I could say something like, “You have dreamed of me for years—”
“Decades,” he’d interrupt, staring at me with those wide brown eyes brimming with adoration.
And I would gaze back, maybe a little teary with the emotion of it, maybe bashfully glancing away, saying something like: “While I have only just begun to dream again.” Or maybe something more like, “While my dreams have only just come back to life.” Something eloquent. Restrained. But I would leave the door open to more. Maybe he’d kiss me. Maybe I’d want him to. Maybe it would be enough to help me forget all worlds but the one we’d make together . . .
But the me that I have become, that I choose, only has the capacity to care about one thing right now. And it’s not him.
“Don’t.” I let him see the fantasy dying in my eyes, my tone flat with finality.
He flinches. Closes his eyes. His hands tremble as if he’s only just stopping himself from covering his ears.
“If you care about me at all, Ash,”—he starts to respond, but I cut him off before he can embarrass either of us further—“If you want to help me, you’ll help me save them. Now: the dome. Impenetrable to monsters and to most humans. Burns on contact, probably. Toxic to dreamwalkers. Cadence’s target, and apparently Maryam’s. Am I missing anything?”
He shakes his head, draws his hands back and braces them against his knees, knuckles whitening. “ No, that sounds about right. I’m not sure anyone knows much more than that. But the elders—let me back up. You knew I ran away from Spectre to come find you, right?”
“Not that you told me, but yeah, if that’s what you call your little team or whatever, then that’s the story I heard.”
“Did anyone ever mention what we were doing on that mission?”
“Does anyone ever explain anything to me?”
He shrugs. “It’s hard to remember what you know, sometimes.”
I drop his chair into the mud so he has to peer over the table.
Ash rolls his eyes. “Abuse of power. I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ And also a ‘hurry-up.’” He tries for a grin but doesn’t quite pull it off. “Here’s what you need to know: most large bodies of water are infested with creatures who are none too fond of anything that looks human, so we obviously try to keep our distance.”
He holds up a hand to quell my protest. “Stay with me, that is not the important part. The thing is, my squad came across the rumour of a boat—a ship, really—crossing between our shores and an island off the coast. And the source of that rumour claimed to have encountered a dreamwalker crew. Her descriptions were dead ringers for some of our missing-presumed-killed parents. You know you weren’t the only one to lose most of your family when you were young, yeah? Nearly all of us have lost at least one parent, if not both, in missions gone wrong.”
I blink. That is news, actually, but . . . “Where you going with this?”
He leans forward, tapping the table in emphasis. “Look at it this way: how does the council know what to expect from a barrier dome when yours is the only one anyone’s ever heard of—and the only mission to crack it failed?”
“I don’t know, how do they know anything? Mystical dreamwalker libraries?”
“. . . Okay, sure, maybe. But there were never many big cities around here in the first place, and I’m telling you, yours is the only one I’ve ever heard of that ever had a barrier like that put up around it. It’s also one of the only ones still inhabited. But that island I mentioned? On the old maps it’s huge. Once it held the biggest city in the region, next to yours. If my parents are still alive, there’s nowhere they could have survived in hiding all this time . . . except, possibly, across a sea-monster infested ocean.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s like—like—it’s the biggest news in pretty much forever. It could change everything. Just imagine: a whole generation of fully-grown dreamwalkers out there somewhere. What have they learned since they left us? What skills have they honed? I mean, there’s your army!”
I flick the landscape past until we’re standing on the edge of the cliffs staring out to sea. Not the sea he’s talking about, but my pulse still ticks up as if a ship will appear on the horizon.
Forces unconstrained by Nine Peaks’ elders. Adult dreamwalkers who could fight and choose their fate—instead of a bunch of teens on the edge of childhood with half-manifested powers and more enthusiasm than sense. Surely they could save my city, defeat the monsters, even rescue Cadence from her misguided quest . . . But—“Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?”
Ash kicks a pebble off the edge of the cliff and watches it fall, mumbling.
“What was that?”
He dangles his legs over the edge and flicks another pebble. “Spectre didn’t actually find anything. No traces of boats run up on the shore. No pier for a ship to dock at. No more survivors to corroborate the story. Just one traumatized little kid with a wild story. That was when I left my squad behind to look for you, and all they found while I was gone were swamp monsters and gnawed bones.”
He hangs his head, intent on rolling a stone between finger and thumb. I snatch it away and hurl it into the shimmering ocean. “So? Those guys suck. I mean, have you met them? I did—hardly confidence inspiring.”
His eyes spark at the insult to his friends, but I keep going without pausing for his protests. “You’ll do better this time. You’ll find the way across, I know it. How far are you from the coast? You know what—doesn’t matter. Just get going. I’ll do my best to stall Cadence until you find the ship. Bring me that army, Ash.”
“It’s not that easy—”
“And killing Cadence is? Look, it’s not like—ugh.” My vision doubles. She’s waking up. Back to harassment duty. “Look, I don’t care what it takes. I’ll stall her as long as I can, but I’m counting on you to find that ship. You promised not to bring Nine Peaks’ forces back to the city, but you never said anything about other dreamwalkers, right? You owe me this.”
I leave him on the cliffs overlooking the dreaming sea, still protesting, and hurl myself through the ranks of nightmares at the edge of the dreamscape with barely a sideways glance.
Chapter 4: Unweaving
The unearthly mayor of Refuge rarely descends from her golden perch at the top of the tower—or so I’ve always imagined. As it turns out, she just has her ways of moving unseen. They’re called “guards” and “elevator keys.”
“Can I have one of those?” Cadence points to the unassuming little slip of metal.
“When you’ve earned it.” Maryam holds the key card against a panel until it beeps, then presses the button for the lowest level with the very tip of her pointed nail. When the disc fails to light up, she frowns and stabs harder, cracking the age-fogged plastic.
“When will that be?” Cadence whines.
Maryam whirls in a tinkling of gold chains and grabs the toddler-masquerading-as-a-teen by the chin. “When you’ve learned to block out that traitorous ghost. No offense, darling.”
I don’t know how she knows I’m here. Unless she just assumes I’m always lurking—accurate, if so. Maybe it’s all just a ploy to get under Cadence’s skin, but it works. Cadence subsides into sullen scuffling and heavy, pointed sighs, while I do my bit with an assortment of lip pops and inane questions like: “Why did she send her guards on ahead? I mean, the B.O. was bad but it’s not like she can smell it over that perfume, right?” and “I do kind of like her fashion sense. You should try harder, you know. You’re not a kid anymore.”
But when the elevator doors slide open, my brain goes numb.
Once, I thought the lower levels of the Towers of Refuge abandoned. When the ocean rose, they were supposed to have flooded, but obviously, by the time Ravel turned them into his sprawling playground of hedonism, they had been reclaimed. Probably with the help of Ange’s Underfolk, now that I think of it. Their engineers had all sorts of clever pumps and turbines and such that could have made it possible. But the last time I saw
these halls, they’d been a disaster zone.
Now they’re gleaming.
The bloodstains have been scrubbed away, the gouges in the floors and walls filled and smoothed, the fallen-in ceilings replaced. Everything is painted in blinding white with the strongest lights I’ve ever seen bouncing pain-bright rays off the sharply bland surfaces. Sanitized.
“Oh, Ravel is gonna hate this,” Cadence crows, earning from Maryam what would have been a smirk on any lesser visage.
But, “It was getting a little dingy,” is all she deigns to say.
Her enforcers stalk ahead of us; the distant tromping of their boots and the flickering hems of their uniforms always just at the edge of human senses as they clear each new hall ahead of us. Which begs the question: who is it that still inhabits these sanitized spaces? Not Ravel—presumably under house arrest in far away Nine Peaks with a flock of traumatized refugees to look after. And surely Ange and whatever is left of her flock must have been imprisoned or sacrificed to the Mara by now.
So, why bother with guards? Are they here as a snack? An offering to the hungry monsters? Cadence seems unconcerned when I bring it up.
Maryam laughs when I finally nag Cadence into asking. “Well, I wouldn’t want to eat them, dear, but I suppose it’s possible.”
This makes Cadence uncomfortable enough it feels safe to give her a break from the constant irritation I’ve been so diligently supplying. After all, it’s not as if she’s being particularly useful to Maryam right at this moment. And I’m a big enough person not to indulge in undue harassment just in petty revenge for all she put me through.
Probably.
More to the point, I want to have a look around. I can see through walls. And floors and ceilings—yet another advantage of turning ghost. But it does take some focus.
There’s no one behind us, which isn’t all that surprising. Above—nothing for the first couple floors. Not that there would be. Below—no one nearby, at least. The lack of inhabitants gets more concerning the further we go. Ravel hadn’t managed to free that many in those desperate final hours of our ill fated rescue—probably more of Ange’s folk than his own since so few of Freedom’s dancers were permanently in residence. Most snuck down night after night from Refuge to seize a few hours of escape and would have fled back to its “safety” at the first sign of enforcers. But there should still be someone around.
And then there is—in the distance. A flickering of life at the edges of these tunnels. Someone survived. More than one someone.
“Probably just enforcers on patrol,” Cadence says carelessly.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing.”
“Is your ghost curious about the remnant? She is, isn’t she? She thought I’d have used them all up at once.”
Cadence trips, catches herself against a too-white wall, and flinches when Maryam slips an elegant arm through hers.
“Don’t you think me silly, dear,” the ancient hisses into her ear. “I didn’t last this long being wasteful.”
Cadence swallows hard—and yanks her arm free. “Stop screwing around and just tell me what we’re down here for already. Do you want my help or not?”
Maryam cocks a full hip and tilts her head. “So sure of ourselves, aren’t we? What if it was never your help I wanted?”
Cadence is too belligerent to back down, but if I had blood, it would have been rioting to escape by now. I don’t know how sacrificing us would be of any particular use to Maryam—but I’m not at all eager to find out either.
“Oh, you’re just so much fun!” The sharp pinch leaves fading white dents on Cadence’s cheek. “I’m not going to eat you, child. I don’t play with my food. Often. And you, my dear, are much, much too valuable to waste.”
Cadence pretends to sulk, but I never realized how susceptible she was to flattery.
“Not far now,” the mayor trills with an elegant sweep of her hand. “Watch your step—it does get a tad tight.”
It is not the same tunnel Ravel used—at least, I don’t think it is. But it comes to the same thing. Maryam has led Cadence to the edge of the barrier.
Time’s up, and far sooner than I’d expected. I should have pushed Ash harder, should have been willing to risk—
“Well?” Cadence raps the barrier and recoils.
“Silly girl. It takes more than a tap to knock down that wall.”
“It burned me!” She doesn’t bother cloaking her outrage. “That actually hurts!”
“Now, now. So easily distracted.”
Cadence growls, lunging to her feet. But instead of going after the mayor, she squares up to the barrier. “What is it?”
“This and that.” But Maryam’s tone has lost all its slyness. “Mostly this.” She flicks one of the delicate golden chains that drip from her wrists.
The barrier is made of gold? It kind of makes sense. Dreamwalkers—and, supposedly, monsters—aren’t too fond of the stuff. But the surface before us seems amorphous and indistinct, a sluggishly churning translucent mass with a near-pearlescent oil-slick gleam.
“I don’t understand.” Cadence steps back as if afraid it will leap out at her. “That’s not gold.”
“Well. Not all of it, more’s the pity. Perhaps I should say: It was gold, or, it started with gold. But if that were all, I would have no use for you dear.”
Cadence has gone back to staring at her blistered hand in disbelief. She must’ve assumed the noxious surface only burned me because I couldn’t use a dreamwalker’s magic at the time. After all, when she crossed with her parents, she passed through the barrier without lasting harm, we’ve both encountered small amounts of gold in Freedom and Refuge, and I’d been fine the times Ravel and Ash took me across—
“It’s all your fault,” she snarls.
“Perhaps.” Maryam’s lips curve, though I doubt she’s the one Cadence meant. “But assigning blame moves us no closer to solving my little problem. Get on with it, child.”
Cadence blinks, apparently lost in the conversational whiplash.
“Go ahead. Take it apart,” Maryam prods.
“Does—does she think you know how to destroy that thing?” I stage whisper, amused at Cadence’s blank expression. “How disappointing.”
But this time, when she fixes her glare on the poisonous swirl of the barrier, something is different. There’s more definition to the sickly churn, a loose pattern that wriggles its way through the fog, almost like—
“Ugh. You tattooed your son after this thing? That is some fashion choice,” sneers Cadence.
“Try the other hand, dear,” Maryam says coolly. She means the one I burned on the other side of the dome when Ravel let go of me for just an instant. The one etched in a swirling pattern of burn scars eerily like his tattoos.
Cadence darts her a venomous look but after a moment shrugs and reaches out a tentative fingertip. This time she doesn’t flinch. Her hand sends ripples across the barrier and sinks to the second knuckle below the murky surface.
When she pulls back, something comes with her. Long, sticky strands trail from the barrier for several inches before snapping back with an audible glop.
“That’s not—” she starts.
“You recognize it, then?” Maryam sounds too eager for comfort, and I think I know why.
Those strands, that swirling pattern . . . they’re warped, but all too familiar. The reason Maryam wanted Cadence, or me, for that matter, wasn’t about either of us in particular. She just wanted a dreamweaver—any dreamweaver—to tear these twisted threads from the fabric of the barrier. I’m almost sure of it.
“They can’t be . . .” Cadence hunches, hands braced against her knees, a sickly pallor washing over her.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Maryam drawls with an elegant shrug. She examines one shimmering nail. “And it worked, of course. Much, much better than expected.”
Cadence empties the contents of her stomach onto the floor. The barrier pulses, slurping awa
y the mess and swirling more energetically. I gag.
“It’s not alive,” Cadence says, pleading. “It can’t be alive—”
“Of course not, dear,” Maryam says, all flat white teeth, blood-red lips, and black, black pupils. “Not anymore. Not in any way that matters.”
Chapter 5: Living
Threads of dreams.
Threads of desire, of hope, and fear, and longing, and lust.
Threads tangling between my fingers and singing of life and death and that which lies beyond.
Every single one feels distinct, unique. But they all have one thing in common: every single thread was born in the heart of a human.
So how the hell does this clotted nightmare of a wall have threads of its own?
“Don’t act so shocked, dear,” Maryam strokes the inner surface of the dome, rings sparking and polish crackling in the heat of its arcane force. It roils beneath her touch—in panic or pleasure, I have no way to divine. “So I had to sacrifice a little blood in the process—just look how many lives I’ve saved over the years.”
Cadence’s thoughts are frantic, inarticulate. A welter of emotion, gibbering horror wrestling with disgust, a torrent of half-formed words, choked pleas . . . and, finally, from the depths of terror, one overwhelming imperative: get me out of here.
She offers it all to me. I don’t know if she means to, but that’s what it feels like—she’s holding out the reins, the key, the right to take control, and I have only to take it and return to what I was. My body, my life, my mission. She the powerless, helpless ghost; I the original, the real, living girl. The one with the power to choose. To act. To change the course of the future.
I could take it all back, right now. But at what cost? Would we truly revert to the ‘normal’ I’ve always known? Would she still be around to taunt and harass and save and simply be with me, or would I be finally, devastatingly, alone in my head at last?
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