Dream Stalker: Talented: Book 1

by Hopkins, Amy

  Pain.

  I woke in bed. I gripped something in my left hand, and my chest stung. My head swam as I tried to sit up but I persisted. Perched on the edge of my bed, I reached out and flicked on my bedside lamp. My hand still clutched the object and after recovering from a somewhat startling flood of light, I saw it was, indeed, a knife. It wasn't mine; in fact, I'd never seen it before. I examined it, lost for a moment in the design on the silver handle. As I turned it, I caught my reflection in the blade which was tipped with a small drop of blood. I watched it fade away, into the knife. I jerked as I snapped into proper consciousness.

  My head cleared and everything came back into focus. I was sitting on my bed, the knife lay on the floor in front of me and my hand was absentmindedly rubbing the sore spot above my stomach. Afraid of what I'd find, I lifted my shirt gingerly to examine the wound. There was a small, bloodless incision below my ribcage. The knife seemed to have missed anything vital - or I assumed so, as I was still alive and (I hoped) coherent. I heard someone down the street yell for quiet and realised with a start a dog was barking loudly. Lenny? I looked and didn't see him. It sounded like the noise was coming from downstairs, in the shop. Legs shaking, I went to find him.

  It took a few moments but I eventually found him locked in my work room. As in, the door was actually locked. What the hell? I pointed my wand at the lock and focused a spell on it. It clicked open. I held my wand out like a tiny sword, point forwards as I slowly cracked the door open. Lenny poked his nose out immediately, pawing at me and shoving the door all the way open. A quick tracing lit the room. There was no one there.

  Lenny fussed over me gently as I sank to the ground. Confusion overwhelmed me and I wrapped my arms around my knees as I shook. My mind ticked over, going through what had happened. There'd been a strange, surreal dream about a knife. I'd woken up to find that knife in my hand, and a hole in my chest. My hand strayed to the tender site. Somehow amongst all that, Lenny had locked himself in a room? Magic was involved here, on a scale that terrified me.

  After a while, I stumbled back into my bedroom to look at the knife. It wasn't how it had looked in the dream, this one could almost have been an oversized letter opener. It was solid silver. The blade was double-edged and looked sharp all the way. The hilt had tiny patterns engraved in it. Looking at it made me nauseous, and the patterns swirled as my head spun. Too afraid to touch it directly, I used a discarded sock to pick it up and drop it into a drawer. A comforting snick sounded as I locked the drawer and hid the key in the back of a cupboard.

  I couldn't avoid the simple truth - whoever was killing half-blood Talents had just targeted me. Worse, he'd attacked me in my house, in my own dreams. Why had I survived? As I wondered if any of the others had experienced a near-miss like mine, I realised what had been nagging at me previously... Artur and Maeve, two of the half-bloods that had died, had both been in to buy a sleep remedy in the weeks before their death. Keelie had never bought enchanted teas from me, but she did buy herbs. Last week she'd bought chamomile and lavender, both used in sleep rituals. I'd assumed she'd wanted to use them on her father, who could fly into a drunken rage every so often, but now I wondered if she'd been having trouble sleeping.

  What does one do when confronted with a horrifying, confusing situation that one can't actually do anything about? One hides under the blankets until daylight of course. Preferably with a huge, dopey dog to keep you safe until morning.

  * * *

  Sometime after sunrise I woke, stiff, sore and gritty-eyed. Lenny sat next to me, awake and watchful. I wondered if he'd slept at all. A short while later, the smell of strong, freshly brewed coffee permeated every inch of my flat. Despite selling almost every kind of tea known to man, I still had a healthy appreciation for caffeine in its stronger forms. I made it with a bit of extra sugar and milk and cuddled into a throw at my desk as I waited for my computer to start up. A brief search online turned up little, but I'd expected that. My answer lay elsewhere. What to do next? I debated calling Greyson, but I already knew this was too big for them. Thumping my hand on the desk hard enough to hurt, I realised I was caught between a rock and a really unpleasant place. The mortals couldn't help. The Talented, those high and mighty Lords who lived in the Inner City? They wouldn't care about a mere half-blood. A shiver went through me as I realised the power used was out of the scope of anyone but a full Talent. Maybe they'd make an effort to catch one of their own. Unlikely. How could I go up against one of them?

  I didn't want to touch the knife, but I'd have to. I unlocked the drawer and reluctantly picked it up. I took it downstairs into my workroom and placed it in the centre of my desk, then drew the heavy curtains shut as Len settled in his usual spot next to me.

  The room looked more like a herbalist's shop, with boxes of tea lining one wall and a bench with the implements I used to pack and label my scribed teas. Clearing away some empty boxes, I closed the door and traced a globe of light to brighten the room. I cleared my mind, then checked the wards surrounding me. They were strong. No energies - magical or otherwise - leaked in or out of the room. Satisfied, I took a breath and traced a spell of discovery upon the knife to find out what it was, exactly. I mean, it wasn't a normal knife, that was for sure. The spell slipped off it. I tried again, thinking maybe my tiredness had caused my tracing to fail, but I still had no result. Frowning, I picked it up again to look at it. It didn't feel like old magic to the naked hand, but then I didn't have much experience in that realm. I put it back on the desk and tried something else. This time, I traced a spell asking the knife where it had been.

  A blurred image flashed into the mirror then engulfed me. I saw heat softened metal forged into a tiny knife. The crackle and pop of a forge rang in my ears. A gloved hand etched a design onto the hilt, a rasping chant droning on, the sharp smell of burnt herbs. A box. I saw darkness, the knife locked away. I waited but it didn't pass. I changed the spell slightly, retracing it closer to the present time and saw the knife again. It sat on my doorstep, streetlights reflecting off its blade. I watched myself pick it up and bring the knife inside and place it in a drawer. Darkness, as the knife was shut away. Next, it was in my hand, pricking at my skin. Ah, this was where I gained consciousness. Weariness flooded my body and my eyes ached as the vision fled. The mere thought of recasting it to fill in the gaps sent pain ricocheting through my head. Stomach roiling, I breathed through the pain until it eased off a little.

  Spells like this were unreliable at best and downright frustrating the rest of the time. I'd gleaned some information at least - I'd collected the knife from outside myself, either unaware of my actions, or soon forgetting. I wasn't sure how the knife had gotten to my room but I assumed it had made it there the same way. Clearly, there was a Talent who was out to do harm, one who had some kind of power over the mind. That was practically unheard of, at least in modern times. I still didn't know who, or why, or how or anything else that might actually help me.

  Ok, I did know some things. I knew that whatever was happening, it was bad for me and there was a good chance it'd get worse in the very near future. Though Talent homicides were rare, they weren't unheard of. If the victim was a full Talent or someone ranking in the upper echelons of the hierarchy, it would be dealt with quickly and quietly. Someone like me, on the other hand...

  Very few full Talents would associate with a half-skill like me. Relationships between Talented and non-Talented folk weren't outlawed anymore, but there was still a stigma attached to interbreeding because the offspring would often have diluted power. Of course, we half-bloods were bordering on common these days. Once, mortals had very little power, yet lived side by side with a race of people who could move mountains on a whim. Not to be pinned down, they improvised. The technologies that existed now were incredible and meant that the mortals could do with machines virtually anything a full Talent could do, and a whole lot more. They'd earned their place in the world and the Talents had always had theirs. Those of us caught between weren
't so lucky.

  If a full Talent was out in the streets killing, there was very little a mortal police force could do about it without putting themselves at immense risk from the Talent himself, and the repercussions from the council. The Council had the means to deal with this creep easily enough, but would be loath to spend the resources on what they saw as a stain on their great society. It said a lot that they'd view a half-blood with less respect than a cold-blooded killer.

  Still, it would be worth putting in a report. Some trainee guardian might be lumped with the job and if by chance, the guy was also going after full Talents, they'd be after him like a shot. After that, I could call by the police station and see if Greyson was in. He at least needed to know what I did, so he could stay clear. There was no doubt in my mind that he should.

  With that in mind, I carefully wrapped the knife in a cloth and grabbed my handbag and keys. I went downstairs and into my tea room. Lenny padded along without being told and I was glad of his company. We exited the store and I turned to close the door behind me. As I fumbled with the key, I looked up to see the reflection of something moving behind me. As I turned, I let out a small but focused blast of power, weak but sudden. The man stood there, untouched by my attack while his friend flew back a foot or two, barely keeping on his feet. His arms wrapped around his chest, right where my poorly aimed shot had gone.

  Dammit, there were two of them. Dammit! I'd just whoomphed an innocent guy, I realised as my primate brain kicked back into human thought. There's no way Lenny would have let some creep sneak up behind me. I stammered, unsure how to apologise for having socked someone in the etheric gut.

  * * *

  The man in front of me smiled and offered his hand. I stared blankly at it while he spoke. "Hello. I think you've just... well, he'll be ok. Not the first time. Well. I'm Harrod. Harrod Passar. I'm here about... something rather delicate. May we come in?"

  The man I'd thrown back had by this stage shaken himself off. "We think you might be able to help us," he said without pause. "Well, that's if your reputation stacks up to what we've heard." He didn't seem overly bothered by the fact that I'd thrown him into the bushes... well, not until he righted himself, then clocked Harrod across the back of the head.

  "Ow. What was that for?" Harrod winced at the unexpected attack.

  "You blocked that. Why didn't you block me?" He shook his head, looking disgusted.

  "Martin, I've told you a thousand times it's a bad idea to sneak up behind someone with Talent."

  "Who are you?" I interjected.

  "We'd like to talk to you. It's about the killings." Martin, now composed and business-like, tipped his head to the door as if suggesting we go inside to speak privately.

  I looked at Lenny, who just sat there whumping his tail on the ground. Heaving a sigh, I unlocked the door and went back inside. "Tea?" I asked as they followed me in. I damn sure needed some. Coffee wouldn't be nearly enough, so I pulled down a box from a top shelf and started adding it to a teapot behind my counter. "Please. Um, English breakfast?" Harrod said.

  Martin settled down into a plush armchair across from him as he said, "Perhaps something with a little Talent boost for my brother. I believe you do another that reduces the need for sleep? I'll take that, I'm utterly knackered."

  I stepped into the kitchenette of my shop to make the tea, not wanting to leave them unattended downstairs. I heated the water with a spell, then winced. The working I'd done earlier had taxed me and I had a headache. When the teas were ready, I took them over on a small tray. I set it down and settled myself in the high backed seat.

  "Who'd like to start?" I looked at Harrod, assuming he would take the lead. Instead, Martin spoke.

  "I'm Martin. He's Harrod. We're brothers." I blinked. Apart from their rich sepia skin and jet black hair, there was nothing to show they were related. Martin, tall and wiry with dark locks and a light stubble stood in stark contrast to Harrod, the shorter of the two with neatly trimmed hair and a clean face.

  "We're investigating some rather unpleasant occurrences this side of the wall. Half-bloods are being killed, rather gruesomely. The guards don't think it's worth their time to get involved and it's well above the pay grade of our local police. We thought we'd take it on ourselves, bit of a challenge. Nothing like a serial killer to perk up your day, right?"

  I gaped at him. "That's..."

  "Inhuman? Cold? Insensitive, rude and... what was it she said? Oh, the intellect of an ogre's pet smaj. He's been called a lot worse," Harrod piped up. "Martin here isn't exactly Mr Congeniality, but he is very good at what he does. He does care about the victims, it's just that he doesn't really know how to express that like a normal human."

  Martin raised an eyebrow at him but didn't respond. I passed them each a cup of tea, feeling somewhat perturbed. Martin started drinking his immediately, but Harrod stared at his for a moment first. As a half-blood, I couldn't see him trace a spell, but I assumed he was checking what I'd done to it. Apparently satisfied he took a sip, then another. After a second, his eyebrows climbed and a soft breath was drawn.

  "You are good," he said almost under his breath.

  "I know." I said confidently. If I knew one thing, it's that my teas were good. Very good. Martin was already sitting a little straighter and the tired lines around his eyes were diminishing. "I was attacked last night. I think it might have been a dream stalker; I was on my way to make a report to the guard. What I'd like to know is why you're here. You still haven't told me what you have to do with all this."

  "Attacked? Gods, we didn't expect that. We've been living out here for a couple of years. Well, Martin's always lived outside the City... We got to know a lot about the local Talent though we didn't mix with them ourselves. We have a few contacts in the Messenger family, so when Talents started disappearing, they let us know. Just to be careful, I mean. They don't know I'm a Full Talent." My face must have betrayed my surprise at that. "Ah. Of course, you wouldn't have guessed. Well. Anyway, we filed reports but nothing was done. I'm afraid my name doesn't get me quite as far as it used to nowadays."

  "I meant specifically here. If you didn't know I'd been attacked why did you want to see me?"

  Harrod looked concerned. "We came because you - or your shop at least - seems to be a central hub for the half-blood community. You were mentioned as being a friend of two of the victims and almost everyone we've spoken to knew you, or at least knew of you. We hoped to touch base, see if you'd heard anything that might be of assistance. The attack was last night?"

  "Please. Tell us everything." Martin said.

  Reluctantly, I explained the events of last night and everything I'd deduced. I retrieved the knife and placed it on the table. When I finished, Martin asked a question I'd been wondering myself. How exactly did I survive? Dream stalkers are those Talents with a very specific gift. They can enter into the dreams of others and watch, or even control the dreams. A very powerful dream stalker can coerce a victim into acting while asleep, creating false surroundings and thoughts that the dreamer reacts to. It was extremely uncommon and one of the only ways a Talent could directly control another person. Once a dream stalker has entered your dream, they own it. Once they enter a dream even a very weak dream stalker can prevent someone from waking. My attacker had been able to make me move, which meant he'd had control, so I shouldn't have been able to resist after that point let alone wake myself up.

  "He didn't have complete control." I said, partly thinking aloud. "The things he was making me believe - that the knife was blunt, harmless, that there was no pain - those things weren't constant. The knife was blunt, sharp, blunt again. He mustn't have had a very good hold. He was distracted, or weak maybe." That didn't entirely make sense. If he was strong enough to make my body move, he should have easily been able to control the images and sensations within the dream. Movement was the hardest part, if anything had failed it should have been that.

  Martin looked at Harrod who explained what I'd just been think
ing. "So she was able to distort the dream?"

  Harrod looked at me, worried. "Yes." He said. "If he's after what we think, that means he has all the more reason to come back."

  Chapter Three

  Harrod told me all they'd discovered so far. Though most of it I'd already known, he did mention he'd been able to gain access to two of the bodies. He hadn't found a lot. They'd been washed and prepped before he'd seen them, destroying any magical traces that may have helped to track down the killer.

  They were all like me. Some small amount of magical talent, most of them using it to make an income. All of us too weak to join the Talented society but just far enough outside of normal society to feel a part of it. Some were thought to be gifted - they were weak overall but had more strength for a particular type of spell. It was hard to know with certainty though, as these people often hid gifts and didn't display their level of strength in the Talent. Though segregation had ended long before I was born, there were still remnants of it remaining. There had been a time when Talents refused to associate with mortals at all, hence the walled off section of Inner City London. Though society was far more integrated now, the divide still existed and people like myself had one foot in each camp but belonged to neither.

  Mortals tried to stay out of our hair, but also didn't like to take responsibility for us. They'd take our taxes and the skills we offered but we couldn't use their schools, hospitals or services. The mere fact that the police force had investigated was probably only due to the recent implementation of a new department specialising in non-mortal crime. The Talented also brushed their hands of us. They didn't want our weakness reminding them of the effects of the now-legal mixed marriages and cross breeding. They thought us weak and useless and didn't waste their time dealing with such insignificant trivialities as our protection or welfare. Oh sure, if we put a foot wrong in the eyes of the Talent Lords they'd snuff us out in an instant, but that was only to protect their own less than stellar reputation. Though factions within the Talented community were working towards equality across the board, it was easy to feel anger towards them as a whole.