Disciple: DreamWalkers, Book 2

by Jody Wallace

  Lill, in the rear, did as Adi asked and remained by the door, hand resting on a hilt. Maggie shifted from foot to foot while Karen leaned against Zeke’s arm. He could practically feel her body heat through his Kevlar vest.

  “Is this the one, vigil?” The old man clopped forward, pushing the walker, and reached for Maggie’s hand. His accent was non-American and hard to place. “Is this the girl?”

  Maggie backed away from him. “Excuse me?”

  Who was this guy? Zeke bristled and moved to insert himself between Maggie and the weird grandpa, but the dead weight of Karen on his arm stopped him. Funny, considering she was half-starved and fragile.

  “Margaret Louise Mackey, I’d like you to meet the curator,” Adi said tonelessly. “He’s come in response to the…unusual incidents we’ve been having.”

  Karen whispered, so softly only Zeke could hear. “A curator. Yes.”

  Zeke gawked at the man. The only curator he’d met was the tall, dark, cranky one. This old codger was ninety if he was a day and looked like Albert Einstein crossed with a mummy. Was he here because of the corpses and the hypothetical Master—or because of Maggie?

  Something worse.

  Fear spiked through him. He’d promised Maggie she wouldn’t be reassigned to a curator, that he’d keep her safe. Adi didn’t want curators sniffing around because of what she suspected about the healing. Yet here one was.

  That being said, if this guy possessed the power of eternal youth, Zeke would eat his boots.

  “Did you put in a request for assistance?” Zeke asked Adi, though she’d been pretty shocked by that phone call.

  “She didn’t have to. It’s my job to read the sphere, son. I’ve been on an aeroplane since…” The old curator, who didn’t offer his name any more than the younger guy ever had, checked his watch. “Since yesterday.”

  Karen clutched Zeke’s arm tighter. If she weren’t so listless and frail, he’d say her grip seemed excited, like a child walking through the gates of Disneyworld.

  “What did you read in the sphere?” Zeke asked the man.

  Adi narrowed her eyes at him warningly. She clasped her hands around one knee as if holding herself upright. “The curator is aware we’ve had several uncontrolled, mid-scale events.”

  As Adi had been adamant that she didn’t want to tell the curators anything, Zeke believed she hadn’t petitioned the curator. Did the old guy know about the corpses or not? “We haven’t lost any civilians, sir. We don’t need a mass confounding.”

  The curator cocked his head to the side and studied Zeke. “You’re Ezekiel Garrett. And you’re Karen Kingsbury. Harrisburg.”

  The curators—the other curator—had been summoned to help deal with the devastation Karen had caused prior to her coma. The abilities of a few alucinators like Lill, who could confound normals who’d witnessed things they shouldn’t, hadn’t been enough to conceal a manifestation on that scale, nor the subsequent deaths. Curators had the capacity to confound, amped up to frightening levels.

  It was best when they never had to use it.

  Karen shrank against Zeke’s side. “You know who I am. Are you here to execute me?”

  The curator waved his knobby hand airily, keeping the other on the walker’s handle. “No, no, curators don’t handle terminations. I’m here about Margaret.”

  Maggie crossed her arms. “Me?”

  The curator winked at her. “You’re a powerful L5, kiddo, but I don’t think you’ve been doing your homework. Still having trouble with that conduit lock?”

  “Actually,” Maggie said, “I’m not.”

  “Oho, no memories of the event, I see.” The curator tsked. “That’s a sign right there.”

  “It’s not a sign I’ve heard of,” Adi said. Zeke couldn’t gauge by her expression how worried she was that the curator might know about Karen’s healing—and Adi’s attempts to learn more. “Would you care to explain, please?”

  “I suspect Margaret has a rare condition called conduit blindness.” The curator nodded his head as he spoke, agreeing with himself. “It’s an inability to gauge conduits—sort of a depth perception issue. You’re all aware how some people have color blindness? It has similarities.”

  Maggie pursed her lips doubtfully. “The problem is with my eyeballs?”

  “I doubt it, but it’s nothing to worry about. We’ve developed training methods to help you work around your handicap.”

  “Why can’t Zeke teach them to me?”

  Beside Zeke, Karen stood straighter, taking some of her weight off his arm. “He’s my mentor now. It’s good that you’re being reassigned to a curator. It’s good that there’s a curator here. Available.”

  “Well, thank you, my dear,” the curator said. “That’s not always the reaction we curators receive.”

  Maggie cocked an eyebrow at Karen. It was like looking at himself in the mirror—Zeke recognized his own expression on her face and almost laughed.

  “What if I don’t agree to being reassigned?” Maggie asked.

  “It would take too long to train Ezekiel to train you, if he even could. This is standard procedure, young lady.” The curator scooted his walker a couple feet toward the door and smiled. “How about that beefsteak you promised, vigil? They don’t let me out of my cage much, and I’m mean to enjoy this while it lasts.”

  Zeke glanced at Adi but she barely lifted drowsy eyelids to acknowledge him. What did she want them to tell the curator? About the Master? The corpses? Information about the corpses, at the least, had been bound to escape sooner or later. Not that this guy seemed like a threat, but he was a curator—and he’d stated his intention of acquiring Maggie.

  A twinge of rage and grief zinged through Zeke at the thought, but the touch of Karen’s thin fingers against his wrist distracted him from the building emotions. His vision blurred again, like before, but when he rubbed his eyes this time, it cleared up.

  He must be tired. That was it. He couldn’t remember if he’d slept well last night—everything before the turmoil of the manifestation was a blur—but no doubt he’d been uncomfortable. He preferred his bed at the base, especially if he had to share it with a student.

  Hopefully tonight, with Karen, he could sleep restfully. She wouldn’t take up much space, as thin as she’d grown. After this afternoon, he doubted they’d be doing any training.

  “Where’s the other one?” Lill asked abruptly. “The curator who usually comes.”

  “Who, Moody?” The curator completed his slow progress toward the door, the tennis balls on the legs of his walker making it easier to slide. “I couldn’t say where he is, exactly. The Orbis is a big place. We don’t live in each other’s pockets.”

  Lillian straightened, her back leaving the wall. She opened the door for the curator. “His name’s Moody?”

  The old man smirked. “It’s what I call him. Margaret, do join me in the mess hall for luncheon, would you? I want to hear all about your training.”

  “Go,” Adi said, when Maggie appeared likely to resist.

  “I need to get cleaned up first.” Maggie pointed at her scalp. “I suspect I need more stitches.”

  “Blake, would you help Maggie find the doctor?” Adi suggested. “I intend to retire for a few hours.”

  “Perhaps more than a few, ma’am.” Blake accompanied a reluctant Maggie out the door. She cast Zeke one parting glance he couldn’t decipher.

  When the curator, Blake and Maggie were gone, Karen tightened her hold on his wrist.

  “You know it’s for the best,” she said in her whispery voice. “Your former student is weak, and the Master wants her. A curator is valuable—more valuable than a vigil or an ordinary L5.”

  “Valuable?” Lill said. “That’s an odd way to put it.”

  “Powerful,” Karen corrected. “If we tell him about the Master—”


  “No,” Adi said, followed by a yawn. Her jaw cracked. “We won’t speak of your Master figure to him, Karen. He isn’t here for you. Count yourself lucky.”

  “He doesn’t seem half bad,” Lill mused. “Rather have him than Moody, but I can see it’d be harder for the old guy to travel.”

  “You know what’s at stake here,” Adi said. She rested her forehead on her fingertips. “Please keep that uppermost in mind. Curators can be charismatic—”

  Lill cracked out a disbelieving laugh.

  Ignoring her, Adi continued. “They can be charismatic, even charming, but never forget who they are and what they can do—and all the things we don’t know about them.”

  The doctor didn’t give Maggie enough numbing agent before she placed the stitches in her scalp wound, though happily she didn’t shave off much hair. Blake escorted her, her wound stinging like hell, to the small kitchenette where the curator was enjoying a plate of steak, eggs and hash browns. She hadn’t noticed any food of that ilk in the fridge and wondered where he’d gotten it.

  “Come in, come in.” The curator waved at her, though the three of them were the only people in the room. Adi had ordered everyone to give the old man complete privacy. She probably intended to keep her staff from inadvertently sharing information she didn’t want the curator to know.

  How Adi was going to defend neglecting to mention the corpses, Maggie had no idea. The curator was bound to find out. The exhausted vigil had to be on tenterhooks right now.

  All Maggie wanted to do was get Zeke alone and ask him what the hell was going on. His forgetfulness, his support of Karen, his coolness to Maggie since the latest code one—he wasn’t himself, and neither were Lill and Adi. Adi’s behavior could partially be explained by the stress of her investigation, the code ones, the vigil-block and the sudden appearance of a curator, but only partially.

  Lill seemed the most normal of the three, but even she had evidenced signs of stress and absentmindedness. Was it the situation in general or something else?

  Maggie reluctantly crossed the room to the curator. Blake shut the door after her, leaving them alone except for the appliances.

  “Want some?” He pushed a plate of fluffy biscuits toward Maggie after she sat across the small table from him. “We can’t get good biscuits at the Orbis. The cooks churn out these tiny, gluten-free things. Say it’s for my health. I’ll tell you, it’s just not the same.” He bit into a biscuit dripping with honey with great relish.

  “No, thank you.” She folded her hands on the table. The curator was taller than she was, but stooped. He had wild eyebrows and a ring of white hair around his head like a fuzzy crown. His wrinkled, leathery skin was medium brown and his eyes were, too, but she couldn’t place his ethnicity. Owing to her background in cultural geography, she had a better than average grasp of global societies, languages and peoples.

  Not that it mattered. He was a curator, the Somnium’s uppermost leadership. Curators were practically worshipped in the ranks. And he’d come to whisk her away. Presumably forever.

  He seemed kindly and wise, but she didn’t want to disappear with him.

  “Sir,” she asked him between bites. He devoured his steak and eggs as if they were gourmet rarities—closing his eyes and savoring each mouthful. He used both his fork and knife to eat, European style. “The possibility that I might need to petition a curator has come up before. Everyone commented that nobody reassigned was ever heard from again. May I ask why that is?”

  “Surely that’s an exaggeration.” He cut several bites from his steak, salted and peppered them, and popped a sliver into his mouth. “Mmmm.”

  She smiled without teeth, waiting. “I’ve spoken with quite a few people about it.”

  “Did you speak with quite a few people in the European division?” he asked.

  “No, but some of the people who discussed it with me have,” she explained, thinking of Adi. Wasn’t it common knowledge that reassigned neonati tended to vanish?

  “It’s no mystery, Margaret. Our trainees remain with the Orbis or close to it, where they can do the most good for the Somnium. Since alucinators tend to have few familial connections, there’s little to sever. I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough.”

  “I’d prefer to return here after my training,” Maggie said. Wherever Zeke was, provided their tentative relationship outlasted the stress of recent events. “In fact, I’d rather not be reassigned at all. I’m not convinced it’s necessary. How can you be sure I have conduit blindness and the manifestations aren’t being caused by Karen Kingsbury?”

  The curator set down his utensils. “My dear, I am a very old man, so I’ll ask you to humor me for a moment. Let us assume that I know a good deal about alucinators, their weaknesses, and how to read the dreamsphere, since I spend most of my time inside it.”

  She’d heard that was how curators conducted their work. “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Let us also assume that I want what’s best for the Somnium, including employees such as yourself, and that I have some proficiency in accomplishing that goal.”

  A blush stained her cheeks—like a flunking student brought before the dean to plead his or her case.

  “Do you truly think I, or any curator, would allow an alucinator such as Ms. Kingsbury, who has proven to be unstable, to run loose in the dreamsphere again and create manifestations willy-nilly? That we—or your very dedicated Ms. Sharma—would neglect to consider Ms. Kingsbury’s past misdeeds in evaluating the recent code ones?”

  All Maggie knew was she’d locked her conduits—and she knew how it felt to have wraiths escape through her. It felt like a rape of her psyche combined with slime and horror. How could she have missed whole crowds of wraiths using her as their highway to the terra firma? “I wasn’t aware the curators monitored specific events so closely.”

  “Well, now you are,” he said gently. “If we’re of a mind to. You mustn’t blame yourself for the deaths, child. You had no way of knowing about your handicap.”

  “I don’t blame myself,” she responded, but uncertainly. He was a curator. He knew things none of the rest of them did, and everyone blamed her for the code ones. And the deaths. Should she be feeling more guilt?

  “Do the wraiths swarm you in the dreamsphere?” he asked.

  She hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. However, if the curator did indeed take over her training, he was going to notice. “It’s my understanding wraiths are more attracted to high level dreamers, and of late there’s been an upsurge in recorded wraith density.”

  “Do they turn your shields black? Like nobody else?”

  As far as Maggie knew, the only people who realized the wraiths swarmed her that heavily were her, Zeke, Lillian and possibly Adi, though Hayden might suspect since she’d quizzed him about his wraith density. In the terra firma, it had been hard to hide the fact that manifested wraiths, on missions, tended to come after her.

  Until the past two code ones, it had never been blamed on her being the wraiths’ creator.

  “There are a lot of them,” she hedged. “Both Zeke and I are L5s, and—”

  “The boy isn’t attracting them. You are. The wraiths aren’t as mindless as people think,” the curator explained. “They know you’ve got a weakness, and they aim to exploit it, like sharks tasting blood in the water.”

  His claims were eerily close to Karen’s. Maggie pondered the wisdom of probing him for information about a Master wraith, which might make her sound as crazy as Karen. “Are you saying they’re intelligent?”

  “Nothing like what we call intelligence.” He maneuvered several scraps of egg onto his fork. “What they possess is more like instincts. They remind me of ants. Killer ants.” He chuckled. “But I’ve seen you, girlie. You’re a classic case of conduit blindness.”

  “You’ve seen me?” Had he noticed her kill wraiths in the dreamsphere
and drag the corpses into the terra firma? Another question it wasn’t safe to ask.

  “Yes, indeed. We watch all the promising ones.” His dark eyes twinkled at her before he finished off his egg.

  “I don’t know that I’d refer to myself as promising.” Surely if the wraiths had instincts, they would avoid an alucinator who was a bellatorix.

  Or seek to destroy her as quickly as possible.

  Maggie shivered.

  The curator had returned his attention to his plate, missing her reaction. “You have no idea of the contributions you can make to the greater good, my girl. We just need to get you situated.”

  Was hiding the information about the corpses from the curator interfering with his diagnosis of the situation? Or was it saving her from graver consequences than being reassigned? She wasn’t convinced she had a problem with dreamspace depth perception, but her training, her abilities—even her initial awakening as a neonati, thanks to Hayden—had all been atypical.

  Did she have the flaw the curator claimed she did? Was conduit blindness tied to being a bellatorix, or was it the other way around?

  Were the deaths her fault?

  Chicken, meet Egg.

  “If I suffer from conduit blindness,” she asked when the curator was between bites, “why has this issue taken two months to surface?”

  The curator shrugged. “If I had to guess, and I suppose I do, it’s because you relocated to the coma station. The number of alucinators in comas here draws more wraiths in the first place.”

  She hadn’t noticed more wraiths here than anywhere else, but she supposed she wouldn’t. “I see.”

  “At your assigned castrum, nearly everyone can defend themselves, but here? The wraiths have their pick of helpless victims.”

  “You’re saying the wraiths can sense who in the terra firma helpless and who’s not?” Do they have some all-powerful Master lurking in the dreamsphere right now, waiting to gobble us up?

  And—the thought occurred to her—could she kill the Master like she’d killed the wraiths? But wondering that assumed Karen was more sane and less murderous than Maggie was willing to countenance.