JOURNEY: Becoming the Dream Walker

JOURNEY

Becoming the Dream Walker

A novel by

T.N. BUI

Copyright

Copyright 2017 Thuy N. Bui

Smashword Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art by Thi Bui

© 2017 All rights reserved

Prologue

It wasn’t the noise that woke him. It was the smell.

He fought against the instinctual need to flee and stayed as still as he could in bed, taking care to keep his breathing deep and even, so as to not alert the intruders on the balcony. No changes in the movements outside – they must’ve bought it. Concentrating with his nose, he did the one thing his magic did best: sort out the preternatural creatures outside based on their scent, or the smell of their magic. A couple of vamps, three…no, four werewolves, and at least three other preternaturals that he couldn’t readily identify. Quite the party out there, and he’d chosen this hotel for the supposedly superb security against magical intrusions, too. With the best wards in all of Ireland installed, this was the safest place to sleep in Dublin, the hotel had boasted, and the reviewers had agreed. Yet there were vamps and werewolves and who knew what else on his balcony, and not a single ward went off.

Ah well, they were here. He’d been expecting them – he knew someone would show up; he just didn’t think it’d be this soon, or this many. The vamps probably got them through the outer perimeters with cloaking magic. The werewolves were hired muscle – he should be flattered they’d sent four. But the other three bugged him. It’d been a long time since he couldn’t I.D. someone. Prodding a little deeper with his magic, he let the scent roll around on the back of his tongue, tickling old memories and waking less conscious parts of his mind. The smell carried a bit of decay, like you’d get from a zombie, or a ghoul, yet it wasn’t quite either. Not enough rot. There was wind behind it; if the wind could be said to have a smell, this would be like the gusts that blew over rough seas. Sometimes elemental mages went so deep into the magic of their elements that they became more the element itself rather than the mage – that came closest to explaining the elusive scent. But he knew that wasn’t it either – they didn’t smell human enough to be wind mages, or any other kind of mage.

Frustrated, he stopped and reeled in his magic before he’d give himself away by prodding too far. What useless power he had! Of all the thousands of variations in powers since magic flooded the world half a century ago, he ended up with this after growing into his magic – not much more than a human magic-scenting hound. Neither an offensive or defensive power, it didn’t give him much other than information. Which, he admitted, was handy in his work. He could always tell which artifact was used by whom, and he immediately knew how powerful a magical artifact was by how much it reeked of magic, even if he hadn’t yet identifed the artifact itself. And there was his uncanny ability to sniff out the artifacts...if his colleagues knew how literal that was, they’d understand why he always laughed when they said that.

Would he trade it for some stronger power? Something that would help him fight off those who’d come to take him, to steal what he’d found? He might have, in the past, when he needed to protect her. He would’ve done anything to protect his little girl. But she was safe and sound, thousands of miles from him. And he’d done all he could to set up everything; all that she would need to find him again. Hopefully, in the process, she’ll find everything that she needs to know. That she must know.

He smiled. She’s stronger than she realizes. And Corwin will be there for her. Right now, here, he had one thing left to do. From the time they realized he was awake till the time they’re through the door, he had maybe five or six seconds to get it done. He rehearsed the movements in his head again. It’ll be close, but he thought he could do it. What was it she was always so fond of telling him? Belief was everything. He smiled, then took a deep breath and dove off the bed.

Chapter 1: Missing

I showed up on his doorstep unannounced on my twenty-fifth birthday, a few days after receiving the worst news of my life. For someone I’d always thought of as all knowing, he did not look as though he was expecting me. Nor did he look surprised.

My father’s dead, I stated flatly.

Lion Leader stared at me for a few heartbeats. I looked straight back in his eyes, unblinking. I can’t remember having done so before, not so brazenly. The blackness of his eyes seemed absolute and deeper than a starless sky. All the moments and the memories that we shared traveled the paths of our eyes, from his to mine and back again. I felt the distance of the days the weeks the years we’d been apart collapse like time and space folded away to nothingness, winked out of existence like the walls inside me. The door to his house stood open between us, inconsequential yet stretching the eternity of that moment. I stepped through as he stepped forward, enfolding me in a hug.

Just like that, we were bound as closely together as if we’d never been apart. As if the last four years of sporadic phone calls left no gap in our contact, as if the physical distance between New York and Atlanta could be bridged in a single step, as if any past distance mattered not at all, faded away to nothingness.

I don’t remember what he said then, if anything. I remember the warmth of his embrace, the familiar scent of earth that marked him as much as it belonged to him, and the grief embedded deep within him that vibrated from his attempt to give me comfort.

* * *

That night found us sitting staring into the fireplace, drinks in hand. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to disturb the peace that draped around us, suspended in the air, flanked by the soft crackling of the embers that nursed the flames. Yet, no matter how comforting, it was a fragile peace that would crumple at the first words spoken.

He’s gone, I said into the fire. And I don’t mean just disappeared, or missing, like the police is suggesting. He’s gone for good. I swallowed and forced the word out for the second time, Dead.

That’s me. I’m not content to just ruin the peaceful night: I have to beat it to pieces and make sure it’s completely shattered.

Lion Leader remained silent for some time, so long that I had to turn and look at him to make sure he was really there. It was a ridiculous jolt of fear – as if he could vanish while sitting right next to me – but stranger things have happened, especially lately. In the light of the fire, he looked the same as he always did: skin the warm color of dark honey, brown by nature and deepened by the sun, stretched smooth over strong features except for wrinkles at the edges of expression. The frown creases between his brows might have been etched deeper than I remembered, but those laugh lines at the corners of his eyes have always been there, smiling down at me back when I was waist-high to him. Time had left its mark most on his long hair, once dark and almost as black as mine, now more salt than pepper, but still hung in a thick ponytail well past his shoulders. The gray in his hair caught the glow from the fireplace, giving his ponytail the sheen of lighter color hair, as if it were the mane of a chestnut stallion. I did a mental headshake – Lion Leader projected so much wiry strength that even his hair made me think of something bold and independent by way of comparison. That strength had never changed or wavered. That strength was the one constant I could always count on, and the very reason why I was here now.

As if he could tell I was taking stock, Lion Leader raised his glass to one side in a semi-salute without looking at me. In place of a reply to my outburst, he took a sip of his whiskey and continued to ponder calmly in silence.

That’s him: my semi-adoptive parent, my second father, and the man who picked up the slack in raising me whenever my dad went MIA during my childhood and teenage years, before I was old enough to take care of myself. Lion Leader, legal name Corwin Adahy, though hardly anyone even knew this name, and none called him by it. How he came by the name of Lion Leader had become a story of legends, blown into mythical proportions by admiring followers long before he came to lead the pre-war Native American movement. It has long been the only name he was known by, the only one he ever needed.

Nothing ever seemed to perturb Lion Leader, not even my dramatic declarations of my father’s death. It was as if he knew I’d said it to test myself, to test aloud the reality of the worst outcome. After all, it was Lion Leader who’d helped me learn to cope with bad situations by walking myself through the worst, because if I could survive the worst, I could survive whatever was coming. He didn’t teach me to indulge in outbursts. That was just me being childish. I knew better than to expect a response to my dramatic outburst – he would speak when he was ready. I just needed to be patient, as he’d taught me long ago.

I took a big swallow of my own Scotch to help me remember that patience.

My silence was rewarded a few moments later. Keeping his eyes on the fire, Lion Leader spoke quietly, his tone conversational, as if he didn’t want to attach any weight to the words he said: I spoke to your father early last week, just before his trip.

That would make Lion Leader the last person state side to have spoken to my father before he vanished, other than me. Good to know, but knowing what they talked about would be better. Fourteen hours of driving made me edgy, and I was struggling with not letting it show. We both knew that I didn’t stand much chance of figuring all this out without his help. Just as we both knew he would always help me. That help may not come in the way I’d wish, but it would always be rendered with my best interest at heart.

So I quietly sipped my drink and projected my best imitation of calmly pondering the information, waiting for him to tell me more.

I know you’re probably mad at me for not having brought it up before, Lion Leader said with a slight chuckle. He wasn’t fooled. I was lousy at being calm.

Alex, what your father and I talked about… he continued a bit hesitantly, it didn’t have any connection to his trip. At least neither of us thought so at the time. I’m still trying to think through whether it has any bearing on his disappearance and, if so, in what way.

He paused, chewing on his thoughts. The pause lasted longer than I’d expected. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying very hard to wait.

Okay… I said into the silence when I could take no more. A full minute was longer than any pause had a right to take. Still waiting for the part where you tell me what it was you talked about with my dad.

He lifted his head and looked directly into my eyes, his tone serious. I called Stephen because I’d had a dream he needed to hear.

I straightened in my seat, instantly alert. In today’s world, dreams mean so much more than they used to. Or I should say, we’ve only recently begun to understand and explore the depth of dreams and the powers associated with dreams, even with over half a century’s experience with magic and the preternatural under our belts. The past fifty-plus years had left virtually no one untouched in some way by the emergence of magic and the ways in which magic has woven into the fabric of our lives. Magic spilled into the world in the 1960’s and was quickly embraced by most in a hunger for something to believe in, something worth believing. And it was. Magic powers became coveted, pursued, and harnessed, with such intensity that a hyperawareness of magic has wrapped around the world, sensitizing almost everyone to the difference that magic had made and continued to make in everyday life.

But not everyone is as aware of the extent to which the emergence of magic has impacted the world of Dreams. I lived and breathed it, having developed an acute awareness of the dream world, of the Collective Subconscious that connects reality and the stuff of magic, our world and their world, the human world and the Netherworld. Whether I wanted it or not, this nebulous dream world made up of the subconscious imprints of millions of humans, this thing and this place called the Collective Subconscious – or the CS as I called it – always seemed to reach out and grabbed at my mind, enveloping my sleeping and sometimes even my waking moments.

From the time I turned thirteen, this strange affinity became impossible to ignore. Being overly sensitive to the CS was akin to having telepathy, except with dreams rather than conscious thoughts. It was overwhelming, to say the least, to suddenly be flooded with the dreams of countless other minds, night after night, often leaking into moments when I was awake, so that I could no longer tell what I dreamt and what was real. I have Lion Leader to thank for having guided me through the early years of confusion, turning what I perceived as defects in my mind into something infinitely more manageable and more positively categorized as my natural inclinations. In other words, I’d thought I was going crazy with delusional dreams and nightmares, and Lion Leader helped me make sense of it all, calling it a talent the whole while.

Not surprisingly, his own talents lay in the world of Dreams. The more magic one has, the more potentially powerful the Dreams. Not all magic wielders can harness the powers of the subconscious at will; those who do can direct their magic into focused Dreams that yield incredible knowledge and even foresight. In the league of powerful Dreamers, Lion Leader stood alone. When Lion Leader says he’s had a Dream, you sat up and listened. His Dreams are in a class by themselves. Calling them visions might be taking it too far, but not by much. While Lion Leader was not a Seer, his Dreams undeniably carried varying degrees of clairvoyance – the difficulty rested in wading through the symbolic stuff and deciphering them correctly.

My heart sped up at the hope I dared not voice. Given how accurate his Dreams have often proven in the past, and how much one can learn from them, if his Dream was connected to Dad in any way…I stopped the thoughts before they led me too far. Yet, just the fact that Lion Leader is pondering the Dream raised hope in me – hope for some explanation, some clue, something that would point the way toward finding out what happened to my dad.

There had to have been something about the Dream that nagged at him, or else he wouldn’t have brought it up. Right?

I forced myself to keep from jumping on Lion Leader and shaking every piece of his Dream loose. He never did anything without a reason, and he was taking time with the sharing of his Dream and his conversation with my dad. Which meant I needed to approach this methodically to extract any meaningful information from him.

So you called my dad to discuss a Dream, I began, striving for patience in my voice. It must have been a Dream of significance.

Alex… Lion Leader leaned forward in his chair, shaking his head as he’d already anticipated where I was heading. I told you, I doubt very much it has any connection to what’s happened. He hesitated, then reluctantly added: And if it does, I’m not certain at all what any of it means…yet.

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. I’m not insisting that there’s a connection. And I’m not drawing any conclusions...yet. I’m just saying that the Dream itself, whatever its content, must be important, since you felt Dad needed to hear about it. Right?

Another brief hesitation, then he nodded briskly. Yes. I felt Stephen needed to know.

Why?

Because what I dreamt seemed more pertinent to him than to anyone else. Everything from the images to possible meanings came through as if they were intended for him, and I was just the messenger.

Then how do you know it has no connection to his trip or his disappearance? What did you dream? It has to mean something! It’s bound to tell us something!

But not necessarily about how or why he disappeared, Alex! Lion Leader set his empty whiskey glass on the table, not without force, but not quite slamming it down, either. Less than ten minutes into our conversation and I managed to frustrate him already. OK, so I jumped the gun a little in pushing to connect his Dream to Dad’s disappearance. Time to take a step back.

A chill went through me as I considered a different reason for his hesitance in talking about the Dream and I forgot all about taking a step back.

You know how your Dreams can be…clairvoyant, even…predictive, I said quietly, my voice sounding small. Are you reluctant to talk about this because you saw something happen to Dad? Something…really…bad?

Just like that, whatever tension Lion Leader was holding drained away from his body. He left his chair and reached for me in one fluid motion, enfolding my head against his chest and making soft shushing sounds. Something wet dripped on my arm and I realized I was crying. Me, crying like some silly weakling, over something that wasn’t even proven yet. Just some hypothetical possibility of bad. Must be the long drive, or the lack of sleep. Or both.

I pushed at the arms around me, pulled back, tried to stop the flow of tears that were threatening to deepen into spasms of sobs. His arms loosened enough for me to lean back into my armchair, but his hands turned to firmly cup my face as Lion Leader sought and caught my eyes: I would have told you immediately if I knew or saw anything of that nature. Whether good or bad, if I knew, if I really knew something, I would tell you. Always.

He drew back just enough to hold my eyes with his, searching, You know that, don’t you?

It wasn’t easy to nod with Lion Leader’s very firm hands around my face, but I managed. Just. I gently twisted myself loose from his embrace and swiped ineffectively at my tears and runny nose, I’m just so…scared…that he’s really…gone.

My voice broke. I let the fear and pain roll over me silently, embracing the possibility of the worst so that I could be ready for whatever may come.

A box of tissue appeared magically on my lap. I hadn’t heard Lion Leader move. I did, however, hear the steel in his voice loud and clear as he firmly gripped my shoulder: We don’t know anything yet. Until we do, we spend our energies finding answers, not…

…being afraid of something unknown, we finished the sentence in unison, albeit my voice trailed his by a few hiccups.

I look up at the face of the man who’d helped shape a large part of me and saw incredible strength underlined with kindness. It was easy to mistake his strength for sternness, or his calmness for distance – I certainly did as a kid, sometimes even as I grew up and knew better. Seeing the combination of care and determination written in his eyes and etched on his face calmed me. I nodded at him with a small smile, I remember.

Good, Lion Leader nodded back at me, his smile fierce.

Now, he said as he began pacing the length of the room, I brought up the dream because I’d like to talk it through with you. I thought that if we both combed through it, we might stumble upon something that could lead us to something else…perhaps somewhere to begin looking for answers. But, he held up a hand, forefinger pointing at me in caution, if you begin by looking – even hoping – for answers, you’re going to see connections where there are none, and you may miss what possible clues there are.

I nodded again, feeling a bit like a liar doing it, since a part of me would hope against hope, no matter how hard I would try to stay objective. I didn’t think hope would prevent objectivity, really, but that was a thought I wasn’t about to share with Lion Leader.

Good, he said again. Now, as I was saying about the dream…

The doorbell rang.

Damn it.

Chapter 2: Past & Present

At the second chime of the doorbell, Lion Leader looked toward the hallway that led to the foyer and front door, and then looked over to the wall at his clock. It was closing on midnight, much too late for a casual visitor. A knock sounded on the door, a polite tap-tap that still managed to convey urgency. Lion Leader looked me expectantly.

I sighed as I moved toward the front door, I’ll get it.

There was only one person with that knock – I knew that double tap like I knew the sound of his voice. I held up my left hand, palm open and facing forward, and opened the door with my right…just in time to prevent another knock as knuckles connected with my open palm instead of the door.

Hey, Roland. I wrapped my hand over his knuckles and gave a gentle squeeze in welcome before stepping back to let him in.

Alex, he breathed my name in relief. Like water, Roland enfolded my hand in his own and flowed in with my movement, wrapping me in a hug so complete I’d temporarily lost sight and sound of all else. Just as fluidly, he pulled back before I had to gasp for air. Concern was written all over his face as his eyes scanned me, assessing any external damage I might have sustained, then burrowed deep into my own in search of more elusive emotional wounds, Are you alright?

I might have shrugged at the same time Roland abandoned his question and enfolded me in his arms once more: I mean, of course you’re not all right, what with the circumstances, but you’re here, and not hurt… He drew back with a frown, You look like you could use some rest, which I suppose is to be expected. So long as you’re not sick or anything… Pressing a hand against my forehead, he persisted, You’re not sick, are you?

Stop it, Roland! I pushed his hand away impatiently. His outburst and stammering surprised me a bit – Roland didn’t usually fuss, nor speak more than necessary. When he chose to speak, he did so eloquently and concisely, even when he was upset. Sometimes especially when he was upset. This was downright babbling for my best friend.

And Roland never, ever neglected to notice the presence of someone in the room, especially someone who exuded as much force and vitality as Lion Leader. I watched Roland’s dark eyes come into focus as I steered him away from me and ushered him fully into the foyer so that I could close the front door. He blinked and drew up straighter, as if reeling in all the loose threads of worry that had begun to un-seam him. I realized in that moment the toll it took on him, having me take off without a word after the bad news. I had left only a terse voice mail on Roland’s cell phone, telling him of the notice from the police regarding my father’s disappearance, and then I’d essentially disappeared myself with no further contact…not even a scribbled note left in his living room where I had been crashing for the last couple of weeks.

Feeling guilty for both my earlier actions and for rebuffing his concern, I stepped in close and pressed myself alongside Roland, hooking my arm in the crook of his and leaning my head against his shoulder, trying my best to silently say, thanks for caring. He didn’t say anything, or even looked at me, his attention having turned to Lion Leader in a respectful deep nod, but I’d caught the flash of warmth in his eyes and the tiniest smile on the upturned corner of his lips that told me we were okay.

Sir, Roland said to Lion Leader as he tendered a half-bow in greeting, left hand fisted over his heart. I’m sorry for my sudden, and very late, arrival. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.

Not at all, my dear boy, not at all, Lion Leader waved the apology away as he stepped forward from the darkness of hallway. He smiled warmly and took Roland’s extended right hand to pull him into an embrace that consisted of the half hugging and half back thumping thing that men do to show true welcome. I’d begun to wonder when you’d show up, Lion Leader said, steering Roland toward the family room where we’d been enjoying the fireplace and our drinks earlier.

Stunned, I followed them after a beat. My dear boy? I mouthed silently to the empty room. And what’s with the semi bowing? Have we stepped back a century without my notice? Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs that tended to gather whenever I pondered the logic behind male interactions, I veered off toward the hall bathroom for a quick freshening up. Flashes of memories suddenly swelled from the past and blindsided me: images of my dad walking with Roland, with Lion Leader, with both of them, arm draped over Roland’s shoulder in that same inclusive way…I stopped myself and swallowed the tears that blurred my vision. Moping was no kind of help. Focus on what could be done now; walk down memory lane later.

Turning away from the bathroom and back toward the front door, I called out to Roland and Lion Leader: I’ll be right back. I forgot something in the car.

I needed some air. And a moment to collect myself.

* * *

Outside, the thick air smacked into me and instantly coated my whole body with tepid stickiness. I grimaced. Humidity was one thing about Atlanta I did not miss.

I walked down the path through the front yard, heading toward the driveway where I’d parked my car. While I left the house to clear my head, I did in fact forget something rather important in the car. Some weeks ago, I’d happened by a small resale shop near NYU and saw a beautiful ancient staff leaning in the corner of the front window, as if someone had meant to display it but ended up forgetting it there, in that little corner space that somehow became brighter because of the staff. It made me think of Lion Leader, of the staff he always carried like it was an extension of him. The one in the store was no magic staff, but it was an old thing, almost alive with age, and beautiful because of it. There was no question in my mind that the staff belonged with Lion Leader; I’d emptied what little I had in my bank account to obtain it for him. That I managed to forget it in the car till now told me much about how distracted I was. I shook myself mentally – I needed to stay sharper to do any good here.

A small keening sound caught my ears as I reached the end of the front yard and turned toward the driveway. I stopped moving, listening to locate the sound. The keening came from behind me, away from the driveway, toward the yard next door. Unfortunately, a very tall hedge separated the next yard from this one, which meant I could hear but see nothing. I moved toward the hedge anyway, ignoring the lack of wisdom in approaching some unknown sound whose source I couldn’t see.

The keening rose to a blend of crying and moaning. A woman’s voice, quiet and broken: No…no…oh, my poor baby…wake up, please wake up…

I knew her voice.

I dashed along the hedge toward the sidewalk, turned left as the hedge wrapped itself around the corner and stood sentry between the sidewalk and the property it protected. Somewhere along here was a small opening. There. An archway cut into the hedge about six feet high and only two feet wide, artfully positioned to remain hidden to the casual observer. Walking through it spilled me onto an open lawn, surrounded by a beautifully manicured garden of various flowering plants. Solar-powered lights in the shape of dragonflies scattered about the garden, softly illuminating the area while giving it a fairy tale air.

In the middle of the lawn, on a picnic blanket, sat a woman cradling a small child. The woman rocked back and forth as she held the child. The keening cries came from her.

Mrs. Ramirez?

I approached slowly, calling out softly, not wanting to startle her.

Mrs. Ramirez, are you alright? Do you need help?

The woman looked up at me. Age and worry lined her kind face. She had lived next door to Lion Leader ever since I could remember, quiet and reclusive, but always ready with a smile, kind words, and tasty treats. The years since I last saw Mrs. Ramirez sat heavy on her, as if she carried a burden that had been slowly sucking life out of her. Her eyes were red from crying, but they sparkled with clarity and recognition as they fastened on me.

Alex? Is that you? My God, Alex, you’ve grown beautiful.

Mrs. Ramirez reached up and took my hand as I drew closer. She pulled me down next to her, her other arm still cradling the little girl.

Let me look at you. Goodness, it has been a long time. You really have grown lovely. Her hand stroked my face and rested against my cheek. It was ice cold despite the warm night.

Is everything alright, Mrs. Ramirez? I heard you crying. I took her cold hand in both of mine, trying to rub some warmth into them while casting a glance at the little girl in her arm: What’s going on?

Mrs. Ramirez looked down at the little girl and began crying again. She gripped my hands tightly, her voice cracked with tears: Oh, Alex…you’ve got to help me. Amelia won’t wake up, and I can’t get a hold of Brian.

She made an elegant gesture at the phone, indicating a sense of futility. It was lying on the edge of the blanket a few feet from her, where she must have thrown it in frustration. Other items rested closer to her and the child, crayons and coloring books, a large book of fairytales, a rather battered paperback with many pages bearing signs of having been dog-eared. On the other side of the picnic blanket, provisions were neatly arranged: a small platter of tiny sandwiches cut into perfect little triangles, a full tea set on a serving tray, a platter of mini pastries – petit fours, I remembered – beautifully done with miniature roses on the frosting, and a small basket of fruit, individual cheese wedges, and biscuits. Mrs. Ramirez clearly didn’t do things halfway, even if the middle of the night seemed an odd time for a garden picnic. Two plates held crumbs and half eaten pieces of this and that, with slightly used napkins next to them. So whatever happened came after they’d eaten.

I looked back at the little girl. Amelia. Pretty name for a pretty girl. Glossy blue-black curls framed a heart-shaped face, which sported a tiny pert nose perfectly centered and a small mouth with full lips. Lips that are as pale as her skin, tinted almost blue as if she’d been bled dry and iced over.

How long has she been out? I asked. Did she just suddenly pass out?

Mrs. Ramirez shook her head, words rushing out of her even as she clutched at me: No, no dear…she didn’t pass out. Amelia just fell asleep, that’s all. She does that sometimes…fall asleep suddenly. Sleep just takes her, you understand. Then she wakes up, and she’ll be a little tired, but she’ll be fine. It’s just the fatigue. That’s why I feed her so often. She’s so thin…she needs to eat. But frequently she just sleeps…

Okay, Mrs. Ramirez, okay… I patted her shoulder, trying to calm the sobs and slow her down. I understand. Amelia is sleeping. She didn’t pass out.

Mrs. Ramirez nodded at my words, catching her breath.

How long has she been sleeping?

Oh, I don’t know, dear. She’s been doing this for some time now, off and on. Over a year, I would think. Since her fifth birthday… Mrs. Ramirez broke off, looking startled at her own words. A high pitched keening came out of her, like a mournful cry that was buried so deep, it had to stretch thin to eek its way out. It’s been this way for almost two years! She turns seven in December, in a couple of months. Oh, my poor baby! Oh, Amelia…

Her words disintegrated into heart-wrenching sobs. She was operating on her own progression of logic in there – I just had to connect.

That’s a long time for a child to have a condition, Mrs. Ramirez. I patted her shoulder soothingly. Do you know how long she’s been sleeping tonight? I mean, this time?

A while, dear, a while. She fell asleep a couple of times already, earlier, but she woke up and managed to eat some. Then she suddenly fell asleep again, without warning. But it’s gone on longer than before…she’s sleeping longer than she should. She usually wakes up by now. She should have woken up by now, but I can’t seem to rouse her. That’s why I tried to call Brian.

And Brian is…

Amelia’s father. My son. You remember Brian, surely.

Oh. I recalled a precocious pre-teen who never talked to me, and then, later, a sullen teenage boy who went by B. Just the letter B. We’d exchanged maybe a dozen words in all the years I’d visited and stayed at Lion Leader’s house. And then I’d learned from Roland, who’d heard through the grapevine, that B had gotten involved with the vampires somehow and left home, breaking his mother’s heart. Lion Leader didn’t indulge in gossip, but he did confirm that Mrs. Ramirez had become even more reclusive due to some family matter, and that I shouldn’t go over next-door and bother the poor lady. That must have been a good decade ago. I never saw B or Mrs. Ramirez again, till tonight.

Wow. B has a daughter. I spared a split second to wonder who the mother is, then shrugged it off as none of my business. Focused on the little girl. She seemed deep asleep but not at peace, though I couldn’t pinpoint how I sensed her unrest. I reached toward her with one hand, stopping short of touching her. Cold radiated from her like an open freezer.

May I? I asked Mrs. Ramirez.

She nodded, leaning back a little, holding Amelia out toward me.

I sat down fully, cross-legged, at a right angle to Mrs. Ramirez so that both she and Amelia were within my arm span. I reached out and took both of Amelia’s little hands in my own, skin-to-skin contact.

Sleep pulled me under in a violent rush of currents.

* * *

I woke slowly, my head heavy and achy from a constant motion that kept rocking me back and forth from my shoulders up. I opened my eyes to an alarmingly close-up face of an older woman. Whoa.

Alex? Alex? Are you awake?

Mm, I mumbled, grabbing at the hand that insistently shook at my shoulder. With effort, I rolled myself away and pushed into a sitting position. Which would be easier if my head didn’t feel so heavy.

Alex?

I’m okay, Mrs. Ramirez, I assured her, struggling to put a little more space between us.

Amelia…is she alright? Is she back?

She’s awake, Alex, she’s awake! Mrs. Ramirez drew back enough for me to see the little girl tucked against her side, looking very tired but sitting up with her eyes open. Amelia gave me a wan smile and a weak little wave of her hand.

I breathed out a sigh of relief. I felt infinitely better, despite all the achiness.

Hey, Amelia. It’s nice to meet you for real.

She held a little hand out to me. I took it in mine. Amelia squeezed my fingers, her big blue eyes putting all her emotions into that squeeze.

I was lost, Amelia told me in a tiny voice.

I nodded. I know, sweetie.

I was scared. I don’t like being lost for so long. The little girl looked at me with eyes the size of saucers, eyes haunted and sunken in her tiny face. It makes me tired, being lost for so long, she stated matter-of-factly.

Of course it does, sweetie. It would make me tired, too. I gently squeezed her hand. You’re alright now. You’re not lost anymore.

Because you found me, Amelia said, conviction in her voice.

I smiled. You made it really easy. You led me there.

She did. All it took was touching her and I was pulled straight into the maze that made up her dreams. When I found her in the Collective Subconscious, in the dream world that was more than just a world of dreams, Amelia was being held captive within her dreams. Someone or something was controlling her dreams, manipulating them just enough to keep her from waking. They were siphoning off her life energies at the same time. If she’d been suffering from this for nearly two years, it was a wonder that the child still lived. I would have to ask Lion Leader about this, about how and why someone would do this to Amelia, but more importantly, about how to keep it from happening again.

Will you be able to find me next time?

Hope laced her question. My heart ached for the answer I didn’t have. I could reach her when I’m here, when I’m in physical contact with her. But from afar? I didn’t know what I was doing with the CS enough to know what I could do.

Amelia’s face fell. I’d taken too long to answer – her eyes dropped away from me as she drew within herself again. She thought I was rejecting her, that I didn’t want the burden of a next time.

That’s OK, Amelia said, her voice barely more than a whisper. You’re probably not going to be here anyway.

Her words made my chest hurt. I did the only thing I could and took the plunge.

You know what? I may not be able to be here, but… I pulled a hair tie off my ponytail as I talked, holding it out to her once it was free from my hair. "I want you to hang onto this. It’s my favorite hair tie. See? It’s just a simple elastic band, but it’s got a Samunnat bead on it. It’s a very special handmade bead I got from Nepal. I’ve had this hair