by Tom DeLonge
Sam pushed his shoulder playfully. “You jerk,” she said. “First you borrow my pen and then you chased me down on the street to flirt with me. Next day at school, you acted like I was crazy. What’s your deal?”
Poet winced. “It’s not you,” he said. “I can’t remember my dreams when I wake up. I haven’t been able to since my parents died.”
“Your parents? Oh, my God, Poet.” Sam put her hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked down, not letting himself focus on the grief. “It was a while ago,” Poet said, quietly. “But now I’m trying to remember my dreams again. I have to.” His worry for Alan spiked again, and Poet closed his eyes.
“Poet,” Sam said, sounding alarmed. “Your hands.”
Poet looked down, surprised to find electricity zapping between his fingers. It didn’t hurt; it was a tingle, really. A hint of power, power he wanted to share.
He held out his hand and Sam looked between his face and the electricity. Poet nodded, and Sam slid her palm against his, her breath catching at the initial shock. She squeezed her fingers between his, and closed her eyes as the energy pulsed between them.
Poet watched her. He could feel her heartbeat, and see the rise and fall of her chest. She was so beautiful. “I want to kiss you,” he murmured.
Sam looked at him, the slight pink of nervousness rising on her cheeks. “That sounds like it could be fun,” she said.
Poet moved toward her, the anticipation nearly strangling him. His head was spinning with desire, possibilities. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted a girl so much as this.
Sam cursed suddenly and stepped out of his reach. Poet stumbled forward, his eyes widening. For a moment, the world around him shimmered, fading as if he was surrounded by ghosts, until it snapped back into focus.
“What’s wrong?” he asked Sam when he saw the stricken expression on her face. “I’m sorry. Did I—”
“No,” she said, reaching to take his hands. “It’s not you. You’re great. You’re…perfect.” She motioned behind him, and Poet turned to see the carousel flickering out until it was gone altogether. Erased. Sam was waking up.
Samantha stepped into Poet, wrapping her arms around his neck as she put her mouth next to his ear. “Remember me when you wake up,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek. Poet closed his eyes, but realized he couldn’t feel her lips on his skin.
When he looked again, Sam was gone.
Chapter Twelve
Jonas sat in English class, exhausted from a restless night of dreaming. The other students were taking a quiz on the first chapters of Frankenstein, but Jonas had finished early. He’d read Frankenstein at his last school, but when he went to turn in his paper, Mrs. Diaz had given him a doubtful expression and told him to recheck his work.
Now he was sitting at his desk, his eyelids heavy and the room a bleary haze of education around him. Jonas shifted position in the uncomfortable chair and leaned his elbow on the desktop, resting his cheek in his palm. He was drifting away, but with the feeling came a sense of dread. As if something was waiting for him. A monster.
Poet found himself in an alleyway, steam rising from the grates of the sewers, the stinging smell of trash in the air. He stopped, his shoes crunching on broken bits of glass, and turned to look behind him, wondering how he’d gotten here. And where exactly here was.
He was in a city—Genesis, he thought. But when he glanced behind him, he realized everything was quiet. No city noise, car engines, or people talking. He was alone. The more he looked, the more he realized he wasn’t in Genesis at all. The buildings were rusted metal, smoke stacks billowing and industrial. In the sky, different planets dotted between the stars. This was somewhere new.
Poet took a few tentative steps further down the alley. A shadow moved on the back wall, and he paused, taking in a breath. “Hello?” he called. At first there was no answer, and then a figure stepped out.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” the man said. REM stood in the center of the alley, and Poet realized that he could be called a man now. Although he was nearly eight feet tall, the mechanical parts of his face were partially covered with skin, more skin than he’d had previously. One of his eyes was human, and it was that one that Poet tried to concentrate on because the alternative was terrifying. “I must admit,” REM continued, holding out a metal hand, “I’m slightly alarmed at how easy it was for you to find me.”
“I didn’t find you,” Poet said, taking a step backwards.
“Of course you did,” REM replied. “You are in my dream.” REM didn’t approach him. He stayed calm and collected as he began to pace back and forth, watching Poet as if he were a skittish animal.
“But you’re not real,” Poet said, confused. “You’re not human—you can’t dream.”
“Can’t I?” REM asked, lifting his head as he looked down on Poet. “Why would you creatures be the only ones allowed to dream? We all have memories, boy. Is there such a difference between a memory and a dream?” He sneered as if guessing at his intentions. “Did you think I’d be vulnerable here?” he asked.
In the distance, there was a roar, deep and throaty. Angry and rabid. Poet swallowed hard, and darted his eyes around, his hands beginning to shake.
REM laughed. “You’re still afraid of your Night Terror,” he said. “You always have been.”
Poet narrowed his eyes. At the mention, the image of the snarling beast filtered into his head, and REM was right—he was afraid. “What does that have to do with you?” Poet asked, trying to sound brave.
“I can stop it,” REM offered. “Ever since your parents died, that Night Terror has been on your heels, chasing you all over the dreamscape. Wouldn’t you just like to dream, Poet? To be free of your nightmares?”
“Yeah, no offense,” Poet said, willing electricity to his fingertips, sliding them into his hoodie so REM wouldn’t notice, “but you don’t strike me as the kind and generous sort. Why would you offer to help me? What are you asking for in return?”
“Why, your loyalty, of course. You, an emerging Poet. You would be the crown jewel of my empire, stand above all of the Night Stalkers. After all, they have no souls—they can’t help me enter the Waking World. But you, my boy, with your powers…” He flashed a terrifying smile. “Think of the nightmares we could create.”
“I don’t think so,” Poet said, shaking his head. “I would never join you. You had to know that.”
REM’s smile faded and he folded his hands in front of him. “You’d be surprised how misery and fear can affect decision-making skills.” REM took a meaningful step forward, and Poet felt a zap of electricity in his pocket from his fingers. He had to wake himself up—he knew that.
“You’ve lost so much,” REM continued. “Your parents, your brother—how much more are you willing to lose? And if you don’t care about yourself, maybe consider the other people who you’ll destroy.” He stopped, his metal boots skidding on the cracked pavement. “Poets are notorious for killing the people who love them.”
Electricity began to race through Poet’s arm, burning, powerful, but he didn’t take his eyes off of REM, expecting him to leap forward and attack at any second. “The way I see it,” Poet said, “you’re the one who needs me—not the other way around.”
REM’s face hardened, rage building in his expression. “I’m going to dissect your brother,” he spat through pointed teeth.
Poet’s control fell away, and the electricity was an explosion through his system. He cried out as his skin fried and his eye sockets burned out. When he opened them, they were bright white. REM took a step back, tightening his human hand into a fist.
“I’m growing weary of your tantrums, boy,” REM growled.
“Sorry, REM,” Poet said, his hands in front of him with electricity snapping off his fingers, ready to defend himself. “But I’m not going to take your deal. I�
�ll kill my own Night Terror.”
REM smiled. “No you won’t,” he said. “And when you come back to me, begging me to spare the ones you love, I will tear the skin from their bodies. But maybe I’ll start with you!”
And suddenly, the formidable creature lunged in Poet’s direction. He only had a second, but Poet forced all of his energy out of his body at once, tearing a hole in the side of a building. He felt the blades of REM’s nails on the back of his calf, slicing his flesh, as he dove through the tunnel.
“Holy shit,” Jonas yelled, sitting up in his seat and knocking the books off his desk. There was an outburst of laughter, and the kid in front of him spun around, shocked. For a moment, Jonas was completely displaced, his heart racing, his leg aching.
“Mr. Anderson!” Mrs. Diaz snapped. “What are you doing?”
Jonas stood as he quickly apologized. The pain subsided. “I had a nightmare,” he said. His classmates chuckled at how juvenile it sounded, but they didn’t have the nightmare he just did. Jonas ran his palm over his face, the dream fading. He caught his breath and grabbed his test to hand in.
He noticed Samantha Birnam-Wood in the desk behind his, sitting forward and staring at him intently, like she wanted to tell him something. The smell of her perfume, the way she licked her lips—in short, she was driving him nuts.
Jonas turned away and approached his teacher, who was still shocked by his outburst. He apologized again, and she gave him a stern look and tore the paper from his hand and scanned his test. Jonas felt a bit justified when her expression softened with surprise as she read the right answers.
“Can I have a pass for the restroom?” he asked.
“Don’t sleep in my class again,” she warned, and wrote the pass, checking his test again and looking impressed. Jonas opened the door, but something made him turn around, and when he did, he found Samantha still staring at him. Her long hair was twisted into a braid at her neck, her diamond studs sparkling under the bright fluorescent lights of the room. She flashed him a private smile and then checked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Jonas raised his eyebrows, thoroughly perplexed, and walked out into the empty hallway.
The last class of the day was study hall, and Jonas asked to go to the library. The teacher happily complied, glad to have one less student in the classroom to manage.
The library was mostly deserted, except for a few seniors who used it to meet up in the book stacks and whisper about their day. Jonas took a table toward the back, and spread out his books, hoping to at least finish his English assignment for tomorrow.
A shadow fell over him, and Jonas lifted his head just as Samantha Birnam-Wood sat down across from him at the table. He immediately straightened, and took a cautious glance around. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
Samantha pulled a book out of her bag, and opened to what appeared to be a random page. “Reading,” she said calmly. “Obviously.”
Jonas stared at her, his emotions competing. Although part of him wanted her company, he certainly didn’t feel like getting his face punched in by her boyfriend who couldn’t even stand for Jonas to look at his car.
“Is this some sort of game with you?” he asked. Samantha lowered her novel, offended. “Did your boyfriend put you up to this?”
“Who, Dan?” she asked, curling her lip. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just…a guy I know. Besides,” she said, motioning between them. “I’m not the one playing games.”
Jonas scoffed, sitting back hard against the chair. “And I am? I only borrowed your pen.”
“You—”
“Shh!” the librarian whispered from behind the reference desk.
Samantha quickly apologized to the librarian and went back to her book, sinking down slightly in her chair. No one else seemed to notice them sitting together, and Jonas felt eased, taking the moment to check her out. Damn, he liked being this close to her. He leaned into the table, but before he could get a word out, Samantha lifted her eyes to his.
“Call me Sam,” she said. “And we should hang out. Outside of school.”
The statement caught him off guard, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Okay…Sam,” he said. “And why would we do that? Just so I’m clear.”
Sam paused a long moment, then rounded her lips like she’d just had a realization. “That’s right,” she said, sounding relieved. “You can’t remember your dreams. I thought you were just being a dick.”
Jonas sat up straighter, alarmed. “How did you know that?”
“Because you told me last night,” she said. “We know each other, Jonas. We meet in our dreams.”
Jonas’s heart started racing at the idea that Sam could fill some of the gaps between his waking and dream life. And maybe he was imagining it, but he thought there was more to them, too. It would make sense because it was either that or Sam was seriously into him after speaking to him twice.
“What else have I told you?” Jonas asked. He hoped he’d mentioned Alan. Maybe mentioned knowing where he could be in the dreamscape.
“You told me your parents died.” Her expression softened. “I’m sorry about that.”
Fuck. He didn’t expect the swift pain that hit his chest and he lowered his eyes, his hands resting on the library table. “What else?” he asked.
Sam paused, looking apologetic as if she knew she’d hurt him. “I know you’re Poet Anderson and that you can walk through my dreams. You hate clowns and carousels, apparently.”
Jonas looked up, studying her expression as his fingers ached to touch her. As he ached to kiss her. Sam took a cautious glance around and leaned forward.
“I know you want to kiss me,” she whispered.
“Okay, yeah we should get out of here,” Jonas said abruptly, standing and gathering his books. He was a little out of breath and afraid another minute at this table would impede his ability to stand for a while. Sam looked pleased to have gotten through to him, and snapped her novel shut before getting up.
“Perfect,” she said calmly, although Jonas noted the smile she was trying to disguise.
Samantha and Jonas started toward the exit, telling the librarian they were finished and heading back to class. Instead, they took a turn toward the back doors near the auditorium.
At first, they didn’t say anything, but then Sam hugged her book to her chest and glanced sideways at Jonas. “I can help, you know,” she said. “Help you start remembering. I thought about it all day, and I decided it could work. I’ll be your data backup, taking notes when I wake up and then talk you through them. I don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but it seemed important. And…I want to help.”
“So you want me to trust you with my dreams?” he asked, debating telling her about Alan, about how he’d lost everything and was living in the basement of a hotel. “I don’t even know you, Samantha.”
“You do know me, though,” she said, sounding slightly wounded. “We’re getting to know each other.” She smiled sadly. “You’re the one who found me, Jonas. Tracked me down twice. You trust me there, so you should trust me here.”
The bell signaling the end of day rang, and Samantha grabbed his arm and pulled him quickly toward the exit doors. “We have to hurry to my car,” she said. “Before Daniel sees us.”
Jonas gritted his teeth, his affection for her waning. “I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” he challenged. He stopped at the doors and she stumbled a step and turned back to him just as the halls flooded with people. When she read his expression, she looked defeated.
“Please just trust me on this,” she said, not letting go of his shirt. “I’ll explain it all, but we have to go now.”
Jonas watched her anxiety increase with the oncoming students. “Where is this going, Sam?” he asked. “Meeting up in secret? Not my style. Not yours either if you’re trying to be perfect.”
&n
bsp; Sam tightened her grip on his shirt and took a step toward Jonas, startling him. “I’m not perfect,” she said in a low voice. “But I know how to blend in…something you could really work on.”
He had to admit that her intensity was insanely hot, and it sent his imagination reeling. He smiled. “With this face?” he said, pointing at himself. “How could I ever blend in?”
Samantha laughed, and loosened her grip, still standing close—too close for school. Her eyes sparkled as she looked him over and Jonas had the urge to touch her, feel her skin. “I see your point,” she murmured. “But you can definitely try harder. Now let’s go.” She turned and pushed open the exit doors, and Jonas followed behind her.
Samantha’s car was parked in the back lot instead of in front of the school. He wondered if she knew she’d get him to leave with her when she arrived.
Sam had a Mercedes, typical rich girl bullshit, but at least it was an older model—one of the classics. When she rounded the hood to get in the driver’s side, Jonas took a moment to admire the frame, running his eyes along it. “What year is this?” he asked, meeting Sam’s gaze over the top of the car.
“I have no idea,” she said. “It’s my father’s car. He’s had it for as long as I can remember.”
“It’s vintage,” Jonas said.
“Awesome,” Sam replied with fake enthusiasm. He laughed, and opened the door and got inside, checking over the interior. Sam got behind the wheel and when she turned to him, Jonas grinned.
“It’s a really nice fucking car,” he said.
“It should be,” she said, turning over the engine. “He’s had it restored twice. I think he’s had it since he was a teenager.” Sam checked her mirrors, and then with a hesitant look at Jonas, she backed out of the parking space and headed out of the school lot.
Her look reminded Jonas that they were sneaking around, and the idea that she was ashamed to be seen with him pissed him off. He turned to watch her, trying to figure Sam out. “I know you told me that guy isn’t your boyfriend,” he started when they got onto the street, “but he seemed to think so.”
