strange obsidian void lake in her dreams, she can’t just pretend it isn’t there. Something has to happen if she jumps in… right? It wouldn’t make her feel so seen and strangely whole if it were nothing.
Except, that’s exactly what happens: nothing. At least at first. But then…
Who knew the world was so full of fairies and vampires and werewolves and demons and— Magic? Well, obviously they did, but Esta feels like she’s finally seeing the world as it really is. And with that new insight comes all the photography inspiration she’s been waiting for.
Except the Veiled are hiding for a reason. They’ve seen war before, and if Esta isn’t careful, her enthusiasm and curiosity could start a new one. Some of the Veiled are ancient, they remember the last battle against humanity…
And they know just how to turn Esta’s lucid dreams into her worst nightmares.


A constant breeze whispers through my dreamscape. Before me and my spirit cat, Mischief, a meadow spreads as far as I can see. A crystal-clear lake glistens in the distance, and the grass is a lovely patchwork of red and green, because fuck realism. This is my dream and I can do whatever I want. I have done whatever I want, have seen every corner I know of in my thirty years.

But recently, I’ve had this niggle to go explore.

I lean against the black trunk of my purple-leafed tree, arms behind my head like a cushion, and breathe out slowly.

‘Show me something new.’

Mischief, who loafs next to me like cats do, squints up at me. ‘Not asking for much, then.’

I shrug. ‘You can’t honestly tell me that this is all there is.’

Dreams are awesome. They span our entire unconscious, so there’s a lot of personal stuff to discover. Some of it is pretty dark and fucked up, to be honest—just like people. Most people don’t think they dream at all because they don’t remember it when they wake up, but we all dream. Most of us just don’t try to remember.

And then there are some who enter their dreams, become conscious in them and take control, like I do. Anyone can do this, too, but most don’t try because they either don’t think they can since they, you know, don’t dream ever, or because they think that lucid dreams are some kind of arcane bullshit. I don’t really care what they believe, though. Their beliefs don’t make my lucid dreams any less real.

I’ve done this since I was a child. The red-and-green grass stems from that time—my favourite colours back then. These days it’s yellow.

I glance sideways at the tree trunk to think. Maybe it’s time for a change.

I decide the grass is yellow from now on and watch it change. It starts where my feet meet the grass and spreads farther and wider from me until the whole valley is covered.

‘I like it,’ Mischief says. ‘Looks even more like my toilet now.’

I sigh and shoot her a look. ‘You’re not spoiling yellow for me. It’s the happiest colour and you won’t change my mind.’

She slow-blinks at me, and I return the gesture to tell her that I love her, too. Mischief isn’t a real cat—she’s more like a fluffy bundle of shadowy sarcasm, a spirit guide or a dream guide—but I know more than enough about cats for her to behave like one... some of the time, anyway.

‘So,’ I say, ‘about that something new? Where are we going?’

Mischief stands and stretches, front paws out in front and bum in the air. ‘I don’t know what we’ll find, but—’

‘There’s something, I can feel it.’

‘—but I feel it, too.’ Mischief faces east, or what I know to be east with the unquestioning certainty of a dreamer. ‘It’s this way.’

I nod. ‘I’ve been... feeling it for a few weeks.’ I hesitate because feeling isn’t quite accurate. It’s hard to describe. It’s like something is calling me, but there is no voice. It’s more the knowledge that something lies that way somewhere, like very strong intuition. Like a new hobby you only just heard about but just know you have to try.

I can’t wait to find out what it is. I haven’t found anything new in my dreamscape for years.