The Dream Leaper

by Cory Barclay

  Annabel chuckled, making Steve’s smile grow even larger. Then her chuckle faded. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing out in these woods alone? And with three horses?”

  Steve told her the tale, about saving the brownie at the Bayfog Gathering and watching Kaiko die. He told her about his servant’s position in a household of strangers—strangers that lived close to her.

  Annabel listened to Steve’s tale with rapt attention, holding his hands. Her skin was cold and soft.

  “You’re a member of the Vagrant Kinship, then?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

  Steve shrugged. “I suppose so.” He noticed the worried look in her eyes. “Geddon is a friend, my dear. I’m just trying to help him, with the hope that he can help me.”

  He stopped talking and they stared at each other in silence again. By now, all three of Steve’s horses had taken up alongside Francesca the Third and were drinking from the pond.

  Finally, Annabel sighed and seemed to deflate. “Oh, Steve,” she muttered. “My wedding with Amethyst has been set for two weeks from now! I don’t know what to do.”

  Steve frowned, his face turning red with anger. Two weeks was so close . . . how could he bring an end to the wedding so quickly? How could he win back Annabel? He knew he still had her love, but he needed her parents to know it . . .

  If only we were on Terrus, where this sort of forced union was no longer practiced. But the people of Mythicus have their own customs and traditions. And those customs are, traditionally speaking, fucked up.

  “I’ll think of something, my dear. I promise you—don’t lose hope.” Steve felt much less confident than he sounded.

  His words were enough to brighten Annabel’s mood, and that was enough for him. She leaned forward, kissed him on the mouth, and he held her face. His hand reached down and caressed her thigh. He leaned closer to her, so their bodies pressed against each other. He tried to find a place where he could lay her down . . . somewhere that wasn’t too mossy . . .

  A rustling in the bushes behind them broke him from his trance.

  His heart leaped again, but in a different direction. Fright and dread filled him, as he feared Tiberius and Jareth had found him with Annabel.

  The last thing he wanted his new masters to know was anything about Annabel’s existence, or his relationship to her. He couldn’t make them suspicious. Annabel was his secret, and the Reynoldses could not know he had an ulterior motive for working for them.

  Steve spun around and instinctively put himself in front of Annabel. He reached to his waist and grabbed the flare gun, in case it was a wild animal.

  It turned out it was neither the Reynoldses nor an animal.

  Four men dressed in little more than loincloths appeared through the thickets. They had tribal tattoos covering their dark-skinned bodies. Long, plaited ponytails bobbed as they moved, and they held spears in their hands.

  All the color drained from Steve’s face.

  “Fuck,” he said under his breath. He could feel Annabel’s body trembling behind him.

  “W-Who are those people, Mister Steve?” Annabel’s mind had reverted back to her old, timid self from Terrus, calling everyone “Mister.” It hurt Steve’s soul.

  And he didn’t have a clue who these people were. They looked like Native Americans—“savages” as they might have been called in darker days.

  Steve white-knuckled the flare gun in his hand.

  The four men approached slowly, cautiously. Steve and Annabel backed up as the men drew nearer, until they were up against a tree.

  “Should we run?” Annabel whispered in Steve’s ear.

  It didn’t seem like a bad plan. Except these guys seemed like they knew their way around the woods much better than Steve or Annabel. They seemed, well, native.

  How far would we get in this forest?

  Before Steve could respond, the man in front of the group called out. “You are Steve Remington?”

  Steve’s eyes widened. His throat became dry and scratchy, his tongue a leathery blob in his mouth. Unable to speak, he simply nodded.

  “We have come from Geddon,” the man said. “My name is Ulu Koa.”

  “Gedd-ddon sent you?” Steve stuttered.

  Ulu Koa nodded.

  “How?”

  “He spoke to us through our mind’s webs.”

  Steve’s thoughts raced, but he finally got a better look at the guy as the sun bathed his brown skin in brilliant light. His accent was not Native American. He had a whole forest tattooed on his chest, swirling around where his chest hair should be. Other symbols Steve didn’t recognize covered his arms. He was tall and wiry, in peak physical condition. His face was clean and sharp, his eyes hard and watchful.

  He looked like a Mayan warrior.

  Steve thought, Warrior . . . in the forest.

  “Y-You’re . . . the Nawao?” he asked.

  Ulu Koa nodded again.

  “The what?” Annabel said, peeking over Steve’s shoulder.

  “Geddon called them forest warriors.”

  Ulu Koa glanced at Annabel. “Fear not, Lady of Mythicus. We have not come to harm you.”

  “How did you get here so fast? Kaiko only died last night,” Steve said.

  At that, Ulu Koa’s frown grew more pronounced. He faced the ground. His three friends joined him, matching his silent brooding.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve added quickly, “that was wrong of me. I’m sure his death still weighs heavily on you, being so fresh.”

  “Yes,” Ulu Koa answered. He looked up from the ground. “Our brother was killed. We must avenge him. Geddon contacted any Nawao within reach. We are the first to come, as we exist in these woods. It was Geddon’s wish for us to track you. To watch you.”

  The warrior didn’t elaborate on why Geddon wanted Steve followed.

  “We found your two companions deeper in the woods. They did not see us, but they will soon do something foolish.”

  “Tiberius and Jareth? A man and his son?” Steve asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are they fixing to do?”

  “The animals of these woods are sacred to the Nawao. If they slay a sacred creature, vengeance must be sought.”

  Steve gulped. In a small voice, he said, “Even a wolf?”

  “Especially the wolf.”

  Shit. He looked down at his flare gun. He could use it right now, but what reason would he give for firing it off? He couldn’t let Tiberius and Jareth know about Annabel and the Nawao.

  As if reading his mind, Ulu Koa said, “You must invent a reason to call off the hunt.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Steve nodded, trying to think of something. He asked Ulu Koa, “Where will you go?”

  “To exact revenge on the Brethren members who killed our brother.”

  “The Brethren?” Annabel said, incredulously. “What have they got to do with anything? What is he talking about, Steve?”

  Steve sighed. When he’d told the story of what had happened on the Bayfog summit—leading to Kaiko’s death—he’d been vague on the details. He’d known Annabel’s parents were trying to get close to the Brethren, and he didn’t want to alarm Annabel. But now the truth was out.

  He said, “Blackguard soldiers sent by the Brethren caused the chaos on the cliffs, Bel.” He turned and faced her, putting his hands gently on her shoulders. “I believe your parents are trying to impress some pretty dangerous people, darling.”

  “Impossible,” Annabel said immediately. “My parents would never—”

  Words vomited from Steve’s mouth. “Didn’t you say you were worried they’d done something to your former lover, when he disappeared? Now they’re forcing you to marry a man you do not love, to further their ambitions. It sounds to me like Constantin and Mariana will go to great lengths for power and reputation. Do you think they’re beyond doing something . . . unconscionable?” Steve knew he’d spoken harshly, but he was disappointed that Annabel could seem so n
aïve when it came to her parents. They were clearly not angels. In fact, they might be quite the opposite.

  Annabel switched off and became very quiet. When Steve looked into her eyes, they were misty, on the verge of tears. She didn’t deny what Steve said about her parents, which made him believe she wasn’t as naïve as it seemed on the surface.

  Annabel and Steve stared at each other in silence, until Ulu Koa cleared his throat. “We have run out of time, Steve Remington. Clear your companions from these woods, before they go too far and cannot return from what they seek to do.”

  Steve nodded. He took a step away from Annabel, pointed the flare gun heavenward, and squeezed the trigger.

  An orange blast shot from the gun and cascaded into the sky. It was not so differently colored than the sinking sun. Steve wondered if Tiberius and Jareth would even see it.

  “Now we go,” Ulu Koa said. “Stay safe, Steve Remington. And you, Lady of Mythicus. We will be close at hand.”

  The Nawao warriors walked past them, disappeared into the trees, and became one with the forest.

  “You should go, too,” Steve urged Annabel. “I don’t want questions coming up—who you are, what you mean to me . . .”

  Annabel nodded. She seemed lost in her thoughts, ready to burst into tears at any moment, but she was being strong in Steve’s presence.

  It must hurt to hear her parents aren’t the protectors she thought they were, Steve thought. He wished he could take it all back and make Bel ignorant of the truth once more.

  “When will I see you again?” Annabel asked.

  “I don’t know, my love. Soon.”

  “You promise?”

  Steve smiled. “I do.”

  He leaned into Annabel’s arms and they hugged each other. He tipped her chin and kissed her one more time.

  She took Francesca the Third and left the clearing, vanishing into the woods like the Nawao.

  Steve swished his feet over the grassy ground, clearing any footprints or hoofprints. He readied himself and sat down on a rock next to the pond. He watched the stagnant, clear water, and saw a school of tadpoles darting around beneath the surface.

  Twenty minutes later, he heard another rustling in the bushes. He stood, knotting his hands into fists.

  Jareth appeared first through the trees. He wore a worried expression, but when he realized Steve was in no danger, he said, “Why did you send off your flare? Those things are hard to come by.”

  “An animal was stalking the pond through the trees some time ago, sir. I thought he wanted the horses, so I shot the flare to scare him off.” He didn’t elaborate on what kind of fictional animal it had been . . . because he was almost positive wolves traveled in packs, and he hadn’t used the plural, “animals.”

  “Ah,” Jareth said. “A predator? Which way did it go?”

  Steve hesitated. He pointed in a random direction, away from where the Nawao or Annabel had gone. “He’s probably long gone by now,” he said, trying to keep his lie alive.

  Jareth nodded and glanced at the sky. “I’m famished, anyway. We’ve been here long enough.” A smile broke his serious expression. He stepped aside as Tiberius came into the clearing.

  Something was slung over Tiberius’ shoulder.

  “But I’d call this day a success,” Jareth said, motioning to his son. “Look what Tiberius snagged.”

  It was a dead wolf over the young man’s shoulder.

  Steve’s face lost its color for the second time that outing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STEVE STAYED QUIET for the entire ride back to the Reynolds’ house. He hoped his face didn’t betray his thoughts—the happiness of seeing Annabel, or the anxiousness of meeting the Nawao. Now that Tiberius had killed a sacred animal, his life was in danger.

  Steve had no allegiance to Tiberius. In fact, he’d been the biggest prick of the bunch when Steve first met the Reynoldses. But he still didn’t want to see the young man killed.

  His fear for Tiberius wasn’t enough to make him spill the beans about running into the Nawao. For all intents and purposes, Steve was still a Vagrant Kinsman, at least until Geddon helped him retrieve Annabel.

  Two weeks would pass like the sun in winter. That was all the time he had until Annabel would be marrying this Amethyst character.

  What can I possibly do to stop this marriage? he wondered as his horse stepped over a fallen branch.

  The burlap bag, filled with a heavy, dead wolf, was draped over his horse’s hindquarters. Tiberius had shot it cleanly through the neck.

  Now that Tiberius had staved off the family’s cattle killer, Steve wondered what they would do with the wolf’s body. Was there a way to hide its carcass from the Nawao?

  No, surely they already know . . . being attuned to nature and all that. Probably couldn’t kill a cockroach without those guys knowing about it.

  “Steven, you’ve been quiet. And your face is a mask of consternation. What ails you?” Jareth pulled his horse alongside Steve as they neared the house.

  Steve glanced up from his horse. His mind raced, trying to think of something innocent to say that wouldn’t alarm the family.

  “I’m . . . thinking about what song I’m going to first teach Tiberius on guitar,” he said lamely.

  Jareth gave him a questioning look.

  From the front of the pack, Tiberius said, “I want to learn that Spanish song you were playing at breakfast.”

  Steve scratched his cheek. “It’s quite a complex song, sir. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to start with something easier, first? I could show you a few chords—”

  “Women love Spanish guitar,” Tiberius said. Steve couldn’t argue with that, but he still thought the young man’s priorities and heart were misplaced.

  Learning to play an instrument to impress others was fine and dandy, but you had to enjoy music itself. If you didn’t enjoy the escapism of making music, in Steve’s opinion, it would never be satisfying or fulfilling.

  Steve could already tell Tiberius was going to be a difficult pupil. Would he have the patience to learn? The drive to get better? Had he ever even laid his hands on the neck of a guitar? Strummed the strings?

  Playing music was sacred to Steve, much like the animals of these woods were sacred to the Nawao. It was not frivolous or pointless. In some ways, music was a higher calling—it was Steve’s higher calling, at least.

  He didn’t have high hopes for his new endeavor.

  As his thoughts about Tiberius being a shitty student came to its natural conclusion, they reached the house. They tied their horses at the barn, slung their bows and quivers on wall hooks, and headed for the house.

  Jareth stopped and motioned back to the barn. “Steve, bring the wolf inside. I want to show the women our trophy.” He smiled cruelly. Steve went to retrieve the burlap sack.

  The sun was beginning to wane as they entered the mansion.

  Dragging the heavy burlap sack behind him, Steve gazed at the sky and saw it like a surrealist painting. It made him wonder how Selestria’s search for the Portrait of a Lady was going.

  He entered the house behind Jareth and was greeted by the pleasant smell of garlic and spices. Fueda must have been busy at work in the basement kitchen, preparing a feast for dinner.

  The drumming of loud footsteps shook the ceiling. Emilene came into view at the top of the stairs. She gave a sharp gasp of delight and bounded down the steps to meet the men in the foyer.

  When she reached them, she clasped her hands together in front of her chin. Excitedly, she said, “Did you catch the beast? Did you, Papa?”

  Jareth smiled at his daughter. He held a hand out to Steve. “If you would do the honors, Steven.”

  Steve pulled the drawstring, opening the bag enough so the wolf’s head and lolling tongue flopped out.

  Emilene gave another gasp—fear mixed with wonder—and stared at Steve with hungry eyes. It was off-putting, seeing this pretty, young woman stare at him in such a way. It made him squirm.
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  The girl acted younger than she was—bubbly and full of energy. She had curly hair and a colorful dress. Her spirit and enthusiasm intrigued Steve.

  From the top of the stairs, Dosira called down. “Ah, boys, you’re just in time. Fueda will have dinner together shortly. Steven, why don’t you go help her?”

  Steve wasn’t sure if Emilene’s mother had seen the way he and Emilene had been looking at each other. He glanced away, embarrassed, and nodded. “Y-Yes,” he stuttered, “right away, madam.”

  He opened a door near the wall and disappeared into another room. He found his way to the basement through trial and error. He picked wrong doors enough times until he was left with only the correct ones.

  The scent in the kitchen was strong and earthy and made his stomach grumble.

  Fueda was moving around faster than her little hands should have been able to.

  Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Steve said, “Is there anything I can help with?”

  “I hope you’re not getting too close to the family members,” Fueda responded.

  Steve was taken aback. “Pardon?”

  Fueda turned to him with a scowl on her wrinkled face. “Emilene is young and impressionable. She is sheltered from the outside world by her family, and is of the age where men become interesting and . . . alluring. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t think she’s as young as she looks,” Steve said. She reminded him of Annabel, who hardly looked eighteen, but was more than ten times that age.

  Fueda’s face shook with fury. He could tell he’d given the wrong answer. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on her, you heathen,” the brownie said. “Am I clear, wafer-man? Or I’ll tell Lig I accidentally boiled your head thinking it was a head of lettuce.”

  Steve coughed. It was clear she was serious, though he didn’t think she was serious about killing him. “You really care about this family, don’t you?”

  With a shrug, Fueda turned back to her pots. “When you work for a single family as long as I have, you begin to develop feelings for them.” She stirred the pot. “Besides,” she added, “I’m looking out for your best interest. Jareth and Dosira Reynolds plan to marry her off to a wealthy and powerful man some day. If she is defiled before then—by a servant, no less—there will be nothing I can do to stop their rage from ending you.”