Night Shade (Dreamweaver Book 1)

by Helen Harper

  Before I can open my mouth, Lilith vanishes. ‘Well, that was a waste of bloody time,’ I mutter.

  I step carefully over the tree roots but I still stumble. My body flies forward and the ground rushes up towards me. I brace my hands to break the fall but my ribs smash hard against the ground – and then hands are helping me to my feet and I’m blinking in brilliant sunshine.

  I look up. My rescuer looks like the All-American Hero with his blond hair, friendly blue eyes, chiselled jaw and glowing tan. My cheeks suddenly feel warm.

  ‘I shouldn’t be allowed to blush in a dream,’ I say aloud, then clamp my hand over my mouth.

  He looks at me curiously. ‘You know you’re in a dream?’

  I frown; the dark annoying man said something similar. ‘Yes,’ I say slowly, as the heat in my face subsides. ‘Where am I exactly?’

  He steps aside, throwing out his arm with a dramatic flourish towards the scenery behind him. I see a pretty village with cobbled streets, buildings that look as if they were built several centuries before, several people milling around and, overlooking everything, a fairytale castle that would turn Walt Disney green with envy. I gape.

  ‘Welcome to the Dreamlands,’ he says. ‘I’m Bron.’

  ***

  Bron leads me through several winding streets. Some of the people we pass give me curious glances, others ignore me. Given the quaint surroundings, I might have expected everyone to be wearing period dress, but most of them are dressed like anyone you’d see on the pavements of London. I spy a Metallica T-shirt, a few bohemian dresses and even a onesie. Bron is rather dapper, in an open-necked shirt and grey trousers. I’m grateful that I’m not wearing my scruffy old T-shirt. He might not be real but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to impress him.

  We stop at the door of a small pub with a thatched roof. Bron grins and bows, opening the door for me like a gentleman. I try not to simper and step inside.

  Everyone turns towards us. The bartender, polishing a glass, raises his eyebrows. Ignoring my discomfort at being the centre of attention, I let Bron lead me to a small corner table.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Er...’ I spot a man nearby with a pint of amber liquid topped with a frothy head. ‘I’ll have one of those.’ It’s not like I get to drink draught beer in the real world any more.

  ‘A lady after my own heart,’ Bron says with a smile, and goes to order.

  I look around the room more carefully. The gentleman next to me with the pint is in deep conversation with a woman. I catch a few words but none of it makes sense. My eyes drift over to a group of boisterous teenagers who are surely too young to drink legally. They are punching each other in the arm, shouting and laughing. I smile. It’s almost like being normal again.

  Bron turns round and waves at me from the bar and I wave back. Then, from the corner of the room, I see a pair of glowering silver eyes. I stiffen; it’s the dark man from the forest. If looks could kill, I’d be a rotting corpse on the floor. He gives every impression of wanting to throttle me. What the hell. It’s only another dream, I tell myself.

  I wave in his direction and he looks even crosser. I notice all the tables around him are empty and several of the other customers are sneaking glances at him. He wasn’t wrong before; people really do dislike him.

  ‘There you go,’ Bron says cheerfully, placing a pint in front of me.

  I pick up the glass and take a tentative sip. ‘I can taste it!’ I crow.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ I chug down several mouthfuls. Screw creepy forests. This is the way I want the rest of my dreams to go.

  A shadow falls across our table and we both look up. A woman is standing in front of us. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she says.

  She is obviously talking to Bron, not me. As lovely as Bron is, I’m more than happy to focus on my drink so I don’t care. Bron, however, is less relaxed. He gestures at me. ‘Ashley, this is...’

  ‘Zoe,’ I supply helpfully. I smile and take another sip.

  ‘What a beautiful name,’ he says. He looks at Ashley. ‘We should probably do this another time.’

  ‘Why?’ Ashley pulls up a chair. ‘She’s just an outlier. She won’t remember this and she’ll never be here again.’ She looks at me guiltily. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Bron, we need to do something about the Mayor’s guards. They’re getting too heavy-handed.’

  I frown, zoning in on the conversation and Ashley’s earlier words. ‘Outlier? I’ve heard that before. What is it?’

  The pair of them turn to me. Ashley seems astonished but I swear a look of glee crosses Bron’s face. ‘Where did you hear it before?’

  ‘Last night. I was in the forest then too.’

  ‘You were here yesterday and now you’re here again today?’

  I nod. ‘Yup. Although I’ve got to say, this place is much nicer than the forest.’

  Ashley and Bron exchange looks. ‘Zoe,’ Bron says urgently, ‘who did you meet in the forest?’

  ‘The dark-haired man in the corner who has a face like thunder.’ I point to where he was sitting and realise he’s gone. I shrug. ‘He has a scar.’

  The pair of them stiffen. ‘You met Dante?’ Ashley says slowly.

  I take another swig. Damn, this beer is good. ‘I didn’t catch his name. He wasn’t very nice. He said I was an outlier and that I should pinch myself and wake up.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Bron breathes. There’s triumph in his gaze. ‘I knew this would pay off sooner or later.’

  I drain the last of my glass and look at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘An outlier is someone who finds their way here by accident,’ Ashley explains. ‘We get a few every week. Bron takes it upon himself to greet them all, just on the off-chance that they end up being Travellers.’

  I’m even more confused. ‘Travellers?’

  ‘People who can come here at will.’

  ‘I didn’t choose to come here,’ I say. ‘In fact, I was trying to...’

  There’s a shout from the table of teenagers. One of the boys is on his feet and raising his fists. The girl opposite him springs up, grabs a glass and empties its contents. She smashes it against the back of a chair and jabs it in the boy’s direction.

  ‘Bron,’ Ashley says, warningly.

  Irritated, he gets up and strides over.

  ‘Goodness. I never expected my dreams to have violence in them,’ I comment as I watch him snatch the broken glass from the girl. I’m conscious of Ashley looking at me. ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘This isn’t your dream, Zoe,’ she says, her voice low.

  ‘Is it yours?’ Obviously I’ve neither met her nor touched her but it’s not as if I’ve had a large sample on which to test my theories.

  She looks confused. ‘No. It’s not anyone’s specific dream.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I...’ She looks frustrated and I realise that Bron is heading back in our direction. ‘Look, if you end up here again, come and find me and I’ll explain everything. I’ll be by the river.’ She stands up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you some other time, Bron.’

  ‘I thought it was important?’

  ‘It’ll keep for now.’ She throws a tight smile in my direction. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around, Zoe.’

  I try to smile back. ‘Maybe.’

  She walks out and Bron takes her seat. ‘I’m glad she’s gone. Ashley’s wonderful but now I can get to know you better without any interruptions.’

  I look at his smiling face. ‘I think I’m going to need another drink first,’ I admit.

  Chapter Six

  Deep in that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

  Edgar Allen Poe

  When I wake up on Sunday morning, my head is pounding. I can’t work out why until I remember that I drank several more pints of beer in the dream. Bron
was remarkably good company but I’m not sure that makes an imaginary hangover any more pleasant to bear.

  I massage my temples then recall what Ashley said and frown. Perhaps it’s not an imaginary hangover at all.

  I pad into the bathroom and throw a couple of paracetamol down my throat. As I’m still wearing the same clothes, which now feel sticky and uncomfortable, I strip off and have a hot shower. If nothing else, it might wake me up and push away the dregs of my headache. When I’m dressed again, I go downstairs, make sure the Chairman has enough food and collect a large piece of paper from my study. I pin it onto the wall.

  I start with the old man, drawing a small stick figure in the left corner. Next to it, I write ‘electric shock’. I draw a line and add in Hartman. After he touched me, I was in his dream. Or vice-versa. He didn’t see me in the dream though, and had no recollection of my presence. And when I woke up, I had damp hair as if I really had been there in that alley, standing in the rain. Underneath Hartman I include the postman and his details. They’re remarkably similar to Hartman’s – and surely it’s not a coincidence that my suspicions about his letter hoarding were true?

  I frown then draw another line. Two nights ago, I had no human contact but I ended up in the forest; I have scratches on my legs to prove it. Last night, however, the last person I touched was my mother and I ended up in the forest again. Followed by the place that Bron called the Dreamlands, where I drank beer. Now I have a hangover. Obviously whatever physical experiences I have when I dream manifest themselves into reality.

  I think about the Dreamlands and the way people there interacted with me in a way that neither Hartman nor the postman had. Lilith aside, the others all seemed to recognise the dream quality. Was it possible that they were experiencing the same thing as me? It does make a kind of sense; it would be beyond belief to imagine I’m unique.

  The pattern of where I end up when I fall asleep doesn’t fit. Maybe I didn’t end up in my mother’s dream because she was a family member? But why didn’t I end up in Rawlins’ dream? I stand back and examine my diagram thoughtfully. It’s a shame I’m not more of an artist.

  I abandon my chart and turn to the internet, searching for ways to prevent dreams. I scroll through various pages and websites, reading about remedies ranging from chewing mustard seeds to lavender oil on your pillow to hard drugs. Then something catches my eye. I grab the phone and dial.

  ‘Mum?’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘I need to ask you a quick question.’

  Her voice is sleepy and I realise it’s barely seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. I must have woken her up. ‘Zoe? What’s wrong?’

  Damn it. I’ve worried her now. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you if you still had the present Aunt Brenda gave you last year.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The one she brought back from America. The dream-catcher.’

  ‘Oh. That thing. Zoe, what on earth is this about?’

  ‘Do you still have it?’ I persist.

  ‘Yes, it’s hanging up on my window. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I quickly say. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  I hang up. So maybe dream-catchers work after all. I think about Rawlins. Phoning up a police officer to ask them if they own a Native American craft piece is definitely weird but I dig out her number and call.

  ‘This is Sergeant Rawlins.’ Unlike my mother, she sounds wide awake. At least that’s something.

  ‘Hi, it’s Zoe Lydon.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Er, nothing. I just ... um, do you have a dream-catcher?’

  ‘What?’

  I wince. ‘You know, one of those circles with the string and the feathers?’

  ‘I know what a dream-catcher is, Ms Lydon. What I don’t know is why you’re calling me up first thing in the morning to ask me such a personal question.’

  It could be worse. It wasn’t like I was asking her to describe her underwear drawer. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I know it sounds strange but it’s, um, research I’m conducting for my work. There aren’t many people these days who I can ask.’

  Rawlins, thankfully, seems to buy my explanation. ‘Then the answer is no, I do not own a dream-catcher.’ Disappointed, I’m about to thank her for her time when she continues. ‘I’m not sure how much good one would do me anyway. I rarely see my bed these days.’

  I freeze. ‘You’re on night shift?’

  ‘Twelve till twelve,’ she says. ‘Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Government cutbacks.’

  I make a noise that hopefully suggests commiseration and hang up. I didn’t share my mother’s dreams because of the dream-catcher and I didn’t share Sergeant Rawlins’ dreams because she didn’t sleep.

  I swivel round and stare at the diagram. I think I’m starting to understand what’s going on, even if I don’t have the faintest idea as to why.

  ***

  I’m desperate to get back to the Dreamlands and find Ashley again. I’m certain she’ll provide me with more answers. But, thanks to my enforced solitude, I’m no longer as trusting as I used to be. I want to test my theories first before I trust a stranger who may not even be real. So I decide to try and enter another person’s dream first, and forego the Dreamlands for a night.

  I start by ordering in groceries. My fridge and cupboards are fairly full, and I’m aware that deviating from my routine might mean I end up with a different delivery person to the one who usually calls. That does my terror-filled agoraphobia no good but I swallow my fear and force myself to shake the hand of the spotty kid who eventually shows up with my bags.

  Once that ordeal is over, I call Interflora. I’m aghast at the prices – I don’t even like cut flowers – so I order the cheapest bouquet. When it comes, and I’ve brushed the hand of the woman who hands them to me, I’m pale and sweating.

  Three, however, is supposed to be a lucky number so I call MailQuick to pick up a delivery for Jerry. It’s nothing urgent, just some papers that needed signing. Once it’s done though, I feel relief rippling through me. The odds of all three of my delivery personnel having blocked dreams is too unlikely.

  I go to bed early, taking a Valium for good measure. Even with the drug it takes a long time to drop off. When I finally feel the now-familiar ear prickle, I smile. Here we go.

  I’m beside a river. There’s no sound, despite the fact that it’s extraordinarily wide. In fact, the water doesn’t seem to be moving at all. Beyond it is a majestic mountain range, fringed with trees of all hues. There’s something oddly flat about it, though, as if I’ve stepped inside a postcard. It’s pretty – but it’s not real.

  I turn to my right. There’s a person there, whom I immediately recognise as the kid from the supermarket. He’s crouching down, throwing fish into the river. It makes little sense until I realise there are several bears there, lined up and waiting their turn. They’re not the sort of mountain-dwelling bears you’d expect to see in this kind of landscape – they are all manner of shapes, colours and sizes; I’m sure I can even see a polar bear. All the animals are large and healthy with glossy coats and shining eyes.

  I grin. ‘Well, this is almost bearable,’ I murmur.

  I stride towards the kid but he’s engrossed in his task. I clear my throat, then speak to him but he continues tossing fish into the yawning mouths of the animals. I watch for several moments until my attention is caught by the appearance of a small fluffy shape by his side. It’s a puppy with long floppy ears and chocolate-brown eyes. It sniffs the basket of fish and wags its tail. The kid reaches down and pats its head and the puppy groans in delight. I can’t help smiling.

  I’m about to try to attract the puppy’s attention when there’s a deafening roar. One of the bears has snapped its jaws shut and is staring not at the man but at the little dog. Its eyes are round and black and I feel a sense of foreboding. I bend down to pick up the puppy but my movements are too slow and too sluggish – the bear is already moving. It swoops down more swiftly than
I’d have thought possible, grabs the puppy in its mouth and shakes it from side to side.

  The dog yelps while I scream in horror. Blood streams from the bear’s mouth. The kid stops throwing the fish and freezes as the bear throws the lifeless little corpse to one side. I step back, double over and retch.

  When I recover and stand up, the kid has returned to feeding the bears – and another puppy is by his side. Or the same puppy: I can’t tell because it looks identical. It wags its tail and seems happy but I can already see the same bear starting to shift its gaze. Taking charge of the situation, I tap the kid on the shoulder. He doesn’t turn round but he does jerk his head towards me. I move round to his other side and tap him again and he jerks again. I rock back on my heels. He’s not conscious that I’m there but he does feel something, which corresponds with what I experienced in my first dream.

  I snap my fingers in front of his face while the bear licks its lips. The kid blinks. Recalling what the dark man – Dante – told me, I reach his arm and pinch his skin. Suddenly, I’m yanked backwards, as if someone has grabbed the scruff of my neck and is pulling me. I lose my footing and fall over – and then I’m no longer by the river.

  It’s my local town square. I may not have been there for more than eighteen months but I’d recognise it anywhere. The shops are the same but there’s a strange absence of traffic. I get to my feet and look around: the place is completely deserted. A single tumbleweed that would be more at home in a street in Arizona than a little Scottish town blows in my direction, followed by a familiar rattle and whistle, just like you’d hear in the soundtrack to a cowboy film. Alarm bells ring in my head. Slowly backing away, I keep my eyes trained in front of me. A woman pops up at one end. She’s wearing a business suit but she has boots with spurs above her ankles and a gun belt round her hips. Her hands hover above the holsters. I look in the other direction and spot the florist in a similar pose.