If Souls Can Sleep (The Soul Sleep Cycle Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  Jerry has probably seen stranger stuff while stoned than my subconscious could ever cook up.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Vincent said, moving to the Low Rider, “but I’ve been having the strangest dreams lately.”

  Sharing the two-part adventure of elves, knights, and a case of mistaken identity took only a few minutes. Looking down at his hands while he spoke, Vincent said, “Then I got pissed at the knight and called him a bully…or something like that…and he hit me with the dull end of his sword. Pretty messed up, huh?”

  He stole a glance at Jerry, who had remained silent throughout the story. Jerry, his face scrunched up in an expression of extreme concentration, leaned back in his chair, pulled a joint out of the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, and lit up.

  From behind a cloud of smoke, Jerry asked, “What do you think it means?”

  Vincent forced a laugh. “How should I know? I mean, they’re just dreams. They don’t have to mean anything…right?”

  Jerry took another puff. “Yeah, but, they gotta come from somewhere. Did you watch The Lord of the Rings lately?”

  “I’ve never seen any of those movies,” Vincent answered.

  “And you don’t read books about elves?”

  “I can’t remember the last time I read a book, let alone one filled with fairytales.”

  Jerry scratched at his mop of sandy blond hair. “This isn’t really my field of expertise. I mean, I played D&D in high school, but these days I’m more of a sci-fi guy. Hey, are you sure this chick was an elf? Vulcans and Romulans have pointy ears too.”

  “Everyone called her an elf,” Vincent said. “Anyway, there was no technology around. The jail cell was straight out of the Dark Ages, not part of a spaceship.”

  Jerry set the joint in the ashtray. “We should do some research.”

  Before Vincent could ask for clarification, Jerry got up and walked into his room. A few seconds later, he returned with a laptop Vincent had seen only once or twice before and set it on the coffee table.

  Vincent moved closer to the computer, leaving room for Jerry, who sat down and clicked a key to banish the psychedelic screensaver. The flashy colors were replaced by the image of a remarkably average-looking naked woman reclining, her legs spread farther apart than Vincent would have thought possible. The woman smiled invitingly at the camera. Vincent blushed and looked away.

  “Uh…sorry ’bout that,” Jerry mumbled and quickly opened a new browser window. “So…what was the name everyone kept calling you in the dream?”

  Vincent felt ridiculous repeating it, but Jerry looked at him expectantly. “Valenthor,” he said with a sigh.

  Jerry typed the word into a search engine.

  “Ninety-one results,” Jerry said, “assuming that’s the right spelling.”

  Vincent shrugged. He was about to ask Jerry exactly what he expected to find when Jerry started humming to himself.

  “Hmm…let’s see here.” Jerry clicked the first link. “This looks like some kind of fantasy game message board…a user profile…hmm…he…or she, I s’pose, is twenty-two and lives in Santa Cruz. That’s weird.”

  “What?” Vincent asked.

  “Your last name is Cruz, right?”

  Vincent rolled his eyes.

  “What else do we got?” Jerry went back to the search engine and clicked on the second link. The two of them skimmed the new profile, which appeared to be part of a comic book-themed forum. According to the stats, Valenthor the Silent was a fifteen-year-old male. He had never left a comment on the site.

  Further exploration of the web revealed a number of online fantasy game sites. Sometimes Valenthor was a first name and other times, a last name. In one instance, he was a troll.

  “These probably aren’t all the same person,” Jerry said after a while. “Could be Valenthor is just an easy name to come up with. It certainly sounds fantasy-ish. But there doesn’t seem to be any famous books or movies or anything with a character named Valenthor.”

  Leaning back on the couch, Vincent said, “So my subconscious made it all up. Maybe you should look for a website on dream interpretations.”

  First I’m getting drunk, and then I’m stuck in a jail cell. Do I really want Jerry copiloting the journey into my psyche?

  “Never mind,” Vincent added hurriedly.

  Jerry might not have heard him. Completely consumed by the task at hand, he said, “We’re out of our element. Time for a new tactic.”

  Jerry clicked back to the search engine and began typing.

  Vincent leaned forward and watched Jerry type “master of all things fantasy” into the search field. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “There are millions of geeks out there, and thanks to the internet, we can capitalize on their otherwise useless knowledge.”

  Two clicks later, they found themselves at yet another message board. Jerry scrolled through the thread. Vincent was about to make a snide comment about a wild elf chase when they found a rather substantial post containing the exact phrase from Jerry’s search.

  Vincent laughed out loud. “Someone actually calls himself Master of All Things Fantasy? Had you heard of him before or something?”

  “Naw,” Jerry said, grinning ear to ear. “Thought it was worth a shot though. Now let’s see if he knows his shit.”

  Shaking his head, Vincent pushed himself up off of the Low Rider. “I’m gonna pass. Sometimes weird dreams are just weird dreams.” He found the remote control wedged down in the cushion of Jerry’s recliner and turned the TV on. “But do let me know if the Master of All Things Fantasy knows anything about jailbreaks.”

  Chapter 5

  Vincent turned off the vacuum cleaner and was overcome by silence.

  Florescent lights looked down on a maze of cubicles equipped with computers, binders, inboxes, outboxes, family photos, and the occasional knickknack suggesting the some drones who occupied the offices by day had an iota of personality. Calendars crammed full of multicolored scrawling were also a common component of the dusty desktops.

  Cleaning up after the cretins who worked in Milwaukee’s tallest building—he supposed it qualified as a skyscraper—afforded Vincent a lot of time to think. When the others were working on the opposite end of the floor or taking “lunch” together, he felt like the only living soul left on the planet. Being left alone with his thoughts was one of the drawbacks of being a janitor.

  That and dealing with the flush-optional mentality of some guy on the fifth floor.

  Those corporate types weren’t all bankers, but Vincent liked to imagine the lot of them as rich snobs who went home to the condos lining Lake Michigan or palatial homes in the snootier suburbs to the north. In his musings, they all were wealthy, but never happy.

  And if they thought their shit didn’t stink, well, he knew otherwise.

  As the early-morning minutes ticked away, he lost interest in his imaginary adversaries. The sad fact was he needed them. If no one made any messes, he’d be out of work, and if those long months of living with his mother had taught him anything, it was that a crappy job was better than no job.

  His coworkers—an army of flunkeys under the command of Darlene Sanders, a forty-something woman who was wider than she was tall and who hated everyone but men most of all—counted the seconds to morning. But Vincent hated the dawn, when his thoughts invariably turned inward.

  The virgin rays streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows touched the deepest recesses of his mind, casting light on the moment when it all went wrong. If Clementine hadn’t died, he and Bella would still be living together as man and wife. He wouldn’t have gotten a DUI and lost his license along with his old job of driving truck. If Bella hadn’t kicked him out, he wouldn’t have had to move in with his mom and learn that they were still incompatible after so many years.

  If I hadn’t let my own daughter die, I never would have become such a loser.

  Clementine…

  ***

  Vincent jerked u
pright. Dripping sweat and fighting for air, he pushed the memory out of his mind, but he felt the nightmare pulling at his thoughts like an undertow, determined to drown him in despair. The darkness around him only added to his disorientation.

  He rubbed his eyes and flinched when his hand grazed the side of his nose.

  “I treated your injury. With naught but water and the cloth of my cloak, I could do little more than wash away the blood,” the woman kneeling beside him said.

  No, not a woman. An elf.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, carefully tracing the slope of his nose. The skin was hot and swollen, but everything felt in place. The knight’s sword hadn’t broken any bones.

  A vague memory tugged at him, something about sunlight shining into a tower, but Vincent shrugged it off. He had more important things to think about, like getting away from their violent captor.

  “So much for knights being noble.” Vincent glared through the bars, silently daring the jailer to return.

  “The hour grows late,” the elf said. “Sir Angus will not soon return.”

  Vincent turned to face her, leaning against the bars until the cold metal caused him to shiver. “You know that bastard’s name?”

  Despite the dim light in the cell, he had no trouble seeing out the elf’s white face. When her thin eyebrows drew together, the furrows stood out like cracks in china.

  “When Sir Angus used that word, you became angry. And now you say it of him. What does it mean?” she asked.

  “What word? ‘Bastard’?”

  She nodded timidly.

  “Um, technically, it’s what you call a man who never knew his father,” he said.

  The confusion creasing the elf’s expression deepened. “You are the son of a widow then?”

  Vincent grunted in amusement. “Not exactly. My mother never married, and my father didn’t stick around long after I was born.” After a few more seconds of silence, he added, “Maybe there aren’t any oops babies where you came from.”

  Blank stare.

  “Don’t elves have…accidents?” he asked, exasperated.

  Her stunning green eyes seemed to double in size.

  “Right,” he said. “It’s not exactly…gentlemanly…to suggest a guy’s mother slept around.”

  Vincent paced the perimeter of the cell that measured no more than a handful of steps in any direction.

  I didn’t do whatever the knight is accusing me of, but he’ll never believe me. I have to find a way out of here.

  “You spoke while you slept,” the elf said quietly.

  “Eh?” He wrapped his fingers around the bitter-cold bars and pulled until his biceps burned from the strain.

  “You repeated a single word again and again,” she said, “in between your cries of anguish.”

  A nightmare? What possibly could’ve been worse than being trapped in here?

  A shadow of memory clawed frantically at the edges of his mind but failed to find purchase.

  “Mayhap it was a name,” the elf said.

  The air grew very cold—colder than the bars had been.

  No…

  The elf spoke rose to her feet. “Before he departed, Sir Angus mocked your attempt to defend me. He declared you could never be anyone’s champion because you are a slave to intoxicating drinks.”

  “Is that a polite way of calling me an alcoholic?” Vincent joked, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile.

  “Sir Angus said once upon a time you were heralded as hero among your people, but then the gods of men took the life of your child—”

  “Stop!” Vincent’s voice echo off the walls. He clenched his eyes closed. The tightness in his chest stole his breath.

  “The name you call out in your dreams,” she persisted, “is it your daughter’s?”

  “Please!”

  “Valentine,” she whispered.

  What?

  Vincent’s eyes shot open. She stepped closer, her cheeks painted with the shiny path of tears.

  “I share in your sorrow, Valenthor,” she said.

  He took a step back, shaking his head. “My daughter’s name isn’t…wasn’t Valentine. It’s…”

  Panic squeezed his racing heart as he struggled to come up with the name.

  “Can you not see, Valenthor? My Ancestors and your gods have brought us together. You yearn for a new purpose and a righteous cause. My people need a champion, a savior—”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop calling me Valenthor!”

  She recoiled, her eyes widening in alarm. He didn’t care. The elf’s dilemma, Sir Angus’s attitude, even the claustrophobic jail cell—nothing mattered except remembering the real name of his dead little girl.

  “We must escape,” the elf said, drawing closer.

  “Stay away from me!” he screamed and backed into the hard stone wall. He was so close to remembering, but every time he opened his mouth to say the name, all he came up with was “Valentine.”

  She reached out to him. “If we do not flee, they surely will kill us both.”

  Valentine…Valentine…Valentine…no, no, no!

  She took his trembling hand in her own. “I will save you, Valenthor, so that you can save the world.”

  Vincent made a halfhearted attempt to wrench his hand away from her, but her touch seemed to have sapped all of his energy. He fought against the dizziness, closed his eyes to block out the spinning room.

  God help me, what is her name?

  “Rest now,” the elf whispered. “Very soon, you will need your strength.”

  Clementine!

  ***

  “Well, I don’t know who Clementine is, but for your sake I hope she likes her men unemployed.”

  Someone loomed over Vincent. Because of the morning light pouring in from the tall windows overlooking the lake, he could make out only a short, wide silhouette.

  Even if he hadn’t recognized his boss’s squat shape, there was no mistaking her disdainful voice.

  “Darlene, I’m so sorry!” Vincent scrambled to his feet, wiping the drool off his chin. He almost wished he was back in the medieval prison. “I’m not sure what happened, but I promise it’ll never happen again.”

  “Damn right it’s never gonna happen again ’cause your ass is fired.”

  Vincent, who had been reaching for his vacuum, flinched.

  Oh God, this can’t be happening.

  Holding back the sea of emotions swelling inside of him, he said, “Please, Darlene, I need this job.”

  “‘Please, Darlene’ nothing. Two weeks ago, you don’t bother showin’ up, and now I find you napping on the clock. Uh-uh. Two strikes, and you’re out ’round here. If this job is too damn hard for you, I’m sure I can find someone else who’s up to the challenge.”

  Darlene punctuated her lecture with a tilt of her head and then waddled away.

  “Hey, wait!”

  She silenced him with a glare and crossed her arms, nearly losing them beneath a layer of flab. “Uh-uh, Vincent. I never liked your attitude. Always acting like you was doing us a favor by bein’ here. Well, no thank you, Mr. Cruz. Hand over your keycard and get the hell out.”

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of watching him grovel, especially since it wouldn’t do any good. She had been gunning for him from the start and had never missed a chance to tell him exactly what she thought of him. There was nothing he could say to appease her.

  Looks like the loser loses again.

  He slapped the keycard into her pudgy palm and stomped over to the elevator. His pulse was still pounding in his ears when he reached the empty street corner outside.

  “Goddamn it!”

  The lifeless buildings around him gave no reply. Somewhere nearby, a bus groaned. Otherwise, the city was silent. Vincent rushed past the bus stop. Twenty blocks stretched between the skyscraper and his apartment, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of being around anyone right now, even strangers on the bus.

 
The autumn air felt cool against his feverish skin. He was walking so fast his breaths came in frantic, shallow gulps. However, he couldn’t outpace his thoughts.

  You did it again, Vincent. How many times can one guy screw up?

  A black luxury sedan drove past, heading in the direction of the tower. Vincent pictured Monopoly’s Uncle Moneybags sitting behind the wheel, on his way to count stacks of gold coins.

  How am I going to pay the rent? I have nothing. I’m just killing time until I die.

  How he wished he had died that day instead of Clemmy.

  Why didn’t I drain the tub? If only I’d just let her take her rubber duck into the living room? If only I had stayed awake…

  And why the hell did Bella have to go grocery shopping so damn early that morning when she knew I had been driving half the night before?

  Vincent shook his head, laughing helplessly. He had wandered down that road many times before, alternating between blaming himself and Bella, his not-yet-ex-wife. There was no point to it. Nothing would change. He couldn’t undo what already was done.

  Valentine.

  The word popped into his head out of nowhere, refueling his anger. It was ridiculous to blame the fairytale dream for losing his job. And yet, he had never nodded off at work before, not even back when he had first started and had had the queen of all hangovers. He didn’t even remember feeling sleepy.

  The dream sucked me in again, only this time I was awake when it happened. Maybe I really am Valenthor. Maybe we all become somebody else when our brains shut down for the night.

  Or maybe I’m going nuts.

  No rational explanations came to him in the hour it took to get home, but as he inserted his key into the front door, Vincent felt certain of one thing. If he was to have any chance of living a normal life, he was going to have to figure out what was really going on in his head.

  He heard the phone ringing from out the hallway, shoved open the apartment door, and picked up the receiver before the answering machine—an archaic contraption, to be sure—could intercept the call.