The Last Dream Keeper

by Amber Benson

  “Fine,” she said, still not looking at him. “But on one condition. You promise to tell me what the hell is going on with you”—he started to protest—“not now, but soon.”

  He had no argument. He could hedge all he wanted, but if he didn’t promise now, he knew she would hound him with questions until they got in a nasty fight. Which would only be counterproductive.

  “Fine,” he said, and sighed. “I told you we would discuss everything later—”

  Arrabelle turned away from the window and looked at him, searching his face for answers.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that we know each other very well,” she began. “With that said, you will do everything in your power to keep me in the dark for as long as possible. If you promise something, though, that means you’ve given your word and I know you won’t go back on that.”

  He stared back at her, his frustration evident.

  “Fine. I promise. I give my word. Whatever you want, Bell.”

  Arrabelle could see Niamh’s worried face in the rearview mirror.

  “I accept,” Arrabelle said. “And I will hold you to it. That’s my promise to you.”

  Evan’s shoulders slumped, but he gave her a wan smile.

  “I know you will, Bell.”

  With that Niamh navigated the rental toward the line of cars waiting their turn to board the ferry and put the gear into park. Now they waited.

  * * *

  The rolling of the choppy sea did not seem to faze Evan but, like a lullaby, had lulled him into slumber. Stretched out across the backseat, he looked angelic, all the sharp angles and hard lines smoothed away by sleep. Arrabelle closed the car door softly behind her, making sure the catch clicked into place. Then she wove her way through the parked rows of cars, looking for Niamh.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected to learn from the younger woman. She was Evan’s coven mate, knew more about him now than Arrabelle did . . . Really she just wanted to talk to her. It was as simple as that.

  There were fewer cars on the return trip to the mainland than there had been on the voyage over. Fewer cars meant fewer people, and Arrabelle was able to find Niamh easily. She was sitting on one of the wooden benches, legs tucked up underneath her, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. Arrabelle crossed the deck and took the empty seat beside Niamh, slipping off her own jacket and draping it over the girl’s shoulders.

  “Oh, you don’t need to—” Niamh started to say, but Arrabelle waved her words away.

  “Please, you’re freezing, take it.”

  The girl debated internally for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then finally nodded. She shifted the puffy jacket so it draped around the front of her like a giant down-filled bib and slipped her arms backward through the sleeves.

  “Thank you.”

  Arrabelle smiled at her.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They sat together quietly, neither speaking, just listening to the crash of the waves against the ship’s hull as the ferry knifed through the water. It was pleasant there on the deck, the sun warming their skin for a moment before that warmth was pilfered by the lashing of the cold, wet cross-breeze.

  Niamh spoke and, at first, Arrabelle did not hear the words because the wind kept stealing them away.

  “What?” Arrabelle asked, moving closer to Niamh, leaving no space between them on the bench.

  “He won’t tell you,” she almost whispered.

  “Won’t tell me what?” she asked, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. To her surprise, she found that Niamh was shaking.

  “That he’s dying. Anyone can see it, but he acts like it’s not happening—”

  Arrabelle’s heart froze, Niamh’s voice fading out until there was only the buzzing inside of her own head to keep her company in her terror.

  No. The word came to her unbidden.

  “—he was so sick that night, I was sure that was the end. So I sent the package.”

  Arrabelle forced herself to refocus, to pay attention to what Niamh was saying.

  “How long has this been going on?” she asked, curious at how calm her voice sounded even to her own ears.

  “The night they came. The night they took my sister . . . and murdered Yesinia and Honey . . .”

  Niamh’s voice trailed off. She looked so miserable that Arrabelle felt compelled to loop an arm around the girl’s shoulder and pull her in tight.

  “I’m so sorry,” Arrabelle said as the girl’s whole body began to shake, tears falling down her cheeks like raindrops. “I can’t even imagine what this has been like for you.”

  “My sister,” Niamh murmured. “I feel everything they do to her . . . and then two days ago, she began to talk to me. That’s how we know where she is. She told me.”

  Arrabelle frowned, her fingers nimbly stroking the girl’s long, tangled hair.

  “How is that possible?”

  Niamh shrugged and shook her head.

  “I don’t know. I can’t ask her . . . she doesn’t hear me. She just talks . . . like she hopes she’s reaching me, but isn’t sure.”

  “Okay,” Arrabelle said, nodding. “That’s good. She’s still alive. And that’s something.”

  Niamh’s lower lip trembled.

  “She sounds bad, though. Really, really bad.”

  “Then it’s good we’re going to help her now.”

  “Evan . . . he shouldn’t come with us,” Niamh said, her mind moving quickly between subjects. “I’m afraid of what they’d do to him. It would be worse than death.”

  Arrabelle wasn’t quite sure that anything could be worse than death, but she understood that Niamh was scared of something her sister had shared with her, and she didn’t want that fate for Evan.

  “Because what they’ve done to Laragh is worse than death,” she said, another onslaught of tears sliding down her face. “It’s inhuman.”

  “We’ll stop them—” Arrabelle began.

  “But will we?” Niamh whispered, interrupting her. “Really?”

  As much as Arrabelle wanted to reassure the girl that everything would be fine, she realized only a hypocrite would say that. Because Niamh was right, Arrabelle did not know the future. She could make an educated guess, could hang her hat on hope, but, in the end, there was only what would be . . . and that was for the fates to decide.

  Instead, she chose to speak the only truth available to her:

  “I don’t know.”

  Daniela

  Dammit, Lizbeth, Daniela thought, the steady sound of her own pulse a syncopated beat in her ears. Where the hell did you go?

  She jogged down the unlit path, her footfalls echoing in the confined space, the close quarters making her feel claustrophobic. With its lack of overhead lighting, it was obvious that this particular tunnel was definitely not supposed to be traversed by visitors, and Daniela had to be careful not to trip over the natural rises and dips in the rock floor as she navigated the empty catacombs. She could hear the pounding of feet up ahead, and hoped that meant Lizbeth was proving elusive to the two mercenaries who’d taken off after her.

  She has no idea they’re coming for her, Daniela thought, and then she careened into a ledge protruding from the wall, something she’d missed in the low light. It slammed into her thigh and she bit her tongue in order not to cry out.

  She instinctively smacked the ledge with the meaty heel of her palm, lashing out in anger at an inanimate object.

  “Bastard,” she murmured, placing both hands over her thigh and applying pressure to stanch the flow of pain, sharp and almost sweet in its intensity, that radiated from the injured area.

  She knew it was going to leave a nasty bruise, but she didn’t have time to wallow in the pain. She started moving again, walking off the injury, and then she forced herself to run, ignoring the ache in her leg.

&n
bsp; She could still hear the heavy thud of running feet and was pleased the two men hadn’t gotten so far ahead that she couldn’t follow them—but then she hit another of the burial chambers, and everything changed. Though this one was smaller and brighter than the last, with flat stone walls that reflected back the artificial light, making the rock seem to sparkle beneath the faded mosaics . . . there were five exits from this new chamber.

  “Dammit,” Daniela murmured as she stood in the middle of the chamber, unsure of what to do next.

  She scanned the room, looking for a sign, anything to tell her which way to go, but there was nothing. The symbols covering the walls were indecipherable to her, and the images were just as useless: egg-shaped pomegranate fruit and arcing plant fronds. These were painted on the stone above the empty graves, each one having long since been relieved of its human remains.

  She spun on her heel, the mazelike catacombs offering her no help. She checked the floor, but there were no footprints to lead her in one direction over another. She continued the search, desperate for a clue—when one presented itself to her almost by accident.

  “Wait a hot minute,” she said, jogging over to one of the empty graves and squatting down beside it.

  It was nearly invisible, so neatly had it been cut into the soft volcanic rock, but there in front of her eyes was an ouroboros. She reached out a tentative hand and pressed her finger into the center of the symbol. There was a quiet hiss as some kind of metal clockwork sprang to life—then the ground shifted as a trapdoor opened beneath Daniela’s feet and she was plunged down into darkness.

  * * *

  “Where is Weir?”

  Daniela sat up, letting the water pour off her like a waterfall. She was dizzy from the long ride down and it took her a minute to catch her breath.

  “I don’t know,” she replied after a moment, her eyes adjusting to the low light as she climbed out of the pool, her shoes squelching with each step.

  “We have to go back and get him,” Lizbeth said. She, too, was wet, having arrived by the same means, but somehow Lizbeth managed to look presentable while Daniela did not.

  She was standing beside an intricately carved wooden doorway. It appeared that once upon a time there’d been a door to go with it—probably carved in the same detailed design—but it had been removed at some point, leaving only the lintel and frame.

  “I don’t know how you propose to do that,” Daniela said, moving to the doorway in order to study what she now realized were ancient runes cut into the wood. “There’s no going back the way we came.”

  The trapdoor had shunted Daniela down a lightless shaft cut into the rock. This is it, she’d thought, expecting to fall until her body was smashed into smithereens at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground—but, instead, her ass had slammed into something hard and she’d found herself snaking down the cold, polished surface of a man-made stone slide.

  It had looped in circles like an amusement park ride, sending her deeper and deeper beneath the Earth. She’d immediately given over to the feeling of being out of control and after a few minutes, the slide had straightened out and she’d been jettisoned into a pool of warm water.

  Where Lizbeth had been waiting.

  “I can’t leave him here,” Lizbeth was saying as she glared at Daniela.

  Daniela was too busy studying the runes to pay Lizbeth much attention. She’d seen many of them before and had a vague understanding of what they meant. Besides, as far as she was concerned, the burial chamber where they’d left Lyse and Weir was totally unreachable from the place they were now standing.

  “You’re not even listening to me,” Lizbeth continued, her anger rising.

  To Daniela’s shock, Lizbeth’s control slipped away and she slapped Daniela across the face.

  A fiery ache shot through Daniela’s body and her eyes rolled back into her head as a wave of red-hot anger slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. Though to outside eyes, it must’ve looked like she was having one of her normal, empath-related seizures.

  This wasn’t the case. Lizbeth’s emotions were to blame, pummeling Daniela like a fist. Anger, fear, anguish, lust . . . they walloped her until Daniela could barely form a coherent thought—and then something strange happened: The beating stopped and Daniela’s soul began to float into the air.

  * * *

  Daniela stood on the portico of the small circular building on the grounds of the Villa Nomentana.

  Why am I here? she wondered—and then the answer presented itself to her.

  She turned and saw Lizbeth. She was holding hands with an old woman in a long white dress.

  “The one you call friend, this ‘Lyse’ woman?” the old woman was saying. “She is a Judas. She has already betrayed you once and she will do it again before the day is through. Kill her if you can. Stop her from playing her part in their plans.”

  Lizbeth’s eyes were unfocused, her lips slack. She looked like a zombie.

  Daniela crossed the portico and touched the old woman’s shoulder.

  “Francesca? What’re you doing to Lizbeth?”

  The old woman held tightly to Lizbeth’s hands but twisted her neck so she could look back at Daniela.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asked. “This is no place for you.”

  “I’m here because she touched me. And now I get to make a few changes in her head.”

  She grasped Francesca’s wrists with her gloved hands and squeezed. The old woman cried out in pain but released her death grip on Lizbeth’s hands. Lizbeth opened her eyes and blinked, confused. She opened her mouth to say something to Daniela, but, at that very moment, she disappeared.

  “You can’t control her anymore,” Daniela said. “She’s free of you.”

  Daniela spun Francesca around so they were facing each other.

  “Why were you doing that? Saying those things about Lyse?”

  Francesca wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “It’s not true, then. What you told Lizbeth? You lied to her—”

  Francesca glared at her.

  “That girl . . . she is stealing your place. You were supposed to be The Magician. Not The Fool.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Daniela said. “What’re you even saying?”

  Francesca’s shoulders drooped and she sighed, beaten.

  “I was left here to give the word to the last Dream Keeper. I was to do that, then tell her to release the others before she began her journey . . .”

  She looked down at the ground, unhappy.

  “. . . but I decided to play with fate. To change things so you were the good daughter instead of the bad . . .”

  Before Daniela could decipher what any of this meant—

  —she was in an interrogation room.

  It was a metal box that contained a metal table with one sad lightbulb hanging above it, bathing the tabletop in a soft yellow spotlight. Desmond Delay sat on one side of the divide, his lion’s-head cane propped against his knee. Across from him sat two prisoners, each one wearing a sackcloth over their head—and Daniela wondered how they could breathe. One of the prisoners sat ramrod straight against their seat back; the other was not doing so well, had slumped over in their chair and was looking the worse for wear.

  “I wish it had not come to this,” Desmond said, resting his elbows on the smooth, level tabletop. “I was hoping you’d see it my way, that you would understand the deeper truth and join us . . . but that was naïve of me.”

  Neither of the prisoners responded to him—and even though Daniela wanted to jump in and stop whatever was happening, she didn’t possess a body here in this memory (because that was what she reasoned it was) so she wasn’t allowed to move, or speak or breathe. Instead, she was forced to watch silently, and take it all in without comment.

  “Of course, you will join us, just not in the way I had hoped.
”

  He turned in his chair, catching the eye of someone standing in the shadows behind him, then swiveled back to face the prisoners.

  “Your powers are very useful to us—as abhorrent as they are—and they will help to bring The Flood into this reality,” he continued. “Yours is a personal loss to me, Marie-Faith—”

  Daniela didn’t hear the rest of Desmond’s speech. She was too focused on processing what he’d just said to pay attention.

  My mother, she thought, and reached out with her mind—but neither of the prisoners moved a muscle. It was just a memory.

  Though whose . . . Daniela couldn’t have said.

  Grief poured through Daniela, a pain so raw and alive it threatened to eat her up. All these years Desmond had been a father to her when she had none. When she was small, she’d prayed he would marry her mother and they’d live happily ever after. She’d wanted him to be a part of her family, had often daydreamed that he was—and now if she could’ve, she’d have happily ripped his head off his neck and fed it to a real lion, and not just the one on the walking stick she’d given him.

  Oh my Goddess, she thought—another, more immediate horror occurring to her: She’d given Desmond information he hadn’t had . . . she’d told him that Lizbeth was the last Dream Keeper when he’d so obviously believed that it was Lyse.

  She was mortified. Yes, she’d been tricked into releasing the information, but that didn’t make the damage any less severe. She, and she alone, had placed Lizbeth into mortal danger.

  “Bear with me, ladies,” Desmond was saying as Daniela forced herself to listen in again to the one-sided conversation. “This will only hurt a bit.”

  A man stepped from the shadows, his close-cropped hair as silver as the moon. Daniela recognized the handsome face, with its eerily familiar features, knew how he would move before he even took a step because she’d seen his brand of predatory feline grace before. When he’d shown up to Eleanora’s memorial, claiming to be her long-lost son . . . and Lyse’s uncle.