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

by David Michael Williams

  No, she’d be eleven now. Funny how I never remember her birthday when it comes around, but I can’t forget November 4th, the anniversary of her death.

  Fifteen days to go.

  His toe caught the lip of the uneven pavement, and he stumbled. To his left, a large window showed the inside of a very narrow building. Vincent had never been inside, but he could see the expensive liquor bottles lined up behind the checkout counter. This was where Jerry had bought his supplies for the night with Paish and her friends.

  The beer was gone, but Vincent knew the whiskey bottle was still half full.

  That’s not going to make things better. Besides, Leah said to lay off alcohol before the sleep study.

  His feet took him down the street, around the corner, and up to the brown-and-white house that probably never was home to just one family. At the moment, there weren’t any families living in the four-unit building, unless one counted the young couple living in sin in Apartment 1.

  The side door was locked, but the door of Apartment 4 wasn’t. He went inside. The drone from the TV in the living room confirmed that Jerry was, in fact, home and hadn’t absentmindedly left the door unsecured again.

  Not that we have anything worth stealing.

  After a quick stop in the claustrophobic bathroom, he surveyed the shelves in the pantry. None of the food was his. Hungry, not to mention thirsty for something other than tap water, Vincent conceded defeat to the bad day. He headed for his room, acknowledging Jerry—sitting in his recliner, of course—with an unenthusiastic “hey.”

  “Hey, wait!”

  One foot in his bedroom, Vincent hesitated. “Yeah?”

  “Your wife called. Twice. She sounded really worried,” Jerry said.

  First my mother and now Bella. Is there anyone else in my life who’d like to call and tell my roommate how concerned they are for my well-being?

  “She said she’s been trying to call your cell all day.” Jerry frowned. “I thought you were divorced…that you had an ex-wife.”

  Vincent wasn’t listening. He reached into his pocket—his empty pocket—and swore. Was his cell back at the restaurant, where he had dropped it during Bella’s call? But the missing phone wasn’t something he planned to deal immediately. Neither was calling Bella back.

  “It can wait until tomorrow. One jump to Valenthor’s world was enough for today.”

  “Huh?” Jerry’s face was the definition of bewildered.

  “We suspect that thoughts about Bella and Clementine might bring on The Dream,” Vincent explained.

  “‘We’?” Jerry asked. “You and Valenthor?”

  Vincent laughed.

  So he does think I’m crazy.

  “No, me and my friend Leah. I met her for lunch today. She’s a sleep doctor.”

  “Oh.” Jerry’s brow crinkled again. “So when did you have The Dream today?”

  “It’s a long story.” Vincent eyed the laptop on Jerry’s lap. “Is that the Master standing by, waiting for a report?”

  “No. I’m shopping for my sister’s birthday present.” Jerry’s eyes flicked back to the computer screen. “The world doesn’t revolve around you…at least not this one.”

  “Sorry,” Vincent said. “It’s been a long day. I’ll tell you about The Dream tomorrow. I had a nice long talk with Locke.”

  Jerry didn’t say anything. He attacked the keyboard with two index fingers.

  Vincent sighed and stepped away from his door. For the first time, Vincent noticed that the ubiquitous joint and ashtray were nowhere to be seen. “What’s the matter with you? Are you out of weed or something?”

  Jerry looked up and sighed. “No, I just restocked a couple of nights ago. Remember? Paish and her friends were here? I’m just taking a break. Didn’t want to risk giving you a contact buzz.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, getting high off the fumes,” Jerry replied. “If you apply for a job with the City, they’re gonna make you take a piss test. A lot of good me putting in a good word for you would do if you test positive for pot.”

  Vincent hesitated. “Wait a sec…are you saying the smoke from your joints could affect me without me even knowing it?”

  Jerry’s eyes were glued to the computer screen. “It’s possible.”

  Vincent didn’t know what to say. Was it possible Jerry’s secondhand smoke had something to do with The Dream? For that matter, how much damage might young Evie had done to him while partying as an oblivious, soon-to-be parent?

  I should count my blessings if blackouts and bizarre dreams are the worst things I reaped from the wild oats my mother sowed.

  “Of course, they can’t hire you if you don’t fill out the application. It’s still sitting on the kitchen table,” Jerry said.

  Is that why he’s so cranky?

  Vincent turned back to his door. “It’s on my list of things to do. Right now, I need to rest…to get some real sleep.”

  “OK…sweet dreams then,” Jerry mumbled. The sporadic click of keystrokes followed.

  Vincent went into his room and, not bothering to turn the light on, dropped onto his bed.

  My pseudo date ended because I fainted while talking to my wife, my stoner roommate is pissed at me for some reason, and my best job prospect is being a garbage man.

  Can’t imagine why my brain would want to construct a new reality.

  Vincent closed his eyes.

  ***

  Valenthor opened his eyes.

  Sunset painted the swaths of clouds in fiery hues. Or was it sunrise? With only a patch of twilit sky visible above—a pocket of light amidst the encroaching treetops—he had no way of discerning east from west. It only compounded the disorientation caused by his sudden expulsion from sleep.

  Was I dreaming of Valentine again…lost once more in the day I failed to protect her and her mother?

  Valenthor sat up and stiffened when he saw the elf was gone. He scanned the perimeter of the glade, searching for the empty eyes of Locke’s mask among the tree trunks. No trace of either companion could be found. He was alone.

  Without consciously reaching for it, he suddenly was holding the hammer. The weapon was a far cry from the two-handed broadsword that he had wielded through countless campaigns and which his father had carried before him. Yet the smooth wood of the hammer’s haft felt comfortable in his hands. He found what might have been footprints—faint impressions in the sparse, cold grass—and followed them into the woods.

  The leaves had begun to bleed autumn colors, and the sweet perfume of decay danced on the cool air. As he walked slowly, warily beneath the canopy, a steady wind shook saplings and older, broader boughs. Red- and orange-tinged foliage rained down around him. He examined the ground but could not ferret out a path.

  He stopped, listened.

  Underlying the occasional hiss of the wind was the steady burbling of the stream where he had washed his wound. When? That morning? The day before? The memory eluded him, as though his mind recognized the fact but could not recall the experience itself. He wondered if it could be an effect of Locke’s elixir.

  Could it be that Locke took the elf whilst I slept? Is he an ally or enemy?

  Valenthor followed the sound of water for a few yards until the earth began to slope downward. Motes of sunlight speared though the trees and glistened off the shimmering surface. His raw throat choked with thirst, he thought the lazily flowing water looked like a small piece of paradise. He licked his lips and quickened his pace.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye sent him diving for cover behind the nearest tree.

  The Jötunn, Sir Angus, common bandits—whatever the threat, Valenthor readied himself for battle, tightening his hold on the hammer and mentally preparing to fight for his life. He strained to hear anything above his pulse pounding in his ears.

  It took all of his willpower to remain hidden. Instinct ordered him to charge into danger—to take his opponents by surprise and overwhelm them with his ferocity. Several une
ventful seconds later, he silently peered around the tree to see what menace waited down by the water.

  He stifled a gasp.

  The shallow stream could not hide the elf’s naked profile. She reached down to cup the water in her hands and then straightened, arching her back and revealed more tantalizing curves. Eyes closed, she poured the water over face. It flowed through her long, honey-blond hair and down the pale, pristine skin of her back. The pink tips of her breasts hardened in response to the chilly bite of the stream.

  Valenthor’s face burned with something fiercer than bloodlust. With her pointy ears hidden beneath the shiny mane, the elf looked like a human woman—a beautiful, unclothed woman—and his body responded with an intensity that took him by surprise.

  ’Tis merely a consequence of long span since I have lain with a woman. For the sake of my departed wife, I must look away.

  Yet he could not.

  She was so unlike his dead beloved, so much slimmer in the belly, taller, and lacking the generous figure of most frontierswomen. Her fair skin glistened like a pearl. The long, golden mane appeared to be the only hair she possessed. So perfect was her form that she scarcely seemed mortal.

  Suddenly, she fell into a taut crouch that reminded him of a doe ready to bolt. Or, perhaps, a panther about to pounce. She made no move to cover her nakedness as her eerily bright eyes bore into him from across the distance. Paralyzed, unable to find his voice, he could only wonder what he had done to betray his presence.

  The stiffness of her body melted away as quickly as it had come. Slowly, almost leisurely, she walked toward the bank, toward him. His face hot with shame, Valenthor looked away. He debated whether or not to make a hasty retreat back to the clearing, but even as he decided to stay and answer for his indecency, the elf silently sidled up to the tree.

  “Hail, Valenthor of the Three Rivers. How joyous to see thou are well!” Her voice was as musical as birdsong.

  He dared to take a quick glance at her. The oversized black cloak covered all but her hands and face, which were shiny with wetness. Big droplets trickled down through the blond tendrils, caressing her face.

  “Well met,” he replied guardedly. “Please forgive my intrusion…”

  She smiled. “I take no offense. We elves are not ashamed of our natural state. It is said that my people did not learn modesty until they encountered your kind so many ages ago.”

  Her innocent expression only fueled his guilt. He was on the verge of uttering a second apology when a thought surfaced from deep within his consciousness. Its urgency brought the question immediately to his lips.

  “I must know your name, milady.”

  She smiled thoughtfully. “The language of the Fay is difficult for most humans to pronounce. In your tongue, my name translates to ‘fortune’ or ‘future.’”

  Valenthor considered her words. “Fortune…but not all fortune is good, and the future can follow a path either fair or foul.”

  “Only the Ancestors know for certain,” she added.

  His scoff would have made Locke proud. “Some humans believe that their fate is guided by the gods. They call it destiny.”

  “That is my belief as well,” she said, her tone grave. “Please, Valenthor, call me Destiny.”

  “Then I must offer my thanks to you, Destiny, for freeing us from captivity.”

  “It is I who owe you gratitude,” she argued. “You fended off the knights while I recovered from the spell. You might have left me to suffer at the knights’ hands.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Again, Valenthor was startled by the power of his desire for her. He wanted to take her in his arms, to taste the sweetness of her lips, to crush her lithe body against his own. Somehow he knew that if he kissed her, she would not reject him.

  He turned away, gazing in the direction of the clearing.

  “We both are in the debt of another,” he said.

  He glanced back at her and saw her countenance darken. “You speak of the masked traveler. His tricks have served us thus far, but I fail to understand his motives for aiding us. I do not trust him, Valenthor.”

  Nor do I, dear Destiny. Nor do I.

  “We would do well to keep a careful watch on him,” he said. “He says he has no love for the knights or the Jötunn, and he is determined to accompany us on our journey.”

  Destiny shivered. He suspected it was a reaction to the word “Jötunn” and not the breeze against her wet skin. “I shall pray to all of the Ancestors that we will not have any more use for his protection. But neither will I turn him away. There are many who would twist the prophecy for their own dark ends, and we are a long way from Fay-Lutana.”

  “Your homeland,” Valenthor muttered. “And will your people welcome me as mine did you? What do you expect will happen when we arrive?”

  This is madness.

  When she would not meet his eyes, he added, “Can you give me even one reason why I should follow you into certain peril?”

  Destiny looked up at him, her emerald eyes penetrating his very soul.

  “If you give me your trust, Valenthor, I will take you to your daughter.”

  Chapter 17

  The silver Camry crept down the poorly lit street. Leah peered through the rain-spattered windshield at the line of houses, searching for the number that matched the digits she had scribbled on scrap paper. Staring intently at a white house with brown trim, she jumped when a dark shape appeared outside the passenger-side window.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” Vincent said, ducking into the seat next to her. “I can’t see the street very well from my apartment, so I was waiting on the side porch.”

  “No worries,” she replied automatically and then frowned. During the two weeks since the “sleep grooming” incident at her apartment, she had decided her relationship with Vincent Cruz needed an injection of professionalism.

  She had promised to help him, and she would if she could, even though it would have been easier for everybody if treatment came from an unbiased third party—from someone who didn’t blur the lines between physician and friend.

  Door-to-door service didn’t exactly come standard with the sleep study.

  If the test doesn’t reveal something concrete, if his condition proves to be psychological and not physiological, I’ll have no choice but to refer him to a psychiatrist and wish him the best.

  The part of her that had hoped Vincent would provide her with a mystery to explore—a phenomenon worthy of an award-winning essay— was quickly losing ground to the part that worried she might do more harm than good for the man sitting beside her.

  Maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty if I had picked up when Bella called his cell.

  “Oh, your phone!” She blindly reaching into her purse. “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to drop it off earlier. The past couple of weeks have been crazy. We were lucky there was a cancellation tonight. Otherwise, it might have been months before I could get you in for a polysomnogram.

  “You missed a couple of calls,” she added, handing the phone to Vincent.

  “Thanks. It was probably just Bella,” he said. “My phone isn’t exactly ringing off the hook these days.”

  Leah opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it.

  If I want to know about Bella, then I’m just going to have to call her, not pump a patient for information. Not that I’d know what to say to her after fifteen years…and with her losing a child…

  “So,” Vincent said, “how have you been sleeping?”

  She chuckled in spite of herself. “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been more diligent with my restraints, so I haven’t been a threat to myself and others. How about you?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I had The Dream again, but just once. I’m beginning to think you’re right about…about how all of this might be because of Clementine.”

  “Oh?” She glanced over at him, but he was looking out the side window.

  “In the
dream, Destiny, the elf lady, told me that she’s taking me…taking Valenthor to see his daughter.”

  “I thought Valenthor’s daughter had passed away.”

  “So did I, but maybe it’s like you said. Maybe my subconscious or whatever is trying to cope with Clementine’s death by constructing a fantasyland where she didn’t die.”

  Leah wondered, again, if Valenthor’s reunion with Valentine would give Vincent the closure he needed to end The Dream once in for all.

  Or will his mind latch onto the fantasy even more desperately?

  The turn signal ticked away a handful of seconds before Vincent said, “I just hope I’m not wasting your time tonight, Leah.”

  “Any answer is better than none, right?” she offered. “Either the PSG will show irregularities or it won’t. The data will determine what we do next.”

  If it’s narcolepsy, I’ll recommend clomipramine for the cataplexy. The REM suppressors might even stop The Dream once and for all.

  And God knows he should probably be on antidepressants anyway.

  Vincent turned to her, and she glanced away from the road. Dream or no Dream, the man looked tired.

  “I really appreciate everything you’re doing…fitting me in and finding a way to pay for this thing tonight,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, thankful he didn’t press her for more details on that final point. A few blocks later, she added, “When you first came to clinic, you mentioned narcolepsy. Are there any narcoleptics in your family?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. Not that I know of anyway. I never really knew my father, so I guess it’s possible. It’s just one of the sleep problems you hear about a lot…unlike what you have.”

  “Cataplexies, the sudden collapses you experience, occur when sleep paralysis is inappropriately activated,” she said. “In a way, it’s the exact opposite of RBD. When I’m asleep, that protective response doesn’t always get triggered, but for some reason it periodically kicks in for you when you’re awake.”

  Leah let her thoughts drift with the swishing of the windshield wipers.