Dreamonologist

by Gregory Pettit

  “Where are we going? What are we hunting?” I asked when my stomach had settled back into its accustomed position.

  “Hatfield. It would appear that there is life in this country outside of the M25. However, in this case, unfortunately, that life has taken the form of …the Father.”

  “The Father?”

  “David Allan Walters, forty-eight years old, 170 centimeters, and approximately eighty-five kilos.” I did math in my head and converted that to about five feet seven and a shade under 190 pounds—not a physically impressive specimen. “He is one of the final Escapees, and he is definitely one of the most dangerous,” Sloane said, his hands locked on the wheel as we weaved through late-night traffic, merging onto the M1. I wondered how I’d ever perceived him as elderly and shook my head.

  “Umm…then why is it just the two of us going after him?”

  “Because of the nature of his abilities, young man. He is attuned to a dimension where electrons have a slightly higher negative charge than in ours, but that science is boring. What it results in is that he can control anyone with a touch. Make them feel or do anything that he desires.”

  “So he’s like a hypnotist?” I said.

  “No. Much worse. Think about it, Mr. Adler. What will a junkie do for a fix of a drug? In your own United States, there are millions who consume rat poison in the form of crystal methamphetamine for just a fleeting moment of bliss. Dave can give that experience for hours at a time—whether the recipient wants it or not.”

  “So are we going to be going up against a guy with his own personal army of addicts? I’m still not seeing how this is going to work.”

  “I have been doing this for many years. Let me explain to you my plan…”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was skulking in an alley near the train station. The weather was warm, but I still had on my trench coat. The padding and Kevlar that I’d had sewn in made me sweat like a pig in the warm nighttime air, but sweating like a pig was better than being stuck like one by some extradimensional baddie or his minions. The pub across from the station was well lit, and there seemed to be a party going on there, despite the late hour. Given the British love for an early night, that was almost proof enough that something supernatural was going on. I glanced down at my watch—it was time.

  Moving confidently, I strode out of the alley, approached the door, and banged on it three times. “Open up—police,” I demanded in my best impression of an annoyed police constable, holding up the badge and warrant card that Sloane had supplied. Given that I’d pretended to be a police officer dozens of times in the Dreamscape, I’d had practice, and I thought that I was pretty good.

  “You’re no fucking police constable,” growled a big, overweight man with gray hair and watery brown eyes as he slammed the door open. A meaty, callused hand shot out, latched on to my shoulder, and dragged me into the room. I stumbled in and looked around. There were at least thirty people in the room in various stages of enjoying a gargantuan feast, and when they all turned toward me, almost in unison, I got a better look at the guests. All of them were disheveled, with the dirt and grime of having been unwashed for days. There were half-a-dozen men, but the vast majority were women. Young women. And almost all of them were visibly pregnant. Suddenly, both the Father’s code name and the feast made a lot more sense. I felt sick, and bile touched the back of my throat.

  Swallowing down my disgust, I waved my warrant card and strained upward to bring myself closer to eye level with the bulky man who’d hauled me in. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m an officer of the law. You’ve just bought yourself some time…um…in the pokey,” I bluffed, doubling down. Being upset or angry wasn’t going to help these people – sticking to the plan just might though.

  “You’re not police. And do you know how I know that? Because I am!” the man bellowed into my face, his breath reeking of garlic.

  “Look, I’ll go down to the station, and bring back—”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the real policeman said, grabbing my arm hard and flinging me deeper into the room. I was cut off from the door, surrounded by a ring composed of mostly pregnant women. My heart hammered, and my hands were slick with sweat. A low growl went through the room, and a half-dozen men stood up and pushed toward me. I had my gladius strapped to my hip, and I’d been practicing enough that I thought I’d be able to fight my way out, but I didn’t want to hurt any of these people—as far as I was concerned, they were victims. I took a couple steps back and ran into the side of a table. There was nowhere left to go. I tensed, glancing around for an escape route but not seeing one. I noted that there were a few wait staff lining the walls, trying to stay out of the altercation.

  “Calm, my children.” A man’s smooth voice cut through the growing noise in the room. “Let us leave our new brother in peace.”

  The men who were menacing me nodded and backed off, their faces suddenly placid. Shoes clicked on the hardwood floor, and a man stepped out in front of me. He was a fair bit shorter than me, with gray hair, deeply tanned skin, and olive-colored eyes. He flashed a warm smile. “Let me speak with you, young man.” He held out a hand for me to shake, and I stared at it for a second. Sloane had said he could control his victims with a touch but that I’d be safe due to my connection to the Dreamscape.

  I took a deep breath through my nose and took the Father’s hand. Flesh touched flesh, a jolt went up my arm, and my bicep spasmed a couple of times, but that was all. The smile on the Father’s face inverted, becoming a scowl. “Wait—what are you?” the Father said, giving me a sidelong glance. He squeezed my hand, sending another jolt up my arm, stronger this time, and my fingers felt like they were being dipped in scalding water, making me wince in pain—but I’ve been immolated by dragonfire: this was nothing.

  The Father nodded and shoved me at one of the tables. “Hold him.” Hands grabbed me, and a couple of real go-getters decided to take the opportunity to land a few punches, making me suck wind. The placid, welcoming expression that had been on the Father’s face twisted into a rictus of hate, lips peeled back from his teeth, nostrils flaring, and jaw muscles working nonstop. “Did the Sons send you?” he thundered. A gasp went out around the room, and one woman screamed as the Father continued, “They can’t have me! They can’t break up my family! You tell them that when you get back to them. Tie him up.” A couple people went into a back room to find some rope, making banging noises as they searched, and I realized that I was probably going to get out of this okay-ish. If they wanted to send a message, the messenger still needed to be alive when they sent him back. My asshole unclenched slightly—until I heard the voice that spoke next.

  “I’ve got your rope,” said Sloane, dressed in a waiter’s uniform, blood dribbling down the front of his shirt.

  The Father turned, and his mouth dropped open. “You,” he said as a crossbow twanged, and even before the syllable left his lips, he was diving to one side while a woman lurched forward. The bolt slammed into the woman’s shoulder with a sound like a crossbow bolt slamming into a woman’s shoulder—it’s a pretty distinct noise.

  “Scheisse.” Sloane dropped one crossbow and whipped out another, training it on the Father, crouched on the ground. I was still held down on the table, and I felt something cold and metallic touch my throat.

  “Shoot me, and your friend dies,” hissed the Father. He was lying on the ground, his hand locked on the ankle of the guy holding a knife to my throat, puppeting him. I wanted to shiver at the idea that one person could control another so thoroughly, but I didn’t dare to move.

  “I think that you have made an incorrect assumption,” Sloane said, stepping confidently forward, a maniacal grin etching lines like a topographical map into his face. “You have assumed that you have power to make good on that threat.” Another step forward, the clack of his shoes like a gunshot in the suddenly silent room.

  The Father began to speak. “Stop or—ack!” Sloane surged forward and shoved his crossbow
into the man’s abdomen. The guy behind me dropped the knife and collapsed to the ground like a Jenga tower in the care of a toddler. I climbed to my feet as cries went up around the room. I couldn’t catch what was said next between Sloane and the Father, but tables were overturned, and we were surrounded by heavily pregnant, middle-class, white English women with murder on their minds. I felt like there should be a geriatric sleuth somewhere.

  “Kill me, and you both die,” the Father panted, sweat rolling down his forehead as the crossbow continued to be pressed against his side. I looked at the faces of the people around us, and the desperation in their eyes conveyed the truth of his statement. If we took away their drug, we wouldn’t leave this place alive.

  “Order them to leave,” Sloane growled, his expression imperious.

  “No.”

  The room was heating up, both literally and metaphorically. Someone was going to die. Again. I thought about all of the people who had died because of me, and I felt sorrow. I thought of Agent Paula calling me a monster, and I felt anger. I thought of Dana, Olivia, our unborn child, the coming victims of the vampires, and I felt resolve. I wasn’t going to let this turn into a bloodbath. Sloane’s initial plan, to grab the Father while I distracted the room, had seemed good, but it had all gone to hell. How could I change things?

  The Father’s followers closed in. I had maybe thirty seconds to figure something out, and it had been such a long day. If only I could take a nap to clear out the—and then I had it. I’m not Julian Adler, commando. I’m not Julian Adler, detective. And I am most certainly not Julian Adler, secret agent. I’m Julian Adler, Dreamwalker. And what is a person doing when they dream? They’re sleeping. I thought about what I knew of extradimensional energy, which was a hell of a lot more than it had been six months ago, and my idea seemed to stack up. I could do this.

  “Last chance, Sloane. Let me go, and you can both walk,” the Father rasped, but I wasn’t paying attention to his words. I closed my eyes and reached out to the Dreamscape, feeling the familiar, malleable energy of that other-place pulsing at the edge of my consciousness. I imagined reaching out with phantom hands and reeling it in, pulling the extradimensional energy into me. Outside of me, people kept talking, and the mob was so close that I could feel their heat and smell their unwashed stink, but I kept drawing in the energy, spooling it into me until my hands shook and my nerves burned. I imagined what I wanted to happen, remembering that it was the most natural thing in the world for dreamers. Now.

  I opened my eyes. The nearest man was only a foot away. “Sleep,” I commanded, letting the extradimensional energy flood out of me, picturing it jumping from person to person in the ring of aggressors hemming us in, using the Father’s own connections against him. The sandy-haired man in front of me blinked twice, yawned enormously, and went down like a pole-axed steer. The same effect rippled around the room, and in moments Sloane, the Father, and I were the only ones left standing—and I knew that I wouldn’t be in that condition for much longer.

  Sloane threw his head back with a bark of laughter. “Magnificent! The stories about you…ha!”

  “What…what have you done?” the Father asked.

  “He’s put them to sleep, you fool. And when they wake up, we’ll be long gone. Well done, Mr. Adler.” And that was the last thing I heard before I crumpled to the ground.

  ◆◆◆

  We were still on the A40 coming back from Hatfield when I woke up in the passenger’s seat of Sloane’s coupe. I sat up, looking around in wild confusion. Sloane was driving, and the Father was lying recumbent in the back seat, his hands and feet bound with zip-strips.

  “What did you do to him?” I asked.

  Sloane glanced at me. “Ahh…Mr. Adler. Good to have you back with us. Well, some of us don’t have your ability to put people to sleep, so I, personally, choose to carry a small syringe or two of a particular chemical cocktail that will produce the same effect. And if you’re wondering, you were out for exactly fifty-seven minutes.” My surprise must have shown even in the dark, because Sloane laughed and added, “You woke up so quickly because all you did was put a room full of warm, full, exhausted people to sleep. You were hardly more unnatural than a bit of turkey on your American Thanksgiving. Really, I’d have thought that Mia would have explained all this to you already.”

  I thought the same thing to myself and considered what had just happened. I felt damned good about what I’d just accomplished. Sloane and I had managed to take down one of the toughest of the Escapees, and I’d managed to do it without anyone getting killed. Was this what Sloane had been trying to show me? That his methods could produce better results? But hadn’t he been about to shoot the Father? But if he’d wanted to kill the Father, couldn’t he have done it easily from across the room? I’d seen what he’d done to the Protean—a man that could put two bolts through the eye of a charging target at fifteen yards could certainly take down a middle-aged man standing still in a well-lit room.

  “This was a test. Of me. You wanted to see what I would do.”

  “I had a dozen Agents with concussion grenades surrounding the building within seconds of your entry. There was never going to be a bloodbath in that room—unless you caused it,” Sloane said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, all trace of his manic personality gone. Had that been part of the act as well?

  I thought while we raced past the lights of RAF Northolt, and then I made up my mind. “I can get the Sigilum, but I’ve seen that I need your help to get past Cooper. I have a spell that will locate it, and then I’ll give you the location. I should be able to perform it tomorrow, after I’ve gathered the…ingredients,” I said, matching his quiet tone. There was a long pause, and I wondered if everybody I’d met lately was taking acting classes from William Shatner.

  I’d hoped for an immediate answer, but Sloane waited until we pulled up in front of my house. “An excellent choice. I’ll be there, on my word as a gentleman. We’ll discuss the disposition of the artifact after it is in our possession. But I promise you, if I get the Sigilum, I can stop the damned bloodsuckers. Good day, Mr. Adler, and I hope to hear from you soon.”

  I climbed out of the car, paused on my doorstep, and texted Badger that I’d need the museum copy of the Sigilum tomorrow. He pinged across that he’d arrange for us to be able to pick it up from the British Museum. When I got in, Dana was still awake, although she yawned like a lioness as I plopped onto the couch. I explained that I’d passed Sloane’s test, but that we’d need go get the fake Sigilum tomorrow. “Oh—let me get that. I’ve got some errands to run downtown anyway,” she said, some of the exhaustion disappearing at the prospect that we’d made some real progress today. I shifted over next to Dana and wound an arm around her, appreciating her presence.

  Thinking of all of the women that had been in danger tonight, I found my first instinct was to tell her to stay home, but last time I’d tried to keep her out of harm’s way, she’d ended up crashing a car into a restaurant to save me. It had been a rental. “Thanks, that’ll give me a chance to head to the hospital to check on Vir,” I replied, and she nodded approvingly. “But, Dana, what did you get up to today? How are you feeling?”

  My wife gave me a quizzical look. “I was…trying to track down which cemetery you’ve been seeing,” she said. My wife was smart, but she’d always been a lousy liar. Given what I’d put her through, I let it go and got ready to do some more homework, my thoughts swirling. My partner had been injured, there was a magical MacGuffin that I needed to track down to stop vampires and help my unborn child, Mia had me chasing after a dead king, and my massively pregnant wife was hiding something from me. Sweet dreams.

  ◆◆◆

  I had a surprisingly mundane dream that night, helping a middle-aged man get his family out of a house fire. I simply summoned up a fire truck with a load of firefighters and strolled out like a boss. I mentally expressed my gratitude again that the vampire dreams had stopped. When I woke up, Dana was already gone. She was s
ilent like a Florida Panther—provided those were real and not just the mascot of an ice hockey team. In which case, I guess I’d just say that she was very, very stealthy. I clumped out of bed, threw on a suit, and headed to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital to see Vir before work.

  Going to a hospital made me think about Dana and the baby. She had rested for just one day, and I was worried about her. She’d always been driven, but now I worried that her drive was going to take her over a cliff, and the baby along with her. The baby that might not be all right. I’d seen people changed, twisted by just a brief touch of extradimensional energy, and this child had been exposed to it for months from almost the moment of its conception. I couldn’t stop thinking of the scene from Alien with the chestburster, and I wasn’t sure how Dana could even sleep knowing what might be growing inside her. With an effort of will, I forced my thoughts away from that train of thought and focused on my destination.

  Chelsea and Westminster Hospital is a major teaching hospital with a budget of over three hundred million pounds. That budget is dwarfed by the value of the land that the generic-looking, glass-and-brick hospital sits on, and, as I strolled through the foyer, I was amazed that most of its clientele was made up of the general public. Hooray for single-payer healthcare. That’s not where I was going, though. The Sons of Perseus were going through a rough patch economically, organizationally, and politically, but they’d existed for over two thousand years, so their influence, and the power of compound interest, ran deep. In the case of Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, they had endowed a pair of teaching positions for the past twenty-something years. This all meant that in the private ward of the hospital, Vir’s room was less rat-infested hell and more Radisson Hotel.