Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1)

by Su Williams

  Images blurred together as if running in reverse very quickly, as they had when Nick showed me his past. The reflections froze and went dark.

  His thoughts, clear and gentle, spoke directly to my mind. “This is one of the earliest memories I’ve been able to glean from Sabre. It’s a bit brutal, but you have the luxury of seeing it third party so I can edit the most graphic stuff out.

  “Sabre was a militiaman during a battle known as the Paoli Massacre during America’s Revolutionary War…”

  Wood smoke perfumed the autumn night air, the tiny fire scarcely chased away the chill in Sabre’s limbs. No more than the slug of rum from the White Horse had warmed his insides for long, and the only heat he expected to find in the morning sun was the heat of battle as they assisted in harassing the Red Coats. Screams pierced the pregnant night, and ignited him with a different kind of fire. His commander, General Smallwood, barked orders, and dispatched Sabre and his comrades into the night in defense of the Pennsylvania troops under attack by the Brits. Some ran into the chaos, but many, militia and volunteers, turned tail and ran at the sight of the brutality and butchery as the Brits attacked, not with guns, with bayonets and fire. Sabre plunged into the fray, despite the desertion of his fellows. He was no coward. A forest of dark shadows soon immersed him, the clash of metal on metal, the roar of fires and the screaming of men surrounded him. Four cannons rumbled past him and soldiers scurried and stumbled after them, their faces marred with soot and terror. Havoc of steel and flame pursued them.

  Before his mind could fully comprehend the sights around him, before his body could register the need to withdraw, the enemy was upon him. The British soldier’s snarling rage twisted his blood-spattered countenance. A bestial roar ripped from his throat as he wielded his barbaric weapon—a bayonet. The first blow pierced Sabre’s right thigh, and his assailant thrust him away with a kick of his boot. Sabre stumbled to the ground in agony, clutching the wounded leg as blood flowed freely between his fingers. His own weapon was lost in the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Despite the pain that ripped through his body, he groped the earth, dragged himself across the muddy ground, seeking refuge. Before he could lug himself to safety, a heavy boot planted under his gut, and kicked him over onto his back. The face of the British officer hovered over him, now with sword aloft. A scream of agony ripped from Sabre’s lungs as the blade pierced his left breast. His chest ached and burned, his heart thumped erratically, his lungs grew wet and heavy and his foe vanished into the night, satisfied with a deed well done.

  The battlefield was cold and hard beneath his torn flesh; earth and rotting summer, burnt black powder and the copper scent of blood filled his nostrils. The echo of retreating troops bounced off the naked trees, mingled with cries and groans of agony from friend and comrade dying around him. Sabre’s eyes stared unblinking into the cold dark sky that glimmered with a million stars. Waning clouds of breath puffed skyward and he awaited death.

  Some time later, the soft crunch of leaves awakened him. Perhaps I shall yet live, his thoughts as enshrouded by pain as his body. Perhaps someone would save him, a colonist or a comrade-in-arms, or best yet, a lovely damsel for his distress. His heart throbbed with painful hope—hope that quickly disintegrated under the scowl that greeted him. No colonist or comrade, nor even beautiful maid, came to his aid. This was most certainly foe.

  The Tory farmer sneered. He would happily finish the job left by his beloved Red Coats. His dagger slashed Sabre once across the face and once across the cheek and throat. In a state of shock, Sabre felt almost nothing, only heard the wicked laughter as the loyalist farmer left him to die in the cold night air.

  *

  The day was young, and warm. Dew settled heavy on the earth. “Lord a’mercy, Will. We missed one.” Two men stood over a bloody boot barely protruding from the brush. One of them, Will, drew closer. The two had gathered all the bodies of the colonial soldiers and militiamen and buried them in a common grave overlooking the battlefield. Somehow, this one, they had missed.

  Will sighed. “Bloody lobster backs.” He knelt by Sabre’s head. At the sound, Sabre’s eyes flew open. Will fell on his backside and scuttled away. “s’blood! He lives.” Something like hope thrilled in Sabre’s chest, but in his weakness, his world slipped back into the nebulous void.

  Nick’s soft voice gently took up the story as it played itself out in my mind. “A day or so later, Sabre found himself in a farmer’s barn, surrounded by clean straw, his body wrapped in wool blankets. He discovered his mortal wounds almost fully healed. He knew that some sort of transformation had befallen him, though he was unable to conceive it fully. He snuck out of the barn unseen, in the early hours of the morning. He headed for home, but on his way, he awoke another morning to discover himself in ethereal form. It frightened him. He thought perhaps he had indeed died anyway, but he suddenly turned corporeal again. Finally, the realization struck him just how much his body was inexplicably changed. It was unprecedented, overwhelming. Sabre knew nothing of what he was and only learned by trial and error what his new body’s capabilities were.

  “There were fewer Weavers then than there are today, so finding another was almost miraculous. Eventually, he did find someone, Asa, a very ancient man who taught and trained him.” Nick only shared brief glimpses of Sabre’s time with Asa, but the intensity of Sabre’s fondness toward the old man illuminated dark hidden corners of his character. A concealed ability to love that softened his abrasive exterior.

  The images blurred then refocused on the face of a beautiful blonde woman with extraordinary sky blue eyes. I could feel Sabre’s passion for her, not in the form of lust, but genuine devotion. “I don’t know who she is. He won’t speak of her, or what happened to her.” The impressions refocused again on the flaxen-haired woman, her locks in scattered disarray, fanned out on a muddy riverbank. Her neck was turned at an odd angle, her skin pearl white, her wide sapphire blue eyes stared blankly into space, observing the course her spirit had taken. Sabre’s heart buckled with pain as his eyes beheld her, and mine shared his agony.

  “Oh,” I whispered. “Poor Sabre.”

  “That’s all I know. Just that she died.” Nick seemed pleased with the sound of compassion toward Sabre in my voice.

  The memory faded to a darkness scattered with miniscule squares of light that broke through to my vision. The smell of dirty burlap choked me. Rough hands shoved a heavy, coarse rope over Sabre’s head, and scraped his nose and cheeks before it tightened around his neck. A granite hard knot the size of a man’s fist pressed against the base of his skull behind his left ear. I heard a grunt and then the sound of something heavy falling over, the ‘thwap’ of the rope jerked taut, and a cavernous crunching snap as Sabre’s eyes darkened and saw no more.

  “He won’t tell me why he was hanged, but I know the girl has something to do with it. He lives an eternally haunted life, looking over his shoulder all the time for something from the past to finally catch up to him.”

  I kept my eyes closed, snuggled into Nick’s warm shoulder, and listened to his soft, soothing voice. “I know it’s not a lot, but Sabre’s always been good to me. He has taken care of me since I was—reborn. I know he’s not perfect, but he has been my best friend, my brother and at times my father for nearly a century now. I owe him a lot.” Nick was quiet for a long moment, his brow corrugated with contemplation. Finally, reluctantly, he said, “Over the years, there’s been a man, a Wraith, after Sabre. Sabre won’t say why, just that it has to do with the guy’s sister. The blonde girl, I think. We’ve battled with this one, and others. Unfortunately, shortly before my rebirth, the Wraith discovered a way to steal Weaver’s gifts and use them for themselves. They become multi-talented, whereas, in general, Caphar receive only one gift. Occasionally, we run into one of them.”

  “Well, if these Wraith can, what, absorb the powers of others? Why couldn’t the Caphar?”

  “We won’t take from each other. The gifts cannot be shared and the loss of
a gift to us is like losing a limb. We wouldn’t subject another of us to that kind of torment.”

  “Hmm,” I purred, my eyes still closed. “So you live like, forever, with crazy mutant Caphar after you?”

  “The actual longevity of Caphar is about ten times longer than that of a mortal human being? While the average life expectancy of a human is seventy-seven point seven years, the average life expectancy of a Caphar is seven to eight hundred years, or better. Even at that, it is nearly impossible to tell the age of a Weaver, as their healing abilities protect the body from most of the natural physical breakdowns plaguing most elderly humans.

  “Eventually, a Caphar will die of old age as any other human being. At the end of his life, an ancient’s years will begin to catch up to him over a short period. Eventually, his blood crystallizes and his body turns to dust. Many believe that this crystallized blood retains much of the Caphar’s memory and any special abilities he possessed. Our legends tell of phials of this crystallized blood from ancients as old as Methuselah, though their location at this time is unknown. They’d certainly be a find worth far beyond their weight in gold to Caphar and Rephaim alike.”

  I was awed into silence. This was all so overwhelmingly crazy and unbelievable. Part of me believed I might awaken soon to find out it was all a dream, that things like this—centuries-old Caphar, evil apparitions stealing sleep, memory-filled phials of crystallized blood—did not truly exist. In the deepest, most pain-filled corners of my soul I hoped, even prayed a little, that maybe when I woke from all of this craziness, I would find the whole crash had been a horrible nightmare and Mom and Dad were alive and well.

  Yeah, keep dreamin’, Em.

  Nick was still, quiet, maybe afraid he’d shared too much, and yet there was so much more I wanted to know. I was sure he could read the enchantment within me for his story.

  I yawned so hugely my jaw popped and Nick chuckled. He slid deeper into the couch cushions, and wrapped his arms around me—my own personal, living blanket. He lifted Eddyson up onto my lap. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured in my ear and kissed my temple. This time I didn’t flinch. Sleep became an easy journey in his arms.

  Sabre sat behind a large mahogany desk, a haughty expression darkened his face. Nick stood in front of him, both hands planted on the desk. The same look of fury he’d worn when I’d left their home this afternoon, blazed on his face, but the shadow of grief that filled his eyes veiled a deeper, more profound pain.

  “I need her to be safe. Whatever it takes.” Nick’s voice was full of desperation. Something more than just Sabre’s vampire weave troubled the tranquil waters of his heart.

  “You need?” Sabre taunted him despite the emotions that tore his friend apart. “Not want, Nickolas? Need?”

  Nick leaned over the desk and lowered his voice venomously. “I need her safe,” he said succinctly, emphasizing each word in turn. “Whatever. It. Takes.”

  I drifted from the depths of sleep to the shallows and stirred against Nick’s side, buffeted by the volatile scene. The warmth of his hand compelled me deeper. His breath in my hair a confident reassurance as the undertow of sleep flowed over me, and dragged me under once again.

  Chapter 15 Sober

  On Friday evening, Ivy and Jesse arrived at the house just before seven. Jesse brandished a gallon of eggnog and some Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Ivy fell in love immediately with Eddyson, like that was completely unavoidable. Every time I turned around, he was in her arms lapping at her face and neck. She giggled hysterically, the sound of which only encouraged him all the more and sent his tail into a metronome swing.

  Other people from work started to arrive by seven thirty. My little house brimmed with Christmas revelers. Collin brought his wife and a Christmas tree—this was my first Christmas without Mom and Dad, and I hadn’t bothered to put up a tree. Everyone else collaborated, or conspired, and brought ornaments, garland or lights. The party became a gift exchange, so brightly colored packages piled up under the tree, and cards were nestled in its branches. None of them would allow me to be without a tree just because my parent’s artificial tree and all of our ornaments, some antiques, remained packed away in crates in my garage.

  The music filled the house and spilled into the night. My old Gene Autry, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer album was a favorite. Everyone sang along. As always, I was thankful for no close neighbors to piss off. The usual warmth of my home swelled with the number of bodies, the air hung heavy and comfortable with the fullness of friendship and laughter.

  Nick and I were inseparable. I mingled with my guests and he shadowed me, and charmed them as thoroughly as he charmed me. All but one.

  Jesse grew quieter as the evening wore on. I glanced up to catch him staring at Nick or me. I smiled and raised a glass to silently toast him. He returned the gesture and the grin, then his eyes darted toward Nick and a far off, sad look returned to his eyes. I realized that maybe Nick was right about Jesse’s feelings toward me. Sometimes, I could be so dense. Dense and a dork; such an unlovely combination.

  Guilt had me scanning the room often for Jesse to gauge his level of depression and drunkenness. As the evening grew later, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I detached myself from a conversation, wandered to the kitchen, and worriedly searched the cars parked outside, hoping he hadn’t left without saying ‘goodbye.’ The last time I saw him, he didn’t look able to leave unassisted.

  Nick met me at the kitchen door, took my hand and whirled me away to dance. Everyone and everything else faded into the woodwork and my world consisted of just the two of us. The gentle touch of his fingertips, the warmth of his hand at the small of my back, the kiss that caressed my cheek caused my heart to race, and my head to swim. Who needed Fireball when I had Nick? He grinned happily at my heart’s dramatic response to his touch.

  Still, my concern for Jesse weighed heavy on me—friend of my heart, who I hurt. As Nick spun me past my bedroom door, I glimpsed the silhouette of someone sitting on my bed. I shot Nick a puzzled glance, and then it dawned on me. Jesse was sitting alone in my room, staring at the wall. Nick felt me tense.

  “What’s wrong?” he breathed in my ear.

  “Nothing.” No use lying. “I’m not sure. Jesse is in my room. He looks kind of bummed,” I explained. “I should go talk to him.”

  “As you wish.” Nick spun me toward the door and released me.

  I crossed the bedroom, collapsed next to Jesse on my bed, and hooked my arm around his. “Hey! What’s up? You okay?”

  Jesse smiled, bleary eyed, in that three-sheets-to-the-wind kind of way. “Aw, ’s nothin’,” he slurred. “I ‘s jus’ lookin at yer picture, there.” He raised his hand to point, and sloshed what was left of his drink onto himself and the bedspread. “Oh, oops, sorry.” He stretched his shirt to dab up the mess.

  “It’s okay, Jess. It’ll wash.”

  “Tha’s you, huh?” he squinted at the picture.

  “Yep, that’s me. Sweet sixteen.”

  “You’re beautiful.” He laughed, as surprised as I was to hear himself say it out loud.

  “Um, thanks,” I giggled, embarrassed for both of us.

  Jesse stood and stumbled to the picture. “Tha’ bracelet, I seen it before, somewhere.”

  “Ha, yeah.” My laugh was humorless. “I use to wear it to work all the time, but I lost it.”

  Jesse turned back to me, “Oh, I’m sorry. Wassit special?”

  “Yes. My parents gave it to me.”

  “Yeah? Tha’s cool. Where’d you lose it?”

  “Well, if I knew that, it wouldn’t be lost, would it?” We giggled together, but I sobered quickly. “The guy,” I just could not say rapist, “at the store. The police think he took it. That night.”

  Jesse returned to me and knelt in front of me. He clutched my hands in his. “Emari. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of that.” He shook his head slowly and mumbled something that sounded like “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  “It’s okay.
It’s fine. Really. See?” I said, and put on my best fake smile. “It’s fine.”

  Jesse turned and sat with a thump on the floor. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not. Really, I’m fine.” As long as Nick keeps the nightmares away.

  As though he’d heard my thought, Nick appeared at the bedroom door. He leaned against the doorframe looking brutally handsome. Just his smile chased away the tightness that crushed my chest.

  “Hey,” I greeted him with a grateful smile and stood up. I tousled Jesse’s hair before I walked away. “No driving for you for a while. Better yet, Ivy should take you home. Okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved me away and dropped his hand like an anchor back in his lap.

  “Promise me, Jess.”

  He crossed his heart with two fingers, and then held them to his forehead in a mocking salute, “Scout’s honor.”

  “Doesn’t count, Jess. You were never a scout.”

  Jesse chortled drunkenly and waved us away.

  Nick placed a protective arm around my waist, and guided me away. He was valiant with distractions but I couldn’t help but feel at least a little sorry for Jesse—and humongously like it was my fault. He looked so sad. How was I supposed to know he was crushing on me? We were friends, the three of us; the three dorkateers. Ivy and I adopted Jesse into our dork club during freshman year. Jess hung out with us like one of the girls; went to the opening night of vampire movie releases with us, and endured trips to the mall to all the chick shops, even crashed on the couch for sleep-overs occasionally. However, he drew the line at group pedicures.

  Guilt continued to wheedle its way into my heart, but Nick deliberately managed to distract me. With valiant precision, he drew me into conversations and then away again to dance and be alone.

  “I’m curious,” I whispered as we swayed to some country western song about ‘Santa, give her a new heart cuz I broke the old one’.