“And this is you.”
Sasha laid down a sketch, full body, of Riley. She wore cargo pants, hiking boots, a battered leather jacket, a wide-brimmed hat. Her hand rested on the butt of the knife sheathed at her belt.
As Riley lifted the sketch, Sasha set down another. “So is this.” A head-and-shoulders sketch this time, of Riley looking straight ahead with a curled-lip smile.
“What is this?” Riley muttered.
“I don’t know, and need to find out. I thought I was losing my mind. But you’re real, and you’re here. Like me. I don’t know about the others.”
“What others?”
“There are six of us, including me.” Sasha dug into the portfolio again. “Working together, traveling together.”
“I work alone.”
“So do I.” She felt giddy now, both vindicated and a little crazed. “I don’t know any of them.” She held out another sketch. “I have individual sketches of all of them, and others with some of us together, more with all of us, like this one. I don’t know them.”
The sketch showed Riley, dressed much as she’d been in the other, and Sasha, in boots, pants, a snap-brimmed hat rather than the sandals and flowy dress she wore now. Another woman with hair tumbling to her waist, and three men. Three hot men, Riley thought, all standing together on a trail, forested hills around them, grouped together as if posing for a photograph.
“You— Sasha, right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m Sasha.”
“Well, Sasha, you sure know how to dream men. They’re all smoking.”
“I’ve never seen any of them before, outside of the dreams. But I feel . . . I know them, know everyone here. And this one.”
Unable to resist, Sasha touched a finger to the figure standing beside her, standing hipshot, his thumb hooked in the front pocket of worn jeans. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair—she knew it to be a deep, rich brown—carelessly curling past the neckline of his T-shirt. His smile spoke of confidence, and of charm—and a little mystery.
“What about this one?” Riley prompted.
“He holds lightning. I don’t know if that’s a symbol or what it means. And I dream we—that we . . .”
“Sex dreams?” Amused, Riley took a closer look at him. “You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
“If I’m going to have sex dreams with a man, I’d like to have dinner first.”
Riley let out a bark of laughter. “Hell, a girl can eat anytime. Are you a dream-walker, Sasha?”
“Dream-walker?”
“Some cultures use that term. Do you have prophetic dreams? Why hold back now?” Riley said when Sasha hesitated. “You’re already telling me you have sex with strange men, and you haven’t even had your drink yet.”
“I don’t have to be asleep to dream.” Yes, Sasha thought, why hold back now? “And yes, they’re usually prophetic. I knew my father would leave before he walked out the door when I was twelve. He couldn’t handle what I am. I don’t control it, can’t demand to see, can’t demand not to.”
Sasha picked up her glass and drank, and waited for the wariness or the derision.
“Have you ever worked with anyone on that?”
“What?”
“Have you ever worked with another dream-walker, explored learning how to block it or open it?”
> “No.”
“You look smarter than that.” Riley shrugged. “Is it just visions, or do you read minds?”
She might have asked if she painted in oil or acrylics. Emotion clogged Sasha’s throat so thickly she could barely speak. “You believe me.”