by A. J. Vrana
He thought he was a danger to you.
Miya would have to win him back at any cost. He was her home, her one constant amid boundless dreams and finite reality alike.
She was the Dreamwalker. All she had in the world was her wolf under the willow.
12
MASON
“Your daughter was in West Virginia.”
The couple sitting across from Mason didn’t move. Raymond Delathorne blinked once, then twice.
“How do you know this?” he asked with a suspicious squint.
Mason’s fingers curled into the itchy flesh of his left arm. He could feel the mark burning under his sleeve. “She’s tracking events similar to those of Black Hollow.”
Andrea tilted her head to the side. “I don’t understand. What events?”
Mason’s expression turned dour. He’d noticed the Delathornes’ reluctance to acknowledge their town’s actions, but were they really so obtuse?
“Hauntings, possessions.” He paused, then added, “Violence.”
“You mean the Dreamwalker,” said Raymond.
Mason fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve. “I think she’s travelling across the country, going places where people claim spirits are causing problems.”
Raymond’s mouth opened and closed.
“I spoke with her friend, Hannah,” Mason continued. “She thinks Miya’s looking for situations like her own. To make sense of things.”
“But what’s there to make sense of?” Andrea asked.
The words of the entity that called itself a servant echoed in Mason’s mind.
Your god was born of violence, and to violence she will return.
Mason placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together as he leaned forward. “Mrs. Delathorne, you must understand something. Your daughter experienced a massive trauma. The whole town came after her. They tried to kill her under the guise of saving her. I was there, I saw it. The whole thing was unreal.” He tried to bite his tongue, but righteousness ensnared him like sweet nectar in a desert of depravity. “She had every right to leave the people who tried to end her life.”
Andrea pulled back, disarmed. Her brows knotted together as she averted her gaze, her eyes glassy. He’d struck a chord. Raymond reached around his wife’s shoulders and rubbed her arm.
“Dr. Evans, I appreciate your honesty,” he began, “and I understand that you yourself must have been deeply impacted by the ordeal.”
Mason swallowed. “Yes, I was.”
“Perhaps, then, you would be well-suited to approach our daughter.”
Mason’s head snapped up. “What?”
Raymond sighed and exchanged a forlorn glance with Andrea. “We’re concerned that if we approach Emiliya, she’ll run from us.”
Mason leaned back in his chair, staring idly out the window. Miya’s parents had supported the search party that attacked Kai’s cabin. Mason wasn’t innocent either; he was complicit in the townspeople’s actions, even if he told himself he was trying to find Miya before they did.
“We’d like to pay you to approach her for us,” Raymond reiterated. “She trusts you.”
Trust? Could it really be called that? Mason, Kai, and Miya had been united by circumstance—or was it fate? Either way, their alliance was one of necessity, not trust.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” answered Mason, the inside of his forearm blistering in pain. He ignored it. “I have a job here. Responsibilities. My patients need me.”
“Surely, they could be transferred to another oncologist?”
“No!” Mason fought to keep himself restrained—partly from the ache, and partly from Raymond Delathorne’s gall. “I have a good relationship with my patients. I can’t abandon them for a side project.”
Extending the shelf-life of an expiring mortal or chasing a living god? This is no quandary.
Mason bit the side of his tongue. The servant’s voice came more frequently now.
“I-I can’t,” Mason stammered, despite that neither Raymond nor Andrea had responded.
Raymond cleared his throat and straightened out his blazer. “How many patients do you have, Dr. Evans?”
“Two,” he responded meekly. “I’m on consult for a third.”
“Do you have any appointments scheduled with them?”
Mason clamped his mouth shut. Raymond was a conniving, manipulative son of a bitch. Was he trying to twist Mason’s arm? He wanted to lie, but the thought of Raymond calling his bluff was paralyzing. “I’m meeting one this week, the other two next month.” Ronnie was his only shaky case. The second was in remission, and the third had just come out of surgery; they had a long recovery ahead before Mason would be of any use.
Raymond smiled coolly. “Why not meet with your patient, then take some time off? Consider it a paid side job while you take a vacation from these beige walls. I will double your hourly and cover all expenses.”
“Most people make less than that in a year,” Mason protested. “Where are you even finding that kind of money?”
Andrea laid a hand over her husband’s. “Our money is worthless without Emiliya. What else are we to do with it? Money is a means to get what you want, and what we want is our daughter back.”
Mason picked up his pen and twirled it around his fingers. He didn’t know what else to do. Raymond had cornered him, left him with no excuse but a resounding, I don’t want to. Of course, that would’ve been a lie, and standing on crooked principle, Mason felt compelled to speak the truth. The mark on his arm tingled then, and he wondered if his swift turn to honesty was because of the entity accompanying him.
He didn’t want to say yes, but he found that he couldn’t say no.
“Fine,” he relented, though not without some edge. “But only for two weeks. I still have plenty of paperwork to do, and there will be new referrals coming in.”
Mason hadn’t taken time off since getting hired two years ago, after he returned from leave and finished his residency. The dean would approve a two-week vacation request, especially since he had few active files.
Raymond Delathorne seemed pleased with himself, his lips quirking. “Very good.” He turned to his wife, and they traded triumphant smiles.
“And please,” Mason interjected, “don’t double my hourly.” His voice dipped lower. “My conscience couldn’t take it.”
Raymond regarded him silently before responding, “Just your hourly, then.”
Mason dropped the pen and nodded. He felt sick. And excited. His desire for the answers coalesced with the pulsing terror of where they might lead him.
What if they took him straight off a cliff?
Truth in chaos, doctor. Peace in surrender. Wisdom and prophecy have never lent themselves to control. That is for small men, petty men, fearful men.
Mason’s eyes trailed up to meet Raymond Delathorne’s.
Are you a fearful man, doctor? Or are you a prophet on the cusp of revelation?
No, Mason thought. He wasn’t Raymond Delathorne—a man whose bone-hard façade barely concealed the maelstrom swirling beneath the surface. He was the last man on earth Mason wanted to be.
“I’m writing you a cheque for half the money now. You’ll get the rest when you’ve made contact with our daughter.” Raymond pulled a chequebook from his blazer and plucked the pen from Mason’s desk.
Mason waited, at a loss for how to proceed. By the time he gathered his bearings, the cheque was torn and placed in front of him. Ten thousand dollars, just like that. How could the Delathornes be so confident Mason would follow through with their request? What was stopping him from going on vacation and pretending to search for Miya? After all, he couldn’t promise them anything. If he failed, he simply wouldn’t receive the other ten grand.
The Delathornes didn’t strike Mason as trusting people. Where did their faith in his integrity come from? Beneath Raymond’s collected exterior, Mason detected a man on the verge. His recklessness betrayed the hairline fractures around the edges o
f his icy mask.
“Thank you,” Mason mumbled. “As soon as I finish my next appointment, I’ll purchase the airfare and send you the details.”
“Excellent,” said Raymond as he stood, and Andrea quickly followed suit. “I expect to hear from you soon.”
Mason nodded, his eyes scanning Andrea’s face for any sign of resistance, hesitation even. Was she comfortable wrangling a doctor into this misguided wild-goose chase?
Then again, was he being wrangled? Raymond had manipulated him, but there was more at play. Mason didn’t refuse the offer because he didn’t want to. For three years, he’d tried to snuff out the burning curiosity about what had happened to Miya and Kai. He’d thrown himself into his work, sublimating that destructive impulse to pursue truth at any cost. He’d saved lives in the process, and for the most part, it worked. But now, something had changed. Now, he had the servant.
Miya’s parents saw themselves out. Their certainty was unnerving. It reminded Mason of the man he used to be—the one whose ego had no room for the dregs of doubt.
Those days were over, and with good reason. His quest for certainty had nearly destroyed him. Mason Evans would never go back to scoffing at the unknown out of sheer arrogance. He no longer considered himself that kind of authority.
Yet he wanted more than humility. He was willing to accept outlandish explanations and supernatural intrigue so long as it gave him…something.
Mason pushed his chair back and walked over to his map. He knew Miya was no longer in West Virginia. He would always be one step behind.
“If I were a god of dreams, where would I go?” he mused.
He pressed his thumb to the map, tracing New York, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Miya didn’t abide by the constraints of time and space. She could be anywhere. But where would she want to be?
Jackson.
The map reverberated against Mason’s fingertips, and he jolted back. “What?”
Jackson, the voice repeated.
“Who’s Jackson?” Mason called out.
…Not a person. A place.
Mason glanced at the map, eyes scanning every state on the eastern seaboard.
West, the voice instructed. Now south.
Mason’s eyes fell on Mississippi—Jackson, Mississippi.
“Why there?” he demanded.
There was a pause. I know not the reason. I only know it is truth.
Mason sucked on his teeth. “That’s not a good enough reason for me to buy a plane ticket. I thought you didn’t know where she was?”
I do not know her exact location. I only read traces of the god. A reflection of a reflection. This is the closest I can bring you to the object in the mirror. I cannot do more until you open your mind.
Mason inhaled slowly. “You’re asking me to take a pretty big leap of faith here.”
What was it you thought earlier? That you would accept outlandish explanations and supernatural intrigue so long as it gave you something?
“This is absurd,” Mason hissed.
You have nothing else to grab hold of, young doctor. You are grasping at the divine, and you expect to grip it with mere flesh?
Mason gnashed his teeth. “Fine. Jackson, Mississippi it is. But how do I explain it to the parents?”
The entity considered this with a low hum. This world is overrun with those who are haunted, and that which haunts. I’m sure you will find a reason.
Sighing, Mason sank into his chair and searched for haunted locations in Jackson. Low and behold, there was no shortage, but one particular incident caught his attention: a murder case from Cypress Swamp—a wetland that stretched along the Pearl River some fifty kilometers northwest of Jackson.
A man had killed his wife, then testified that a demon made him do it. Grief-stricken after the murder, the husband committed suicide while in custody. The coroner’s office found no evidence of foul play. The defense was dismissed, and the perpetrator was diagnosed with a brief psychotic disorder.
Large wooded areas, claims of demonic possession, and women murdered by immediate family—it was more than enough for Mason to draw a parallel to Black Hollow.
A slow, unnerving chill crawled up his spine. He returned to the map and splayed his fingers over the jagged outline of Cypress Swamp. A winding ribbon of blue swirled through its center—the Pearl River. It cut south through Jackson and into Louisiana, cleaving through more sprawling swampland. Open your mind, the entity had said.
“It’s a road,” Mason realized, impressing his fingers into the glossy paper. His gaze trained on the pathway of drowned forest. He felt the tickle of Spanish moss and the smooth grooves of lotus leaves brushing against his hand. The air conditioner was on, yet a sticky, oppressive heat sopped his skin, and beads of sweat dribbled down his jaw. Mason shrugged one shoulder, wiping his face against his shirt to ease the gibing itch.
When he looked back up, foliage was sprouting from the map. The paper tore as vines sprung from the wall, and the screech of cicadas drowned the room. Yelping, Mason jumped back, but the sinewy stems shot after him, coiling around his wrists and reeling him in.
“N-no!” Mason protested, now pouring with sweat. Before he could call for help, he was yanked forward. Mason turned his face to prepare for impact, but instead of crashing with block-hard drywall, he was propelled through a barrier where his cool, dry office, sweetened by air freshener, collided with the humid stink of wildlife.
Heaving for breath, Mason’s eyes shot open as he was thrust into a shallow river the colour of mud. Flailing and wild with confusion, he pushed his head out of the pungent water. He was in a literal—and metaphorical—morass.
“Not this!” He spun around. “Anything but this!”
The price, the servant’s voice echoed, of truth.
“I don’t want this!” Mason kicked through the water, stumbling as he overestimated his strength.
Are you a simpleton, or a man of truth? the voice challenged. Are you a small man? A petty man? A fearful man?
Mason reached for a bow-like root curving out of the river. Leaning against it for support, he closed his eyes and fought to regain his senses. He knew there were worlds he couldn’t see. Surely, this was only a glimpse into one of them.
Look, the voice directed, and Mason did as he was told.
Something was caught in the umbrage between two gargantuan cypress trees—a woman, her face half-obscured in the shade. She was thin, hungry-looking. Her lips stretched over sharp, yellowing teeth, and her bulbous, reptilian eyes grew larger as her emaciated hand sought Mason. Her fingers spindled like spider legs before curling into a fist. She hooked her forefinger in a familiar gesture.
Come hither.
Trapped by her sorcery, Mason was pulled in like a fish on a lure, his body sluicing through the swamp at break-neck speed. He would have screamed if not for the insects splatting on his cheeks and the tree limbs battering his neck and forehead, leaving welts all over.
He’d lost sight of the woman, but it didn’t matter now. He just wanted it to stop.
When the blustering finally ceased, he was deposited at the edge of a river, the swamp at his back. There, wedged in the grass by the riverbank, was a bloody king of spades. Mason grasped for the card, only to have the ground fall out beneath him. He tumbled past a sign by a two-lane freeway—Orme’s Rest, it said. The green letters were faded and mottled with mud so dark, Mason wondered if it was the same dried blood staining the king of spades. He tried grabbing onto the signpost to stop his whirling descent, but his hands slipped as though covered in raw eggs. Then, he passed through the soil and crashed into the stiff, scratchy carpet of his office.
Mason jumped up like a frog that’d been dropped into a scalding pot. His clothes were soaked and browned from dirty water, algae poking out from his shoe. Everything smelled sour, and as Mason wiped his face, his hand came away coppery with blood. He’d seen the signs. They were brief, but nothing escaped his gaze.
Shaking with adrenaline, Mason
collapsed onto the floor and waited for his pulse to slow. The king of spades. Orme’s Rest.
Once Mason was sure he wouldn’t vomit all over himself, he dragged his deflated body back to his desk. He kept a change of clothes at work and quickly stripped away the residue of his vision. Drying off with a towel from his gym bag, he slipped on fresh attire and searched for the location of Orme’s Rest.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, but his mind rebelled like the first time he’d met Gavran.
Orme’s Rest was a small town in Louisiana, right on the edge of a swamp bordering the Pearl River—the one that wound north into Mississippi’s Cypress Swamp.
“All right,” Mason whispered to the room and the entity residing in it, “Louisiana it is.”
When there was no response, he leaned back in his chair and glanced at the map on his wall. The fissure where the foliage had erupted was still there. “What should I call you?”
A breeze knocked on the windows, the shrill whistle sinking to a low groan. As you have named me, Master.
Mason gasped as fire shot through his left arm. He tore at his sleeve, the buttons on his cuff flying loose as he yanked it apart. To the left of the crescent moon, another branded itself into his flesh. It was reversed like a mirror image—two moons reflecting one another.
I am the Servant.
13
KAI
Kai pressed his hand over the king and pushed past the doors of The Mangy Spade. After the bloodbath, he fled Mildred’s Guesthouse; the last thing he needed was a run-in with cops. He’d slept in an unkempt park on the edge of town, wedged between bushes where only the occasional possum roamed. As soon as the sun was high, he stalked back into Orme’s Rest. His jaw clenched as he put too much weight on his useless leg and struggled to hide the limp. Getting stabbed usually didn’t hurt much at first—felt more like a hefty punch than a shiv to the squishy bits, but Kai had sliced his leg open and fallen on it, and that had a way of kicking the shit out of his pain receptors. The worst of it had softened to a dull throb, but every so often, Kai would move funny, and his whole left side would go up in spitting hellfire. Now, his pants crinkled from the drying blood, his thigh sticky and irritated.
