by A. J. Vrana
“Yes,” came his stony reply as he moved soundlessly into the small space. He smiled when she jumped around and sized him up. “I’m not a psychopath,” he told her evenly. “Unless you’re thinking of knifing me in the balls when I’m not looking, you’re safe.”
“And you really had nothing to do with Elle Robinson’s disappearance?”
“Well, I could be lying, but,” he slapped his hand over his chest and winked, “no girl but you has ever come back to my cabin.”
She seemed to relax, her fluttering pulse lulling to a soft, steady beat. “Good,” she smiled. “I’d hate to think we bonded over Brenda’s eyebrows for nothing.”
Pleased that her anxiety had subsided, Kai put his hand out to her. “Good. Now, how about you step out of my kill room?”
“Sounds reasonable,” she chuckled, accepting the gesture.
He led her out, then let go of her hand and ambled to the window where he slept, haphazardly spreading the crumpled blankets over the old mattress. He plopped down and thumped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and drifting off. All day he’d been resisting the exhaustion.
“Gonna sleep?” he heard her ask from across the room.
“So long as you don’t jump me, yes.”
“Can I?” There was a hint of mischief in her voice.
“Knock yourself out,” he yawned. “Might be the only way to keep me conscious.” The urge to nap was fast taking over—the warm stillness numbing his senses—when he felt a sudden rush of exuberance coming from the bloody lamb. His eyes shot open just in time to see her leaping towards him.
“Incoming!” she called out, poking him in the ribs.
He grunted as he felt the jab in his side, then grabbed her wrists and held them firmly, the impulsive gesture turning playful as he dared her to break free with his eyes.
Catching on to his game, she tugged against his hold, earning herself a roguish grin when her attempt yielded no result. As her efforts grew more vigorous, his desire to sleep quickly dissipated, and they tumbled into a wrestling match. It may have been painfully one-sided, with the lamb kicking, squealing, and trying to squirm her way out of slaughter, but it was a hell of a lot more gratifying than pummelling alcoholic deadbeats and going home with faceless women drenched in cheap perfume. Feigning boredom, he transferred her wrists to one hand and lazily scratched his side to make his point.
“I could do this all day, Lambchop,” he teased, dodging a foot as she wildly swung her limbs in rebellion.
Laughing, he hoisted her up against his chest, his free arm wrapping around her waist and holding her securely as he hooked his ankles over hers—just in case she tried to take his head off again.
Her protests quickly dissolved into giggles, her futile struggle gradually subsiding until she finally settled down and accepted her fate. Heaving from exertion, she flopped back against his chest for a break.
It felt so natural, being close to another person in the midst of play—like it was a fundamental impulse he’d never had the chance to explore. For the first time since feeling that gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach, the hunger was at least a little bit satiated.
Slumping against the wall and lolling his head back, his eyes began to flutter shut, the sound of her steady breathing washing the tension from his body. But she soon disturbed the peace. She wriggled around to try and face him, so he relaxed his grip and sat up. Her pulse quickened as they came nose to nose, and something deep inside him stirred.
Her lips grazed his jaw, the sensation disarming. His face hovered a feather’s touch away as his arm curled tightly around her waist. He brushed his nose along her cheek and down the length of her neck, a low growl reverberating from his throat as his teeth kissed the warm skin just under her jaw. The light touch reaped a gasp as she drew closer against him.
But he was only given a brief moment to indulge in the effect he was having on her. A movement outside had him jerk back. He turned to face the door, putting himself between his lamb and whatever was on the other side. The scent was familiar—a thorn in his side he’d been hoping would leave him alone. Without so much as a knock, the door swung open, revealing the dark silhouette of a woman, the details of her form obscured by the gleaming sun behind her.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” she asked sweetly, lingering by the doorframe like an ominous threat.
“Who’s that?” Miya whispered, peeking around his arm.
Treating the question as an invitation, the intruder stepped into the wolf’s den, the shadows lifting from her face.
“An annoying bitch,” Kai groused under his breath and leaned forward like he was preparing to lunge at her throat.
Ignoring him, the woman’s piercing amber eyes fixated on the human girl. “Ama,” she said simply.
“Holy shit, she’s one of yours!” came the excited hiss from behind him. Miya’s heart was racing now, her breath catching in her throat as she moved close and pressed herself against his back.
The she-wolf canted her head in response, no doubt impressed she’d been found out so quickly.
“It’s the eyes,” the girl explained, touching her cheek to the back of Kai’s shoulder. “They reflect light, like an animal’s.”
Clever girl. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. Or they would have told themselves they were on a bad acid trip. Kai counted on people’s tendency to bolt past what they couldn’t rationally explain. It was a stupid but fortunate practice of the so-called modern folk; they happily ignored the obvious to keep hold of what was comfortable.
It was superstitious half-wits—equally delusional in their beliefs—that posed a bigger threat. But it wasn’t because they were right; they were simply willing to listen to their fears—and that made them dangerous.
The lamb, on the other hand, was obsessed enough with her own fantasy to keep one foot in each world.
A wide, elfish grin spread across Ama’s face as she was called out. “You sure you can handle this one?” The question was directed at Kai. “She’s too smart for you.”
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, not in the mood for her riddles.
Undeterred, she took another step forward and circled around to the table. “I came to meet your friend,” she said as though it were obvious.
“Do we know each other?” Miya interjected, her weight lifting from his back.
“Perhaps.” It was as cryptic a response as ever, but Kai sensed a sliver of sincerity. “I was hoping to give some clarity on that. I promise I mean no harm.”
Her tone was softer now, coaxing even. Kai straightened and rolled back his shoulders. “Then clarify, if that’s what you’re here for.”
“Your presence isn’t ideal.” Ama smiled—almost apologetic, but not quite. “Would you mind leaving?”
“I’d rather stick my dick in a pencil sharpener.”
“Sadly, I don’t have one on hand,” she sighed. “I suppose Miya and I will have to go for a walk while you try to acquire one.” Her gaze shifted to the girl, questioning and hopeful.
“You don’t have to do anything she says.” Kai turned to Miya, feeling her anxiety mount under the pressure.
“I know,” she said. “I’m curious to see what she wants.” She stood up and left his side to address the white-haired beast. “We won’t go far. If something happens, he’ll know.”
“He will,” Ama agreed. “As I said, you have nothing to worry about. I’m here to help.”
The lamb remained unmoved. “How do you know my name?”
Ama smiled coolly. “A little bird told me.”
“A bird?” Miya blinked before her eyes flashed with recognition. “You mean the raven?”
The she-wolf glanced at a seething Kai, brooding in his corner. “Observant little human.” She turned back to Miya, stepping to the side and extending an arm towards the door. “Shall we?”
Miya nodded and followed the white wolf away from the haven of the black wolf’s den. He watched them step o
ut into the forest, the girl turning and smiling faintly before she shut the door behind her. He listened to their footsteps fade, his eyes searing through the wall as though he could see their figures on the other side. He sat motionless until he knew they’d been swallowed by the maze of trees that no living man could navigate without the sense of an animal. So long as Miya was with one of them, she would be safe. Perhaps even safer with Ama than with him. After all, he had his own demons to fight, and he had no doubt what would happen while she was gone.
He knew Abaddon would soon be making up for lost time.
29
Mason
Since childhood, Mason had little trouble falling asleep. His mind would sink into darkness, rarely distressing him with the afterimages of his hopes and fears. His dream life was, for better or for worse, not very rich. But that all changed since coming to Black Hollow. As if the incessant, racing thoughts during the day weren’t enough, his mind continued its ceaseless prodding while he slept. When he’d close his eyes, he’d see a young woman passing under the branches of the great willow. And every time she did, there’d be a shadow there—its shape indiscernible, though its intention clear; it was waiting for the girl.
Each time the shadow appeared, Mason would fight the dream, trying to slow its progression so he could make out what he was seeing—though he never had enough time. No matter how hard he tried, he always woke up just as he was on the verge of understanding what the shadow belonged to. Even though Annabelle had already told him, his mind simply wouldn’t accept it. It didn’t make sense.
He was plagued by this vision. The sequence would repeat itself for the entirety of the night until Mason awoke to the bright gold of morning sunlight streaming through his window. The last thing he’d see was the shadow—always lingering in the same place with unwavering patience. And every time it vanished, Mason knew he was too late. If only he could go back for a fraction of a second longer, he’d find his answer—one that was more satisfactory than what he’d already been told.
Mason couldn’t understand why he was so troubled by something he didn’t buy into. Was superstition finally slipping through the cracks?
The morning after his conversation with Annabelle, he was startled awake by his cell phone vibrating against his hand. The vision was sucked away, disappearing into the black hole of his subconscious. Fighting to open his eyes, Mason groaned sleepily as he groped around the mattress.
“Hello?”
“Hey, you awake Cap?”
Mason sat up, running a hand through his tangled curls. They were knotted together from a rough sleep. “Jaz? Why are you up so early?”
“I’m a nurse, remember?” She snorted on the other end. “Crazy, messed-up hours four times a week. Not even God knows when I’ll be awake.”
He glanced towards his bedside table—almost seven o’clock. “Wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t a Saturday.”
“Sorry, but I caught wind of something you might be interested in.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a town assembly today at ten, at the old church next to the community centre. It’s about the Dreamwalker, as bizarre as that might sound.”
He rubbed away the sleep keeping his eyelids glued shut. “What? Seriously? The town is actually calling a meeting over this? Who’s organizing?”
“A woman named Jenny. She’s pretty big on community initiatives.” He heard her munching on something—potato chips judging by the crunch. “I overheard some of the gals at the hospital talking. Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Wait—Jaz, you have to come with me. This is huge!” Mason swung his legs over the side of the bed.
There was a pause on the other end—hesitation, no doubt. “As much as I’m enjoying this rabbit hole of crazy, I have work, you know?”
“Right…” he trailed off, remembering that she was still responsible for people’s lives.
“Sorry, Cap. I’m with you in spirit, though.”
“Thanks, Jaz.” His voice was quiet, laced with the bitter reminder. “I think I’ll go check it out anyway.”
“I figured you would,” she scoffed. “Just be careful with these nutty bumpkins, yeah?”
“I will.”
With neither having anything left to say, Mason offered a goodbye and hung up the phone. He resisted the urge to spiral into self-doubt. He’d come too far to question, too far to consider whether this quest for the truth had morphed into something pathological.
“Better get ready,” he mumbled on autopilot. He spent at least forty-five minutes in the shower, killing time he would otherwise have to spend explaining himself to Annabelle. Towelling off, Mason let his hair air dry as he picked out his clothes. But it was only half-past eight, and he wouldn’t have to leave for another hour. He stared at his wardrobe; if he wanted to get into this meeting without arousing suspicion, he’d have to look unimpressive. Mason settled for his worn, faded jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a quilted vest.
When he finally snuck downstairs, he was grateful to find a note on the door from Annabelle, her impeccable cursive informing him that she was out shopping and would be back before lunch. Exhaling with relief, Mason slipped on his shoes and left the house.
Upon arriving at the church, he was surprised by how many people were lining the old wooden benches. No one bothered giving him a second glance as he walked in and took a seat near the back.
“Jenny Raymer will be addressing the gathering today.” The announcement came from a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair that peeked out over his ears.
The church was small and cozy, with a burgundy carpet running up the aisle, colourful stained-glass windows, beige walls, and a high wooden ceiling adorned with chandeliers. A microphone had been set up near the altar, and soon enough, a heavy-set woman with broad shoulders marched up to the podium. She looked to be on a mission.
“Thank you,” she muttered in a deep voice after clearing her throat. She turned to face her audience, her expression severe. “I am here today to share something with you all, something that happened to me recently. Now, I know everyone here has concerns—concerns that often don’t get taken seriously because we are living in the twenty-first century. Most folks are less inclined to believe in certain things.”
A few murmurs echoed through the room, followed by nods of agreement as troubled glances were exchanged.
“I’m not sure how many of you are aware,” she continued, “but another one of our girls is now missing.”
The murmurs grew louder, whispers slithering through the air as people grew restless. “Who is it?” someone called out.
“Emiliya Delathorne. I’ve known her since she was crawling on the carpets at our community centre daycare. And now she’s missing. Her parents called yesterday after Emiliya’s landlady informed them she hadn’t returned home from the hospital. According to Dr. Robert Callahan’s notes, obtained through a credible source, she was in the ER because of a sleepwalking incident. To make matters worse, her best friend says her phone is off. Her voicemail’s full, and she’s not responding to texts.”
Callahan. He was also Kai Donovan’s attending physician. Someone must have illegally leaked his files and implied a connection between the two patients.
“Emiliya’s parents are here with us today. They’ve flown in from Calgary to help in the search for their missing daughter,” Jenny continued. “While Andrea is working with authorities, Raymond has decided to join us.”
Her eyes wandered to a man sitting in the first row. He stood up and straightened out his navy jacket, then smoothed back his wavy, salt and pepper hair before turning to face the congregation. He was clean-shaven, with a long, thin face and brooding green eyes.
“My daughter, Miya, was always a good kid,” he began with a slight shake in his voice. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been the most present father lately. I trusted she was a responsible young adult, but perhaps I was wrong.”
Mason’s breath stilled as he
took in Raymond Delathorne—the tightness in his voice, the desperation in his eyes, the barely constrained frenzy in his gestures. He was a man on the verge.
“I noticed something was wrong,” Raymond continued, throwing his hands out and shaking his head. “She was...different. She stopped calling us. She would never say thank you when we sent her cards and gifts. When my wife would ask if she was all right, if she needed help, she’d dance around the question, never giving us anything to work with, even when we knew something was wrong. She withdrew. She seemed moody, depressed, not at all like the beautiful little girl we raised.”
Mason wanted to jump up and protest—to scream that they were all delusional. His fingertips were ice-cold as he gripped the edge of the backrest in front of him until he got splinters. Raymond Delathorne’s words were almost identical to Gene Robinson’s, and the people here listening saw nothing wrong with it.
Was there LSD in the water—or worse, poison? There were no tell-tale signs of contamination, no sickness or delirium. And what of Raymond? He’d flown in from another province; he couldn’t have been affected by anything local.
“It’s just as the legend says,” an elderly man wheezed next to Mason, his hand trembling on the hilt of his walking stick. “It’s happening again.”
Happening again? Mason wondered if these idiots knew their own history, or even read the news.
“This thing is a real threat, folks. This time, our girl won’t come back. I’m sure of it.” Jenny walked across the altar, her face grim as she looked out at the townspeople. “I know how much everyone hates saying her name—the Dreamwalker—but denying her existence is only making us live in silence and fear. She’s taking our girls from right under our noses.”
It’s not the Dreamwalker, Mason battered internally. It’s you. You’re putting them six feet under.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak up; he knew they wouldn’t listen. The only thing he could do was find Emiliya before they did.
