The Echoed Realm

by A. J. Vrana

  “Ama,” he finally managed.

  “It’s been a while. Three years, is it? You seem well.”

  Mason whipped his drawer open and sifted through until he found the fractured, iridescent rock, then held it up to the light. “Gavran broke it.” He sounded accusatory. A specific raven had pilfered half the stone while Mason was unconscious in the hospital.

  “It’s not yours,” Ama replied. “I don’t think Gavran expected you to be so possessive of it.”

  Mason chuckled. “And here you are offering to tell my fortune?”

  Ama shrugged. “If you’d like.”

  “Is that wise? Telling someone like me the future? You know I’d just drive myself crazy trying to change it.”

  The wolf’s smile fell away as she regarded him. “You’ve changed.”

  Mason tutted. His eyes were hollowed out by dark memories. “It would be absurd not to change. I was the only one who survived.”

  “You were the only one who remained,” Ama corrected.

  Mason waved her off. “Semantics. Why are you here, anyway? I haven’t gone rambling about your secrets.”

  Ama blinked, feigning innocence. “Just saying hi to an old friend.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Ama only replied, “You didn’t believe in her either.”

  “You mean the Dreamwalker?” If he was to trust what he’d seen, then Miya and Kai were alive. Besides, their bodies were never recovered.

  “She needs that stone in your hands more than you do,” said Ama. “But Gavran understands you need it too. That’s why he broke it.”

  Mason sighed. “You’ll have to give me more than a riddle, Ama.”

  Sombre clouds drifted over the sun, and her honey eyes seemed to glow as a shadow drew over the room. “A storm approaches,” she warned. “Guard the stone. Keep it close until the time comes.”

  “The time for what?”

  Her lips quirked, a single pointed tooth gleaming on her lip. “To make her whole.”

  A knock sounded on the door, jostling Mason from the white wolf’s spell. “Come in!” he stammered, swatting at the papers on his desk.

  “Ama, you should probably—” step out, he was going to say, but she’d disappeared like an apparition. Had she really been there at all?

  “Dr. Evans?” someone called from the now open door. “Apologies for the intrusion. Are you busy?”

  “No, please, come in,” Mason stood and gestured to the empty chairs in front of his desk.

  A middle-aged couple poured in. He knew the man from somewhere—his tall, lanky frame and salt and pepper hair—but Mason couldn’t place him. The man guided his wife to one of the chairs, then unbuttoned his suede jacket and sat in the other.

  “We apologize for taking time from your work,” the man started. His green eyes met Mason’s. “My name is Raymond Delathorne, and this is my wife, Andrea.” He extended a hand, which Mason hesitantly shook.

  Andrea remained silent, offering a ghost of a smile. Tired circles rimmed her lashes, and she wrung her hands together as she pressed her elbows against the armrests. Wavy black tresses framed a stunning heart-shaped face, and Mason imagined her bronze skin glowed like the sun when she was well-rested.

  He remembered thinking Miya looked nothing like her father, and now he understood why.

  “Delathorne,” Mason breathed out.

  “Yes,” said Raymond. “You may remember our daughter, Emiliya.”

  Sweat pooled at the back of Mason’s neck. Why were they here? The events of that night were so long ago, yet still so fresh. “I—”

  “We believe our daughter is still alive.” Andrea finally spoke for herself. “Her body was never found.”

  “That’s not uncommon in missing persons cases.” A gut-level urge to squash their hopes overcame Mason. He knew Miya was alive, somewhere, but Andrea and Raymond Delathorne were probably better off believing otherwise.

  “No,” Andrea replied. “She’s not dead. There’ve been sightings, reliable ones. Her best friend saw her in New York.”

  “New York?” Mason’s eyes darted between the couple.

  “Her friend, Hannah, moved there from Burnaby last year for work,” Raymond explained. “We hadn’t heard from her in years, but several weeks ago, she called us out of the blue.”

  “We were skeptical,” said Andrea, “but Hannah insisted. She said she was certain.”

  Certain enough to stir the grief back up. Perhaps Mason’s attempt to cast doubt wasn’t for Miya’s parents’ sake. There wasn’t a single day that went by without Mason fighting the impulse to investigate. No, it wasn’t her parents who would’ve been better off thinking their daughter was dead. It was Mason.

  “That’s wonderful news,” he feigned with a tense smile. “But, may I ask, what’s this got to do with me?”

  Raymond’s mouth twisted like he was perturbed that Mason hadn’t gleaned their purpose. “You were the last person to see her alive.”

  Mason swallowed. “I was?”

  “That’s what the police report says, on the basis that you were the only surviving witness that day.”

  “Right,” Mason exhaled.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Evans?” Raymond’s concern struck Mason as artificial.

  “Hon, take it easy.” Andrea unclasped her hands to touch her husband’s arm. “I’m sure it’s a traumatic memory for him as well.”

  Mason hung his head, and his façade peeled away. “I spent a year in therapy after that night, coming to grips with what happened.”

  “And what did happen?” pressed Raymond.

  Mason strained a laugh. “Well, that’s just it. Turns out, coming to terms with what happened is impossible, because I have no idea what the hell happened. What I really had to come to terms with was not knowing. I had to accept that I’d never know.” Saying it out loud made his voice quake with resentment. He still hadn’t accepted it; he’d simply learned to suppress it.

  “Would you be willing to share your experience?” asked Andrea, leaning forward in anticipation. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be, but if there’s anything—”

  “Nothing that could help you find Miya,” Mason interjected, then added after a pause, “It was the town’s fault. They didn’t see her when she was right in front of them. They were going to kill her.” He skipped the part about Raymond being complicit.

  Andrea pulled back like his words had struck her across the face. Raymond was still as stone, his knuckles paling as he clutched the armrests. The expectation of propriety wore thin.

  “If Miya’s out there and hasn’t come back by now, it’s because she doesn’t want to be found,” Mason said.

  “I see.” Raymond eased his grip and stood. “You have a point, Dr. Evans.”

  The concession caught Mason off guard. When Raymond roused the crowd at the church, declaring that Miya had been taken by something out in the woods, Mason reckoned he was dealing with an austere man who had little capacity for self-reflection.

  “I wasn’t there enough. Work preoccupied me, and I failed as a father when my daughter needed me.” He nodded to Andrea, who rose to her feet and joined her husband. “But we cannot overcome this if we pretend to be dead to one another.”

  “Dr. Evans, if you’d be willing to help us in any way, you are always welcome.” Andrea’s invitation sounded more like a plea. “We’re working alone—just two heartbroken parents trying to find their missing girl. The police can’t be bothered with a cold case, and our PI has lost interest. You must understand, you’re our only lead at this point.”

  Mason ran his hands over his face and tried to swallow down the guilt. How many nights had he spent thinking about what he could’ve done differently? How many hundreds of times had he replayed the memories until he wasn’t sure which parts he’d embellished and which were accurate? “I understand, Mrs. Delathorne. And I’ll consider your proposal,” he lied.

  This seemed to appease her; she smiled brightly, her
face coming alive with hope. “Thank you.”

  Raymond opened the door for his wife, then stalled on his way out. “It’s interesting.” He glanced back. “According to the police report, you didn’t know our daughter at all.”

  Mason looked up from his paperwork, perplexed by the comment. “I didn’t.”

  Raymond Delathorne caught him with the edge of a cold smile. “Yet only her friends know to call her Miya.”

  Before Mason could respond, Raymond stepped out and shut the door behind him.

  As sharp as his daughter, Mason thought with a rueful chuckle, though his insides were churning. It was a threat—a hostile gesture belied by a calm, calculating exterior.

  Bubbling under the thin membrane of alarm was a bone-deep ache, a ravenous hunger he’d been ignoring for three years. His appetite for the truth had yet to be slaked. Again, he found himself bouncing between the stages of grief, fumbling towards acceptance but finding only a sopping illusion of it. It was a consolation prize—another kind of denial.

  If I could just have something, he bargained with the empty room. Anything.

  But at what price?

  “I don’t care,” he said aloud, his voice cracking. “I survived last time, didn’t I? What more harm could come from some truth—a taste of closure?”

  A searing pain on Mason’s left arm severed him from the tangled web of emotions tugging loose. He unbuttoned his cuff and yanked up his sleeve. At the inside of his elbow, pink, swollen flesh framed a black crescent moon. It looked like a fresh tattoo, yet it burned like hot coals.

  “What the hell?” He pressed his finger to the sickle, jolting as fire shot down his arm. The mark was hot to the touch like it’d been branded into his skin. He heard a whisper from his periphery and knocked his chair back as he shot to his feet.

  “Ama?”

  No response. The room darkled, shadows lurked in every corner, and something lurked in the shadows.

  Get a grip, Mason tried calming himself, then snatched up the dream stone and clutched it tightly in his hand.

  A voice crept into him.

  To what does one grip, young doctor, when there is nothing left to hold on to?

  4

  KAI

  Kai wasn’t one for long stretches of sleep. The human custom of conking out for a third of the day seemed tedious, if not dangerous. Naps kept him alert; if Shit were to meet Fan, he’d have no trouble evading the spatter. A wolf always had to be ready.

  Kai was wrenched from slumber when Miya ploughed upright, then toppled over like a freshman at a kegger.

  “You all right, Lambchop?” He squinted through the dregs of sleep.

  Tears framed her eyes. Pushing Kai’s arm away, she sat up and pressed her hands over her face, her breath falling heavy against her palms. Clumps of mushed-up grass streaked her forearms.

  “The dreams are getting worse,” she told him. “I still can’t control it.”

  Kai propped himself up on his elbow. “Got lost again?”

  Miya nodded. “Never anywhere nice, either.” She scooted closer and rested her forehead against his shoulder, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She was there again.”

  “The DW?” Kai liked the shorthand. Black Hollow had branded her name a slur, but the acronym made it sound tender to his ears again. He hoped it did the same for Miya.

  Her breath tickled his skin. “Yeah, but it makes no sense. I am the Dreamwalker.”

  “Maybe your past life just wants to gossip?” Kai offered. “Either way, nothing makes sense here. Who the hell dreams in a dream world?”

  “Me, apparently,” she scoffed. “Every time I fall asleep, I hear something—like a dripping faucet. I try to ignore it, but it pulls me in, and it always leads to a monster. I see the monster, and the monster sees me.” She plucked a clover from the flattened grass. “I think she’s trying to protect me because I have no clue what I’m doing yet.”

  It’d been like this since Black Hollow; every time Miya dreamt, she was pulled to the things that go bump in the night. Honing the Dreamwalker’s abilities didn’t come with a manual, and no matter how hard she tried perfecting her technique, the results proved erratic. It was as much of an art form as a five-year-old finger painting on a housecat.

  Their clumsy shambling hadn’t all been futile, though. Three years ago, Miya’s blood spattering the king of spades had thrust Kai into the dreamscape while Abaddon tortured her in a nightmare. It’d been an accident then. Now, she’d harnessed that ritual, using the card and her blood as a catalyst to tear the seam of reality and push them both to the other side—literally. Still, the ride was bumpy, and Kai often wondered if he’d one day find himself rearranged like a mangled doll with its limbs stitched on wrong.

  Kai’s arms tightened around her. “You’ll learn.”

  “Will I?” Miya questioned. “She tells me to hunt them so they don’t hunt me, but I’m sick of dragging myself back and forth just to play exterminator. I never meant for us to become some demon-hunting duo!”

  “At least you can go back,” Kai’s voice dipped. “You have that option.”

  Shit. The words were out before he could stop them. He’d been stuck in this three-legged race for years, though it sometimes felt like Miya was the one racing, with Kai getting dragged on his ass behind her. Realizing he was tethered to his partner right after dislodging Abaddon was like getting cudgeled by a giant chain-link. He coped well enough at first; he liked his Lambchop, and after a decade of solitude, the companionship was welcome. When it became clear that they weren’t finding any answers—not to the why or the how the fuck do we make it stop—Kai’s prickly frustration grew into something more cutting, and he didn’t like where it was pointed.

  Miya’s face twisted with…guilt? Regret? Kai couldn’t always tell the difference. Feelings were layered, weaving into a larger tapestry until the threads were indiscernible, but tapestries had patterns, and with enough practice, he’d learned to recognize them. Kai saw her lips part to apologize and stopped them with his own. He crashed his mouth to hers and devoured the rift between them, along with the guilt and regret trapped there.

  She didn’t question it, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him over her.

  “It’s fine,” he said, then flashed her a wolfish grin, “because you’re taking me to start a bar brawl.”

  “Yes,” a voice drawled from behind. “Take your puppy to the park. He could use some exercise.”

  Kai was up and snarling by the second syllable. Crouched over Miya, he glowered at their uninvited guest at the top of the hill: a skinny kid he recognized too quickly for his liking—a raven wearing a corpse. He was a ventriloquist tugging strings from inside his own doll. Miya called him Kafka-the-boy, but Kai knew that wasn’t his real name.

  The little shit gave Kai a toothy grin, and his inky irises glistened with glee. Teeth and claws are no match for wings, his face said.

  “It’s been a long time, Dreamwalker.” The words were directed at Miya, though his gaze remained fixed on Kai, staring him down.

  Kai thought back to that grisly night in his cabin. The black mist puppeteering the bloodthirsty mob had crashed against the Dreamwalker’s apparition while she and her raven stood guard over Miya’s comatose body. The spirit united with the girl, and with the raven’s help, plucked Kai from his violent battle and hurled him into the dreamscape. He’d woken up alone in the ethereal plane, determined to wait under the willow until Miya found him again. To Black Hollow, they’d vanished into thin air. Miya had become the Dreamwalker, and the remnants of the spectre that’d saved them existed only as an ancestral voice, bossing his Lambchop around in her sleep.

  Then, the nightmares started, and the monsters they featured were very real. Three years and a dozen dead demons later, they were no closer to finding a way off the hamster wheel.

  Miya pulled herself to her feet. “I haven’t seen you since I arrived. I know you’ve been watching over me, Kafka.”

  The sk
in-bag shuddered in delight, his hair bristling like feathers. “Gavran,” he hissed. “I’m a raven, not a crow.”

  Kai heard Miya’s heart squeeze behind her ribs. She knew the name. Kai did too, but not because he’d heard it before. It was carved into Kai’s heart like a scar, and the mention of it made the lesions ache with familiarity.

  “Gavran,” Miya breathed out like she was testing how it sounded.

  “Take me to the Emerald Shade,” said the kid.

  Miya tilted her head. “What’s that?”

  “The willow tree.” At least, Kai thought so. The leaves on its whip-like branches reminded him of green shards, and the cool shade underneath was the perfect place to come to after a nasty bender.

  Gavran smiled so widely Kai thought the corners of his mouth might tear. “Lead the way, pup.”

  Kai wanted to rip Gavran’s head clean off that noodle-thin neck, but he resisted. The raven was their only anchor to this place, and he’d finally shown his face after Kai and Miya had been unceremoniously dropped into the dreamscape three years ago. Miya scrutinized Gavran like she was trying to dissect him, tease apart the fleshy exterior and find his core. If anyone could do it, she could.

  Kai turned on his heels, glared over his shoulder, and disappeared through the barrier of closely-knit trees bordering the hillside. Miya’s footfalls softly followed, but the forest demanded attention even in the dreamscape. One misstep, one momentary lapse in focus, and the damn labyrinth would rearrange itself. The trees’ bony arms reached for one another, twining and tugging until the shadows shifted and the earth moved.

  The hanging star curled beneath the horizon, and night blanketed the sky like a spotless curtain torn by a sickle moon. Kai’s eyes trailed the grove of birch trees hugging the oak with fire-red leaves. They burned even in the dark, and he could have sworn he saw pieces of ashen bark flaking away like scorched paper.

  In a world that looked like an endless acid trip, his nose led the way as it always had. The willow smelled different from the wet, earthy odour of the forest. Its scent was sweeter, subtler, like a pleasant memory from a different life, and it was strongest after moonrise when the darkness swallowed the shadows.