Disciple: DreamWalkers, Book 2

by Jody Wallace

  He might, her imagination whispered, want his reunion with the woman he’d once loved to be more private. That was stupidity talking, though. If Karen was awake, there was no way Zeke was nursing a flame for a murderer who’d tried to murder him too.

  “I doubt Adi would appreciate me blabbing when she went to the trouble of telling Sean it was classified.” He flicked on his phone, checked for messages, and frowned. “She didn’t mention Karen to Sean, and oration is as secure as it gets. I got the impression Karen’s stuck. If she’s shifted to a dream coma, it’s not active. There were no conduits. What could the others do if I’d violated confidentiality and told them?”

  “Come with you and bring their swords.” If she’d identified Karen Kingsbury’s signature in the dreamsphere when the woman was supposed to be in a medical coma, she’d have screamed it to everyone she could find—classified information or not.

  “The waystation’s got guards, Maggie. It’s not just scientists and doctors. I gotta trust Adi knew what she was doing when she asked for us. Hell, for all I know, Karen migrated to a dream coma weeks ago, and they’re all over it. I don’t want to think about her or talk about her.”

  “But if she—”

  He interrupted. “This meeting could be about you.”

  Maggie quit rearranging the seatbelt. “Me?”

  If anything, Zeke looked angrier and more uncomfortable than he had while discussing Karen. “This is a remote, well-fortified site. They might want us to train here instead of the East Coast base.”

  “Because of my wraith problem?” Zeke had tried to downplay it, but Maggie suspected more wraiths swamped her than the other neonati. Including Hayden. Her record-breaking phase one had done nothing to enhance her rapport with her fellow employees, that was for sure. “Or my shields in general?”

  “Adi might want you physically close for observation,” he said. “She’s a vigil. They don’t have to explain everything.”

  “Adi always explains herself.” The vigil had flown to the East Coast base several times to counsel Maggie in person, but most of their interactions had been via the phone or computer. They couldn’t yet link in dreamspace.

  Zeke raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, Maggie, okay? Sean mentioned…” He stopped.

  “What?”

  “In the Aussie division, a disciple with your issues would have been sent to the Orbis. There’s a remote possibility we’ve been summoned to meet with a curator.”

  Maggie pressed her throat. Racing pulse—check. “You think they plan to reassign me? I don’t want to go with a curator.”

  Unexpectedly, Zeke grabbed her free hand. His firm, callused grip didn’t reassure her. The fact he had willingly touched her when he didn’t have to meant he was agitated.

  He must think a reassignment was a possibility. But she could lock her conduit. She hadn’t manifested wraiths since the first twenty-four hours after she’d become a dreamer. She wasn’t dangerous. She was just a slow learner.

  “A curator came to see Hayden a couple weeks ago,” he said, so calmly it didn’t merit him grabbing her hand. “There’s no reason for us to be in Wyoming to meet a curator. I’m just tossing around ideas.”

  Another possibility occurred to her—one that was worse. “What if they want access to the medical equipment? What if they think I might end up in a coma?”

  “Be reasonable. Testing—maybe. There might be tests on you. But they’re not about to burn an L5. You’re valuable. Nobody’s gonna electroshock you.” He squeezed briefly and didn’t release her hand.

  The sensation of the tangible crept up her arm, both calming and stimulating. She wriggled her hand until Zeke eased his grip and then laced her fingers through his. They did this during their sleeps—during every sleep.

  But what she didn’t do was stroke his wrist with her thumb. She didn’t allow herself to bask in the tangible as it sank into her bones and cast its net over her. The pull of it relaxed her even while it tempted her. Her breathing deepened.

  Zeke’s did too.

  She thought of bed. Various types of bed, not just the sexy ones.

  “When do you think we’ll have a chance to nap?” she asked. It was past their sleep period by several hours, and her body telegraphed that to her in no uncertain terms. But she couldn’t sleep without Zeke. She couldn’t hold her own shield. Well, she’d held it last night, but could she do it again? For six hours, alone? Once Zeke taught her shielding, he’d promised that the sleep barricade, where an alucinator or her mentor could keep her out of the sphere during sleep, would be a snap. That was an ability disciples usually learned before advancing to phase two. While higher level alucinators rarely used a barricade, since they required contact with the sphere, it came in handy sometimes.

  “I don’t know. They won’t want us—you—to go longer than twenty-four hours.” Neonati needed regular sleep more than experienced alucinators. Phase one students had been known to pass out unexpectedly if their mentor worked them too hard.

  “I’m not that new anymore.”

  “Still phase one.”

  No need to remind her why this summoning might be about her and not Karen. “You can tell Adi what I did with the shield. You said it was good. You told Heather I might advance by next week.”

  When Maggie was angry at Zeke, which was about half the time, she couldn’t wait for phase two and the decreased contact between them. The rest of the time, she was dejected about the idea of no longer sharing his space—as if leaving before they’d consummated their relationship meant she was losing her chance.

  If nothing else, in Zeke’s bed she felt protected. He’d meet her in the dreamsphere during phase two training, but they’d link like normal alucinators—by finding one another’s signatures.

  “You got nothing to worry about. A few of your skills are graduate level.”

  Zeke wasn’t much for compliments. She must be doing better than she’d realized. “They are?”

  “Yeah, but that don’t matter. Doesn’t matter.” He’d adopted a tendency to self-correct his grammar that made her wonder if he suspected her of judging him. She didn’t judge him—about grammar. “Shield mastery is critical, and you can’t rate phase two without it.”

  Phase one covered the basic skills that would allow an alucinator to exist by him or herself without manifesting wraiths. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be able to live like an L1 or L2 and never enter the dreamsphere again, which was why control was imperative.

  “When you think about it,” she said, “it’s unsurprising that a curator might want to investigate why an L5 is progressing so slowly. You’ve said repeatedly you don’t know what the hell my problem is.”

  “Bad attitude,” he said. “That’s your problem.”

  “I get that from you.” Assessments required a full link, like a teacher and student had, open both ways. Matriculation for a neonati generally occurred when he or she managed to link, for the first time, to an alucinator other than a mentor or a curator. At that time, he or she was able to be assessed and judged. “Maybe there’s a curator at the coma station because of Karen, and he didn’t want to travel.”

  When she said the woman’s name, Zeke’s fingers, clasped between her hands, twitched. “Whatever’s going on and whoever it involves, I’m sure the vigils are on top of it. Don’t sweat it.”

  Was he trying to reassure her—or reassure himself because Karen might be part of it? What was he not telling her?

  “Should we try calling Adi again?”

  “She’d return my several calls if she had anything to say to us.”

  He was right. None of their questions could be answered until they arrived at the facility and met with Adi in person.

  Maggie sighed. “I suppose second guessing what they need us for is borrowing trouble.”

  “It’s nothing we can’t handle.�
�

  “Even if it’s Karen they want us to handle?” she asked dryly.

  The tangible-induced relaxation that had dropped over them disappeared—starting with Zeke.

  “We’ll do whatever needs to be done.” He stared at the road, wouldn’t glance at her. Were they attending an execution instead of a funeral?

  Was Zeke being asked to supply the coup de grace?

  “Just mentioning her name makes you tense, like you expect something to—”

  Zeke cut her off. “She’s comatose, Maggie. Stuck in the sphere. Yeah, it was irregular that I communicated with her, but—”

  Her turn to cut him off. “Wait, what? You actually talked to her? That’s a huge piece of information to leave out, Zeke.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. Had he not intended to share this much information with her? The very thought chilled Maggie’s blood. She slid away from Zeke and crossed her arms.

  “Look, Maggie, she was L5 and psycho and knew shit we didn’t realize she’d learned. The tangible—it’s stronger than a normal link. Maybe it let her orate with me, but she was pathetic. And there were no manifestations. I sure as shit didn’t open a full link with her,” Zeke growled.

  “I don’t like this. She could be—”

  “No, she couldn’t. After we found her and used the ECT on her in Harrisburg, the curator went in and… I don’t know. Made sure she was brain dead. She can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything, or she’d already have… She’d already have come after you. Us, I mean.”

  Her hands, under her crossed arms, tightened into fists. “Me?”

  “Us. Anyone. All kinds of people. Are hundreds of dreamers turning up dead? Are there manifestations every which where? No. She’s neutralized. Creepy as fuck-all, but neutralized.”

  This was what he’d been hiding from her. Maggie licked her lips. “Are we walking into an ambush?”

  He shook his head. “If there were manifestations, I’d have seen red conduits. Adi would have alerted the cavalry. That’s not what this is about.”

  “What if Karen has killed everybody?” Maggie had only been studying the science of the dreamsphere two months. There was so much she didn’t know.

  “I talked to a real, honest-to-God, living, breathing human at the coma station today. I think if Blake’d been preoccupied with fighting off a wraith horde, he’d have mentioned it.”

  “Karen tricked you once. Could she be tricking you again?”

  “Hell, no,” he snapped. “I’m not that dumb.”

  Maggie huddled into herself. “I’m sorry if you’re insulted, but we need to consider some contingency plans.”

  Zeke slammed on the brakes of the car and skidded to a stop on the side of the long, empty highway. He wrenched the gearshift into park. “I know I’m not the best teacher in the world, but do you honestly believe I’d take you somewhere there might be a horde, Maggie? Do you?”

  “If you were ordered to.” Zeke would be needed to fight and to put Karen out of commission again. Perhaps Adi wanted to keep the incident hush-hush before the whole Somnium blew up. Maggie and Zeke should strategize for dire possibilities, like they were trained to do. “I accompany you on collaring missions, and there are manifested wraiths on those.”

  “A few. Not hundreds.” He turned toward her, closer than was restful in the confines of the vehicle. Which was ironic—they slept together. But their current proximity was because Zeke chose to lean toward her. “In a real crisis, you’d be a hindrance. Your blade work is sloppy, and you freeze at the drop of a hat.”

  The appraisal didn’t bother her. Since he’d finally admitted she wasn’t a complete loss as an alucinator—complimenting her geolocation, informing her some of her abilities were graduate level—she had no trouble hearing the truth about her combat skills.

  “Does my safety matter? If Adi ordered us to walk naked into room full of manifested slime monsters with nothing but daggers, we’d do it.” She’d freak, but she’d do it. Or seriously contemplate doing it, choke up, and immediately get herself slimed.

  “I might do it, but you’d do what I ordered and stay the hell out. I’m your mentor, not Adi. I know what’s best for you.” He raked his fingers through his hair, rumpling it more than usual. “You gotta quit being a fear monger. Karen’s not active. If shit like Harrisburg was going down, Adi wouldn’t classify it for just us.”

  Perhaps there wasn’t a horde at the coma station, but if this was about Maggie, it wasn’t simple tests. They wouldn’t upset the East Coast schedule, pulling a sentry out, for simple tests.

  Zeke was anxious too. It would be easier to have this discussion if she wasn’t looking at his furious face, wondering what was going on behind his changeable gray eyes. She stared at the SUV’s rubber floor mat.

  “If we aren’t here about Karen, we’re here about me.”

  “Possibly,” he said. “Probably.”

  “If Adi orders you to relinquish me to a curator so you can concentrate on more important things, you’ll do that too.”

  Leaning across the narrow console, Zeke caught her chin, tilting her face toward him. “Look at me. Dammit, Maggie, why don’t you trust me?”

  The contact surprised her. His vehemence did too. It didn’t seem inspired by the fact she’d suggested Karen might be outsmarting him again.

  She twisted away from his touch, focusing on the floor. “What does this have to do with trust? You put duty first. We all do.”

  This time he grabbed her shoulders and half-hauled her out of the bucket seat. The console bit into her hip, but she did what he wanted—she looked at him.

  His face was tight. Intense. Almost close enough to kiss.

  “How is this not about trust? You don’t trust me to keep you safe. You won’t relax in the dreamsphere. You won’t let me teach you. You won’t wear a weapon when I tell you to.”

  “I do trust you,” she argued. She adjusted her bottom on the console as if it weren’t unusual to sit like this.

  “If you did, you’d realize I’d never drag you into a war zone. Risk your life. Just so you know,” he added, “I’d tell a curator to go to hell if he tried to take over your training.”

  Her stomach fluttered. The tangible sang through her bones. She had to touch him. She placed a trembling hand on his wrist. “Why? You don’t want students.”

  “You’re mine.” One of his hands snaked from her shoulder to the back of her head, immobilizing her.

  She indulged herself. She stroked his arm, finding his warm, straining biceps. The smooth skin beneath her fingertips seemed to tingle. “You’d disobey a vigil? A curator?”

  He laughed. “Why not? Lill did and lived to tell about it.”

  He was too close. His lips—she could barely remember how it felt to kiss him. She needed a refresher. “You realize Rhys will never forgive you if you and Lill both get on the curators’ shit list. It might reflect poorly on him.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Rhys can go fuck himself.”

  Good Lord. A pressure grew at the back of her neck as his hand urged her forward. Into his lap. He was thinking about the exact same thing she was—the thing they couldn’t do.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked.

  Not yet, she didn’t. “In what way?”

  “Less panicky.” He pulled her more firmly. She braced her arms against his shoulders, but if he really wanted her, it wouldn’t take much effort to out-wrestle her. Console or no console. Rules or no rules. “You’re not being reassigned. I won’t let that happen.”

  “It’s not panic.” She’d assumed for two months that if he lowered his guard, she’d jump him. Seconds ticked by. He pulled. She pushed. Neither of them acknowledged the silent struggle, the tension. “I just thought we should plot scenarios. Prepare ourselves.”

  She didn’t want to be separated f
rom Zeke and disappear into the Orbis. What happened to the students no one heard from again?

  She wanted to be with Zeke—in so many ways. Why was she resisting when he was trying, at last, to pull her into his arms?

  He raised an eyebrow. “You want to be prepared? Good. Quit being a pussy about your damned gun.”

  “I thought you agreed you wouldn’t use that term in that fashion? It’s offensive,” she said, diverting him. Hopefully. She couldn’t overcome thirty-something years of being a pacifist, bleeding heart tree hugger in two months. The gun burned her like guilt, and worse, like fear. A pistol was a flimsy defense against monsters unless she shot one enough times to blow off its head. “Assigning negative qualities to the female genitalia is harmful to gender equality.”

  “I don’t assign negative qualities to female genitalia.” His gaze traveled down her body. “Far from it.”

  God, she didn’t want to talk about genitals with Zeke. He was thinking about hers, right now, and wanted her to know it. What had come over him? He’d pushed her further than arm’s length for two months, and suddenly she was the one having to push. What had changed?

  Would he refuse to cooperate if they reassigned her to a curator? Did he want to keep her?

  It would be easy to slide onto his lap and inch her hands under his shirt, into his jeans. Kiss him. Lick him. Find out what else he wanted from her, because she wanted…

  No.

  “You called me a pussy as a synonym for a coward or weakling.” She wiggled her head until his grip on her neck loosened. “I’m not going to listen to that kind of ugliness from anybody, much less you. Let me go.”

  Though the SUV wasn’t well-lit, Maggie saw something spark in Zeke’s eyes. “Well, hey, at least I didn’t call you a c—”

  Maggie whipped a hand over his mouth. Hard. The sound of flesh striking flesh almost made her flinch. He didn’t retaliate. “You’re deliberately antagonizing me. Why?”

  His lips moved against her fingers—tickling and brushing her skin. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s not on purpose. I’m a natural born asshole.”

  “No, you’re not.”