“I just don’t know what to say.” Emmett shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I’m somewhere between ‘gonna need a bigger boat’ and ‘there is no spoon.’”
Keiran silently nodded.
Emmett looked back over his shoulder to where Amala disappeared in the trees.
“So, uh, Amala is your—”
“Companion?”
“Is that like wife or…?” he asked, trying not to give sound to the emptiness in his voice.
Keiran skipped up the steps to the front entrance, stopping to turn and face Emmett. Emmett found him intolerably bouncy. Combined with his good looks and dapper manner, Keiran Glendower was officially everything that Emmett was not. The cool accent only made it worse.
“Druids and Bards are joined together as Companions in their fight against the world’s darkness. It’s more intimate than marriage.”
Emmett pulled his hoodie over his head, wishing he could disappear.
“Ever had a best mate that knows your darkest parts and accepts you exactly as you are? In life’s bleakest moments, they are right there with you?”
Emmett shrugged, certain that if he spoke he would not be able to hide his conflicting emotions.
Keiran spoke as he slowly opened the door. “And they’d give their life for you. Not just once, but each moment of every day. Without hesitation.”
Epically unattainable by me. Joy.
“As Companions, we come to hear the other person in our minds. Fleeting thoughts, of course—a word here, a memory’s fragment there—and only during moments of heightened emotion.”
It just gets better.
After navigating the labyrinth of Silvan Dea’s many corridors, they soon entered a private room with shower and wardrobe. Keiran extracted several pairs of dark slacks and black wool sweaters. “Find a size that fits. I hope you won’t mind if we dressed you in something more gentlemanly. A decent wardrobe does wonders for the spirit.”
Emmett tried not to roll his eyes. Keiran’s seeming genuineness only amplified his seeming perfection.
“Thanks.”
Keiran turned to leave as Emmett looked through the available clothes.
“More answers with an early dinner, I promise.” And with a parting grin that already was his defining characteristic, Keiran exited the room.
Emmett had relished the shower, washing away the stale odor of what he had accepted had been forty-eight hours of sleep. Hot water was immediate and plentiful, surprising Emmett since Silvan Dea was isolated atop a high mountain ridge. Emmett laid his head under the stream for a long time. The sting of the water against his neck was pronounced, but he gritted his teeth and hissed against the discomfort. It was brilliant like an explosion that leaves the vision spotted. Flakes of blackened skin fell from his neck, clouding the water at his feet. Yet even as it washed away, he found the same diseased skin underneath.
Emmett leaned against the porcelain basin, rubbing the fog from the mirror above with his towel. Worn hazel eyes stared back at him beneath errant curls of black, wavy hair. He traced the length of the rotting flesh on his neck down to his collarbone, horrified at how cold the decaying skin was compared to the supple flesh surrounding it.
Finding an assortment of the usual toiletries next to the sink, Emmett spent several minutes shaving his fine dusting of stubble and brushing his teeth, careful not to stare too long at the darkness crawling down his collarbone. He took a comb from the toiletry bag and began to run it through his tangled hair, not wanting Mr. Old Hollywood upstaging him.
Keiran returned to retrieve a dressed Emmett a short time later, escorting him to an adjoining garage where his car was parked between a pair of unremarkable vans. Expecting to see a cross-country swath of grime and insects splattered along the windshield, he found the car had been thoroughly washed and detailed—as much as a twelve-year-old car could be cleaned, he thought.
And Nancy thought the car would never make it out of Texas.
Impeccably dressed, Keiran wore gray slacks tailored perfectly above black loafers, and a pressed black shirt with a starched collar and silver cufflinks that perfectly framed his physique. He could walk into a room and draw everyone’s attention with a handsomeness that was both intimidating and yet approachable. He was refined and confident, things Emmett, with his hoodie-and-jeans sensibility and predictable habit of stumbling over himself, lacked. Emmett knew he wasn’t unattractive, but he lacked the athletic definition, stone-like jaw, and wavy blond hair that took away the breath of the people Keiran passed on the street.
It’s obviously enough for Amala.
The drive into town took two hours, Keiran having insisted on Emmett driving. Much of this trip was spent negotiating a narrow dirt road that snaked down a hidden gorge behind the Grove, through crudely excavated tunnels in the mountainside, and finally out along the dark, barren countryside that sat shadowed at the base of the snow-capped mountains. Emmett cringed as he avoided potholes, mud pits, and the occasional tawny doe bounding through the snow.
Keiran peppered him with questions about driving manual downhill, as Keiran had apparently never done. Amala was the driver of the pair, he explained. Considering that Keiran could conceivably shatter glass with his voice or sheer a face of the mountainside with his outstretched palm, his inability to drive was odd. It was the sole thing thus far that Emmett possessed that Keiran did not.
Their road transformed into gravel, and then eventually dirt, before it blended into the winterscape next to a lone stretch of highway. Emmett could no longer see the stone compound in his rearview mirror. It was easy to see how the Grove could go unnoticed, safely perched on the hidden ledge within a tapered copse in the mountains.
Keiran asked if Emmett had family that should be contacted, but Emmett said no, quickly changing the subject back to how they had found him. Keiran shared how Amala and he had been tracking a Revenant’s carnage through the Deep South for weeks. Details of the gruesome child killings left Emmett queasy as he navigated a series of roads into the outskirts of Portland.
Keiran guided him through several traffic lights and busy intersections. The downtown markets were a circus of activity in the late-afternoon hours. All manner of people perused stalls of live seafood and fresh, organic vegetables and fruits. The brisk air was tinged with the honey-infused aroma of freshly baked breads, and Emmett felt his stomach respond to the rich bouquet of tasty smells as they exited the parked car.
Keiran led him through an open marketplace busy with jostling shoppers and endless options. Chefs preparing their evening menus haggled over prices with shopkeepers offering samples of their wares with reckless abandon, calling out or shouting at passersby with their confectionary delights and lowest prices.
Emmett avoided a flying fish overhead with a careful duck and followed Keiran into a tiny shop with the name Hiraeth over the single, steamed window. The lettering pattern was of a sideways-facing, crimson-colored dragon with claws intertwined with the beginning and ending H.
The restaurant was little more than a wide counter with stools overlooking a cramped kitchen. It was comfortable in its uncomfortable size. Windows at their backs faced out onto the marketplace. Fryers filled the narrow restaurant with satisfying smells.
Keiran sidled up to the counter, motioning for Emmett to join him. A harried woman with flyaway hair hurried along the counter, shuttling hot plates of steaming food and manning the register. A dozen people lined the wall of windows awaiting their to-go orders.
“She serves breakfast all day. I love breakfast. Well, if the truth be told, I love all food.” Keiran handed Emmett a paper menu from the metal prongs along the counter, pointing to several items of interest.
After finishing a transaction at the register and handing off two plates of food to another person along the counter, the woman finally hurried over to them. Her eyes and face brightened considerably with recognition.
“All right, love?” she asked.
“All
right,” Keiran answered with a wide smile. “Emmett, this is Mrs. Emaline Carmichael.” Emmett nodded as she returned the greeting.
“I haven’t seen you in months, my boy. I bin missin’ you. I was getting worried, but then I says to myself, I says, a strapping lad like that could well take care of himself.”
“Ta. I only come back to Portland to visit you,” Keiran flirted.
She waved a hand at him. “Oh, go on, then! I wouldn’t reckon all the hearts you’ve broken! You sound just like my late Jack, God rest his soul. Always carrying on wit’ the ladies.”
Keiran leaned in with one elbow along the counter. “I’d fancy you even if you didn’t cook for me,” he deadpanned.
Emmett sat entranced by the conversation. Or, more accurately, by Keiran. Mrs. Carmichael seemed transformed just by his presence, and with each word she seemed to grow younger with energy.
Mrs. Carmichael looked at Emmett and leaned over the counter toward Keiran. “Is this another one of yours, then, love?”
“Aye.”
Mrs. Carmichael and Keiran exchanged knowing glances, and she stepped back from the counter. “Crackin’ lookin’ boy, too. All right?”
Emmett had streamed enough BBC to understand. “Hello,” he nodded.
“Yes, well, I promised my mate here the best meal in Portland, and I expect you will not make a liar of me,” Keiran said as he clapped Emmett jovially on the shoulder.
“Well I should hope so, then! Look at you, Keiran! All skin and bones! I won’t have any of it. What’ll ya boys be having, then?”
“Emmett, may I order for you?”
“Sure.”
“Fancy a proper Welsh breakfast. For two, please,” Keiran said, handing the menu back to Mrs. Carmichael as she nodded and hurried off.
Emmett looked sideways at Keiran, and it was Emmett’s turn to grin.
“That accent of yours comes on a lot heavier when you’re around others.”
“What? Can’t understand me accent?” Keiran asked with exaggeration.
“You’d be surprised how well versed I am with British television,” Emmett said, excited he finally had something they could equally discuss.
“I actually never watched much telly growing up. Only knew of The Avengers from my best mate, Rory, when he dressed up one Halloween.”
Emmett’s shoulders sunk, deflated. Of course. Because it wouldn’t have been helpful to have at least one freakin’ thing in common.
Mrs. Carmichael returned with a plate of sliced breads and a smaller dish of jam. “Here you are now, lovelies, a plate of my homemade speckled bread, then–”
“It’s sort of like raisin bread,” Keiran whispered.
“—and a dollop of plum and elderberry jam. Now eat up, the both of you,” she said sternly, pointing to Emmett. “This boy is too skinny, and a strappin’ man like you needs a proper meal.” Keiran beamed as she reached over and pinched his cheek.
Emmett found the bread’s sticky moistness deliciously filling. They ate in silence for several moments, Keiran closing his eyes often with each rapturous bite, and Emmett equally comforted by the rich food.
Keiran raised his glass again and smiled when Mrs. Carmichael returned. Piled in heaping quantities were poached eggs, pork sausages and bacon, laverbread—a type of boiled seaweed mixed with bacon fat and rolled in oatmeal into a gooey paste—and fresh, steamed mussels, which Keiran indicated were a substitution because Mrs. Carmichael was never satisfied with the days-old cockles sold in the marketplace.
“Tuck in,” Keiran said as he began to eat.
Emmett didn’t hesitate, appreciating the tart, conflicting assortment of tastes and the satisfying fullness within his stomach.
Blissful expressions were exchanged as each enjoyed their meal. Emmett discovered that with a minimal amount of food already in his stomach, he was more ravenously hungry than before.
“How’re you managing the laverbread?” Keiran asked.
“Could be worse,” Emmett answered, covering his half-full mouth. “It’s not monkey brains at Pankot Palace.”
“Sorry?”
Emmett waved a hand as if batting a fly away. “Ignore me. It’s my gimmick. Just tune me out like everyone else.”
“And your gimmick would be?” Keiran asked, setting his knife and fork down and giving Emmett his full attention.
“Turn real life into a movie.”
“Oh, well, I’ve seen fewer films than television shows. Not something we had much money for growing up, mind. But I think it could be quite fun being in a movie.”
“Yeah, they’d love you, Marty Stu,” Emmett said, wiping his mouth as he set his fork down. “They’d either cast an American to play you or an Australian soap star with a clunky American accent. No male leads with foreign accents. And definitely not a British accent. Brits can only play gay robots or villains. Especially villains. You can thank Alan Rickman for that. Everyone’s still chasing the legacy of Hans Gruber.”
Keiran looked genuinely conflicted. “I’m unsure how I’d feel about an American playing me. No offense.”
“As opposed to a Welsh actor with an impossible-to-spell name? No offense.”
“Ta.”
Emmett took another bite, surprised by Keiran’s interest in Emmett’s safe conversation zone.
“So who would play you, Emmett? I assume you’re in this movie, too, seeing as how you’re the star of it at the moment.”
Emmett hurriedly finished what he was chewing. “I’ve got this. I’ve thought about this for a long time. Casting an actor to play me in a movie based on my life. First, he’d have to be an edgy actor who hates the studio system but takes the occasional commercial role to pay the bills. He’ll have done one really stand-out indie role the critics loved. Preferably a Jim Jarmusch movie so he can introduce me. The suits would object and say he couldn’t carry the lead. And the nerds would rage on their vlogs about how miscast he was because, well, that’s what we do.”
“So who would this be?”
“I change every few months or so. Ezra Miller is my current pick, but my friend Nancy wants Dave Franco. Her obsession with those brothers is unsettling.”
“You’ve certainly thought this through,” Keiran said.
“Yeah, well, spoiler alert: I don’t have much to talk about besides movies.”
“You can catch me up on all I’ve been missing, then,” Keiran replied. Had Emmett read those words by text message, he’d have read sarcasm in them. Keiran’s face, however, was genuine warmth and sincerity.
When they finished eating a short time later, Emmett felt the drowsiness that comes from a full, satisfied stomach. Keiran reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of twenty-dollar bills, and without waiting for the check, placed them down on the back of the counter.
“Thanks,” Emmett said, to which Keiran clapped him again on the shoulder.
Seeing them rising from their chairs, Mrs. Carmichael hurried over and gathered Keiran into a great hug.
“Shall I wrap something up for you to take with, love?” she was asking Keiran as he held his own hands over his stomach in protest.
“I don’t think I could manage another bite. Emmett?”
“No, thank you. It was really good.”
“Well, all right then, you take care now, love,” she said as she kissed Keiran on both cheeks. Mrs. Carmichael then leaned over and pulled Emmett into a similar embrace. She smelled sweet like gingerbread, and her roundness was comforting.
She whispered so close to his ear that he was certain no one else would hear them over the noise and bustle. “I know that shocked look in your eyes, love, like you’re seeing the world for the first time. Pay no mind. Keep your heart open and don’t lose sight of your friends.” She kissed his cheek and released him, rushing off down the opposite side of the counter to a pair of waiting diners with bills to pay.
Emmett looked at Keiran, who was standing patiently waiting for him to exit. “And now fed, let us find Amala and what tr
ouble we all might get into together.”
CHAPTER 8
Emmett matched Keiran’s leisurely pace heading to the car.
“So how much does Mrs. Carmichael know?”
“Her husband was killed several years ago by Revenants. She’s intuitive enough to guess that there’s more going on than what little we had told her. But she’s a special person, and I like having her around.”
“Does she know about your reworkin’ The Wicker Man?” When Keiran’s face registered confusion, Emmett quickly added: “The Druid and Bard stuff?”
“Ah, yes. Well, most families of Revenant victims don’t really want to know the truth. It would drive them mad, or worse, into vigilantes. It’s easier to think that it was the work of a serial rapist; anything to give them some sense of closure.”
“Because serial rapists are better than monsters?”
“You can imprison serial rapists.”
Emmett nodded at the logic. “If I were them, I probably wouldn’t want to know.”
“You wouldn’t?”
He shook his head. “That the world was populated by unimaginable darkness? Unlikely. First rule of a David Fincher film: Don’t ask what’s in the box.”
Emmett was certain by Keiran’s face that he only understood part of that analogy.
“Some believe. Some can’t. And some are unwilling to accept an obviously false explanation, but aren’t quite ready to know everything,” Keiran said.
“Like Mrs. Carmichael?”
“Like Mrs. Carmichael.” Keiran nodded.
“Like me,” Emmett chuckled.
“Don’t discount your strength, Emmett. That you’re alive is evidence of this.” Keiran’s face was uncharacteristically serious, and it looked as if he were wrestling with what to say next. “Emmett, have you ever heard voices?”
“Unexpected, much?” Emmett responded.
“Voices, Emmett. A voice in the wilderness leading you away from home, telling you to follow an animal. Or whispers in the sound of falling rain calling you back to the ocean?”
Emmett thought briefly of his life’s dreams but shook his head. “I’ve never heard voices before,” he answered truthfully, and it was a measure of Keiran’s serious expression that Emmett responded without his usual snark. “Why?”
The Waking Dreamer Page 8
