by Mari Mancusi
The last dream, the one I'd had at work that afternoon, had been especially bizarre. My yoga teacher's words echoed through my brain.
"You can resist the pull all by yourself"
I laughed. Had to give my brain credit; it sure could be creative when it wanted. Wait till Glenda heard about her starring role.
I glanced down, my laughter dying in my throat as my eyes fell on the spidery handwriting scrawled across the back of my hand. The marks Glenda had made were there clear as day.
Don't trust Duske. Find Dawn.
I jumped up from my seat, pulse racing as I stared at the message, hardly believing what I saw with my own eyes. How could words, written in a dream, still be written on my hand? Had I somehow written them myself? Done some sleep-scribbling or something?
You will be back with us very soon, Mariah ...
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. This was stupid. So I'd fallen asleep at my desk. So I'd had another nightmare. I'd been having them for weeks; it didn't make them real. And the writing on my hand? There had to be some logical explanation for that
A flash of hot white light suddenly blinded me, hurling me back into my chair. The floor buckled, as if jarred loose by an earthquake. I grabbed the armrests for support, frantically scanning the room-expecting screams, stampedes, club-goers tripping over their stilettos as they fled the premises.
Horrifyingly enough, no one else in the club seemed the least bit disturbed. They talked, they laughed, they had no idea. I was evidently the only one seeing the streaks of lightning arcing down the center of the room. The only one feeling the jarring aftershocks.
My heart banged against my rib cage, a fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in. Something was wrong here. Really, really wrong. Was this it: Was I finally losing my mind?
"I'd like a Jack and Coke, please," a man said. I turned to watch him order his drink, hoping to regain some semblance of control by doing so. Just watch the encounter. Focus on something normal. Something real. Something not ripped from my evidently psycho delusional brain.
My heart stopped. Literally.
The man was the same as the one who'd chased me in my dream. The one who'd caught me on the ladder, dragged me down, stuck me with the syringe. The gray bearded man from my nightmare, the one in the Captain Eo suit who shouldn't really exist, was now sitting next to me. Real. Alive. Here.
He caught my eye and gave a friendly wave. I started to scream. The world spun off its axis like a bum needle skimming across a record, and I was suddenly spiraling into a strange white light. Then I blacked out and saw no more.
I open my eyes. I'm no longer in Luna, no longer safe and sound in the VIP section of Manhattan's trendiest club. Instead I'm standing in some kind of small, boxlike room. It's the size of a telephone booth, but with opaque movie screen panels on all four sides, swirling with kaleidoscopic color. The air is thick, with a sickly sweet odor that's nearly overwhelming.
I realize I'm wearing some sort of dark glasses, and I reach up to pull them off. Blinking a few times, my naked eyes struggle to become accustomed to the brightly lit walls. I glance around. The ceiling is a mess of wires and tubes and the floor is made out of a metal grate. The glasses are attached to some kind of retractable cable so that, when I release them, they are sucked up into the ceiling, completely disappearing from view. I swallow hard. I hope I didn't need them for anything.
Swallowing my rising claustrophobia, I feel around for an escape route. I find a lever and push down on it, breathing a sigh of relief as the wall in front of me collapses, revealing an exit. Stepping outside the box, I enter a long hallway, carpeted with crimson-colored shag. Every few feet there's an identical door to the one I just exited. Each is painted black and emblazoned with a gold crescent moon. My heart stutters in my chest as I remember Glenda's warning.
Don't look into the moon.
Could this be what she meant?
Just in case, I avert my eyes, feeling a bit silly for doing so. I mean, how can a door decoration hurt me?
It's then that I notice the small gray pads next to each door, each with two tiny red and green lights. All the red lights flash in sync, except for the door closest to me. The lights there glow a solid green.
I shake my head. Am I having another dream? No, this seems different. Solid. More real. And I know I didn't fall asleep in the club. Impossible, with all that shaking and bright light. Unless that had been a dream, too.
You won't know where you are. Maybe even who you are.
I frown. But I do know. I'm still Skye Brown. Manhattan resident. Game designer. A girl currently awaiting men in white coats to take her away.
I look down one end of the hallway and then the other. Each seems to stretch off into infinity. Which way to go? I haven't a clue. Swallowing down my rising fear, I choose a direction and start walking. Soon I discover a cleverly angled and mirrored door. The endless hallway is only an illusion.
Could this be the way out, or will I be stepping into more danger? I look back down the hallway, realizing I don't have much of a choice. I push a button and the door slides open. I step over the threshold, terrified as to what I'll find on the other side. Judging from past dreams, it could be anything. It could even be my death.
"Ah, you awake. You enjoy trip?" asks a small, wizened Asian man, bowing low. He stands behind a counter, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, like a character out of a Charlie Chan movie. His name tag simply states PROPRIETOR. I stare at him, not sure how to respond.
"What trip? Where am I?" I ask at last, completely bewildered.
The man only laughs.
I look around, trying to take stock of my surroundings. The place is over-the-top gaudy. Red velvet sofas, shiny mirrored coffee tables. Elaborate decorative lamps. Totally Las Vegas brothel chic. I notice a few twenty-somethings lounging on the couches, chattering and laughing amongst themselves. The girls wear cute little tank tops, flouncy miniskirts, and thigh-high stiletto boots: manga characters come to life. The guys are in long belted tunics over tight black leather pants. I surreptitiously check out my own reflection in a nearby mirror. I'm still wearing my club clothes from Luna. Black corset top, short plaid skirt, platform boots. That's good. At least I somewhat fit in.
I look back at the group. One of the girls has pulled out an inhaler that looks just like mine. She takes a quick puff, then waves good-bye to her friends as she heads toward the hallway I just exited.
Curiouser and curiouser ...
"Man come look for you," the proprietor informs me, drawing my attention away from the other guests. "You gone long time, I tell him you may not come out. People in as long as you seldom do. But he insist on leaving card." He takes my hand in his own wrinkled grip and presses a piece of paper into it.
Someone was looking for me? Here? I stare down at the card, confused. It's then I notice the name. Reginald Duske, Senator.
A chill trips down my spine. The guy Glenda was talking about, the one I'm supposed to avoid, has been here. Looking for me. That doesn't seem very good. Underneath the name there's another of those long strings of dashes and dots. "What does this code mean?" I ask, my voice trembling.
The man looks at me like I'm insane. "Phone number, of course," he says in a total "duh" voice. "You need to use phone?" He picks up a silver, crescent-shaped object that looks like no phone I've ever seen and offers it to me.
"Um, no. I mean, yes?" I decide, having no other idea what to do. I glance down at my hand. Sure enough, Glenda's warning is still inscribed on my palm.
I glance at the card again. Duske. Who is this guy? A senator? What makes Glenda say not to trust him? Can I trust Glenda? And what about this Dawn?
The proprietor frowns and taps his foot impatiently. "You make call," he demands, and suddenly the whole situation seems even more sinister. Could this guy be in cahoots with Duske?
"Can I ... have some privacy?" I ask, stalling for time.
For a moment, I see a sheen of annoyance flit over the man'
s face, but he forces it back and smiles at me. He's got perfectly white and shiny teeth. "Of course," he says, bowing again. He steps back from behind the counter and heads to one of the unoccupied couches.
I stare at Duske's card, then the name on my palm, wondering what I should do. Who I should call. If I should call anyone. Then something deep inside me stirs and Dawn's name drifts through my consciousness, a shard of glass washing up on shore, dulled by the sea. Dawn can help me, I realize, having no idea why I believe this to be so.
Deciding to trust my subconscious, I set down the card and use the code written on my hand instead, then bring the phone to my ear. It rings twice before a man answers. "Yes, what is it?" he asks impatiently.
"Um, I'm I-looking for Dawn," I stammer, not quite sure what to say now that I've made the call. I'm having this weird dream and my yoga instructor thought you could help me with it? He'd probably hang up then and there.
"This is Dawn."
"Oh." I pause, taken aback. "I'm sorry. I thought, well ... I figured Dawn would be a girl."
Silence on the other end. Then, "Mariah?" the voice asks. "Is that really you?"
I frown. What is it with this girl Mariah? Why does everyone think I'm her? "Uh, no. This is Skye," I correct him. "And, well, I'm not actually sure why I'm calling. It's just I woke up in this weird place and had your phone number written on my hand." Jeez, he's going to think I'm some drunk chick he met at a bar last night. "I know that sounds really bizarre, but-"
"You've got a hell of a nerve calling here, Mariah," Dawn interrupts.
I frown. "I told you. I'm not Mariah. I'm Skye. I don't know who Mariah is."
I can hear the heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Silence, and then: "Where are you?"
Good question. I glance around. "Uh, I don't know. I woke up in some small room with movie screens or something, and walked down a hallway into some weird brothel-looking place and-"
"A Moongazer station. Of course," Dawn concludes, not sounding too happy about it. "Which one?"
I glance around, looking for some sort of locator. "Um . . ." My eyes fall upon some sort of bill, lying on the counter. "Area 52?" I read.
"Ah," Dawn says, seeming to recognize the place. "Slumming it, are you? The senate wouldn't pay for a trip from one of the high-class joints? What a shame." His voice is thick with sarcasm.
"What? I don't-" I couldn't be more seriously lost in a conversation if I tried. Maybe I should have called the Duske guy instead.
"Well, at least you're close. There's a Rabbit Hole on Fifty-third. I'll meet you there in five."
"Uh, I'm not sure.. ." I realize I'm talking to no one. Dawn, whoever he is, has already hung up and is on his way to collect me. I really hope I didn't make some huge mistake calling him....
I notice the proprietor is staring at me suspiciously from the couch. I pretend to continue my conversation. "Oh yes, Duske. It's great to talk to you, too," I say loudly, forcing a laugh. "I'm sure I'll see you soon. Goodbye, now!"
I click END on the phone and set it down on the counter. "That Duske," I say, shaking my head and smiling as the Asian gentleman rises from the couch and walks back to the counter. Luckily, he seems to be buying my act. "He's coming to pick me up. I'm going to wait outside for him." I start heading to the doors.
"Wait!"
I freeze in my tracks at the proprietor's words. Now what? Did he not buy my act? He shuffles over to me and, to my surprise, reaches up to wrap his fingers around the moon necklace I wear around my neck.
"You must return charm before you leave," he says firmly "No keeping."
"Wait!" I grab for the necklace but he's too quick, yanking it away. The delicate clasp gives way and the chain pools into his hands. "That's mine! My mother gave it to me for graduation."
He rolls his eyes. "You no play game," he scolds. "That my necklace." He palms it and heads back behind the counter, opening a cabinet. I gasp as my eyes fall upon the contents-hundreds of silver necklaces, identical to mine. The Asian man slips my chain beside the others and then proceeds to close the cabinet door. "Now you go," he says, turning back to me and giving a toothy grin. "Maybe I see you later."
In a daze, I head toward the exit. Every time I think this experience couldn't get weirder, it does. My eyes widen as I step outside. I'm not sure how I was expecting the exterior to look, but it definitely wasn't this.
Moongazer Palace, in all its neon, Vegasian glory, sits plopped in the middle of a dark, post-apocalyptic looking nightmare world. Dim streetlights cast a sickly orange glow on narrow dirt alleys framed by crumbling, decrepit buildings. Barred windows, battered
doors, chipped paint. Dawn wasn't kidding when he'd called the place a slum.
The breeze, man-made from a gigantic fan down one end of the road, whips through the street, swirling up small whirlwinds of debris. I cough to clear my lungs. The smell of decay and garbage is overwhelming, inescapable, nauseating.
I look up and see a high rock ceiling. Like in my dreams, this place appears to be completely underground. A bubble world, a large stone cave.
I glance back at the building I just exited. Its neon light, advertising something called "Moongazing," buzzes and flickers. Its tagline, "Are you ready to look into the moon?" is slightly unnerving. The gaudy exterior clashes with the rest of the nondescript gray buildings in the neighborhood, making me wonder the story behind how it came to sit there.
I look down the alleyway and notice a bright crimson stain splattered against a brick wall. Red liquid drips down, soaking into a dirt puddle. Is that blood? Human blood? I glance around nervously. I'm in danger. Maybe. Or maybe someone else needs help.
I step into the alleyway to take a closer look. It's then that I feel the presence. Someone has stepped in behind me. I search for an escape. It's a dead end. I tense as I hear the heavy footsteps approaching. Is it friend or foe? I take another look at the blood. I've got to assume foe.
Strong hands clamp down on my shoulders, nails cutting into bare flesh. But I am not a victim. I let out a yell and then kick my foot behind me, going for the groin. The solid contact, followed by a cry of agony, tells me I didn't miss. I whirl around, raising my hands
in a defensive stance, ready for round two. It's then that I get my first real glimpse of my attacker.
Wow.
Broad shoulders narrow to a lean, trim waist; that muscular chest is encased in black leather. He's got chiseled, high, delicate cheekbones and a full, luscious mouth. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses and long layers of almost translucent platinum-colored hair fall into his face, giving him an unearthly look. But the weirdest thing is, though I know I've never seen this man before in my life, he somehow looks familiar. The deja vu is once again pricking at my brain.
He stares at me for a moment, crouched in agony, then straightens and steps forward. "Nice to see you again, too, Mariah," he snarls, not looking at all pleased.
"Don't come any closer!" I command, praying he'll obey. I know some self-defense, but it's not like I'm very practiced on a real opponent. Besides, I've used my one trick. "I've ... got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it." Yeah, right, Skye. And a bridge to Brooklyn, too.
The man ignores my threat, leaping forward too fast for my eyes to follow. He reaches me in an instant, slamming me against the brick wall, bruising my back. He grabs my arms and wrenches them above my head, pinning me by my wrists. I'm his prisoner. Flush against him, breasts squashed against chest.
"Is this what you want?" he asks in a husky voice. "You want to fight?"
His muscled thigh presses between my legs and a sensual tingle competes with my fear. He smells of the earth-rich, dark, musky. Face inches from mine, his luscious mouth set in a scowl, his eyes are unreadable behind his glasses.
"Let me go!" I demand, squirming against him, a movement that only succeeds in heightening my arousal. What is wrong with me? I should be screaming for help, not getting turned on. Yet there's something about this experience, some
weird glimmer of familiarity.
He stops and stares at me for a moment, and I catch my flushed reflection in his mirrored shades. Then he leans into me, crushing my mouth against his, taking possession, wresting from me my submission. My traitorous body burns as his fingers claw at my trapped wrists, his mouth bruises my lips, his thigh grinds between my parted legs.
A moment later he jerks back and shoves me into the brick wall, turning. Head bowed, he glowers at the ground, hands balled into tight fists.
"What the hell did you do that for?" I cry, rubbing my back. I should be relieved at being let go, but instead, for some reason, I feel the sting of rejection.
He turns to me, ripping off his sunglasses. I gasp. His eyes are the most brilliant blue I've ever seen. They're so intense they practically glow. I'm mesmerized, and for a moment I can't look away. This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on.
Also, perhaps, the angriest.
"You think you can just waltz back into my life after what you did?" he demands, pacing the width of the alley like a caged tiger. "That I'll take you back with open arms? Well, you're wrong, Mariah. I'm done. This time, I'm really done."
What is he talking about? He obviously recognizes me. Does he, too, think I'm Mariah? Then that must mean ...
Are ... are you ... Dawn?" I venture, though I'm pretty sure I know the answer.
He rolls his eyes. "I can't believe you have to ask me that! Of course I'm Dawn. God, Mariah. Why are you fucking with my head. I can't take it."
This is Dawn? The guy Glenda says I'm supposed to trust?
I glare at him. "Look. I only called you 'cause my yoga instructor said you could help." God, that sounded so stupid when I said it out loud. "But obviously she was wrong. Just forget it." I push past him and head down the alley, as fast as my platform boots can take me. Screw him. I'll put in a call to Duske instead. Or maybe I'll just head back to Moongazer Station, chill out on one of the couches while I'm waiting to wake up. Doesn't matter, really. As long as I'm as far away from this asshole as I can
