“They were men, for a start. They didn’t seem like they cared about fashion. Dark clothes, Army vibes.” The girl shrugged again. “Anyway. Thought I’d let you know. They didn’t leave a message or anything.”
Mira thanked her, forcing a smile to hide the fear that had clutched at her gut like an icy fist. Then she went straight into her workspace, closed the door, and called her therapist’s office to see if they could move her appointment up. The chills running through her had less to do with the last few days and a lot more to do with what had happened to her when she was eight years old… and that meant she needed to bring in the big guns. After an agonizing wait, while the receptionist clicked carefully through the appointment list, she found a last-minute cancellation and moved Mira’s appointment to Friday. She thanked her and hung up, wishing like hell it was sooner… still, it was better than nothing.
Work was out of the question. She knew herself well enough to know that. With a mixture of regret and resignation, Mira drafted a quick cancellation text to the clients she had bookings with that afternoon… and after a moment’s hesitation, sent it through to the following day’s appointments, too. She was in no state to handle clients right now. Even sewing felt like harder work than usual, her fingers clumsy on the fabric and her mind seeming to work slower than it should. She finished what urgent work she could and called it a day.
It felt strange, driving home in the middle of the day. But the sight of the van in her street sent fresh panic coursing through her, and she knew she’d made the right call. Whatever was going on right now—the men coming to her work, the weird phone calls, the creepy guy—it might well be nothing to worry about, but it was pretty clear her nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo. All of this had triggered something… something that more than likely had to do with that horrible night, over thirty years ago now.
It had been the most normal night imaginable, that was what was so strange about it. She’d gotten home from soccer practice and dumped her gear in the laundry, traipsed upstairs to get her homework out of the way before the rush of exercise endorphins had worn off. Then her mom called her down a few hours later for dinner. She couldn’t even remember what they’d eaten—only that the three of them had been together. Then they’d watched some TV, and once she’d started yawning, her mother had chased her up to take a bath then get to bed. She could still remember her smiling softly at her from the doorway, outlined in the light filtering up from downstairs.
And then her dad had been shaking her awake in the darkness, tossing things into a half-packed suitcase lying open on the floor, telling her to stay quiet, that they were going to stay somewhere else for a few days. They were in the car before she’d realized her mom wasn’t with them. Promising she’d catch up with them later, her dad had pulled out of the driveway and floored the accelerator, the old truck lurching down the street with a surprising turn of speed. Mira stared out at the rapidly disappearing street, and before they turned a corner, she caught a glimpse of her mother standing on the porch, head turned towards the shadows in the front yard.
Maybe she’d imagined it later, or maybe she really had seen what she remembered there, almost hidden by the darkness… a handful of tall men, dressed in dark clothing, moving with a sinister, purposeful stride towards the house.
That had been the last time she’d seen her mother. Eventually, she’d fallen asleep in the back seat of the car, and when she’d woken up they were halfway across the country, on the way to her aunt’s place. They’d made the road trip to visit Heather a few times, usually for the summer—she’d always loved roaming around on her aunt’s farm up in the hills—but this didn’t feel like their usual summer road trips. They’d stayed there for two long, weird, horrible months… and by the time she and her dad moved out to their own place, she had come to understand that she was never going to see her mother again.
It was the lack of resolution that had done her the most damage. What she’d learned that day was that sometimes, horrible things would simply happen for no reason… which meant there was no way to prepare herself, no way to avoid catastrophe. It was hard not to resent her father for it. He’d promised he’d tell her everything when she was old enough, and she didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d meant it… but he’d passed away shortly after her fifteenth birthday, and any explanation he might have had for her had died with him.
And now it was all coming back to her again, memories of a night she hadn’t thought about in a long time, the fear and dread and confusion all fighting for dominance in her mind. She spent the afternoon and evening busying herself with errands around the house, deep-cleaning the kitchen, casually checking all the locks on the doors and windows, trying to kid herself she wasn’t terrified of night closing in, of men in dark clothes walking casually up to her own front porch. Her phone, at least, remained silent… though at this point, she might have welcomed the distraction of a message from Eddie. He was annoying and pathetic, but at least she was fairly certain he was harmless.
Friday, she told herself firmly. She would see her therapist on Friday, and they would work through all of this stuff, and things would get better. She just needed to hang on until then. Maybe get some sleep, if she was lucky. She lay wide awake in bed for a long time before she finally felt drowsy enough to drift off… but to her surprise, she quickly found herself dreaming. Usually when she was under this much stress, her mind didn’t bother with dreaming. But here she was, walking down the beach with the sand between her toes… she brightened the sunshine and put herself in a bathing suit, hoping the summery vibes might help her sleep a little better.
And then, to her surprise, she looked up to meet a pair of familiar blue eyes. Shock ran through her, as well as an odd little pang of relief… the strangest feeling that no matter what was going on, this man would protect her. Stupid thought. He was a dream. The only things he could protect her from were other dreams, and she was the one in control of those. Still, it felt incredibly good to see him. She felt his warm arms tighten around her and smiled against his chest, quietly adjusting her bathing suit to be a little more daring. If there was one thing that could get her mind off her troubles, it was the man from her dreams…
His kiss lit the fires in her it always did, and she grinned against his lips as he lifted her into his arms, effortlessly strong. The world swirled and shifted around them and she realized she’d transported them back to her room, to the vast expanse of her king-sized bed. And then he was pulling out of the kiss, a regretful expression in his eyes even as his hands lingered on her skin… but something about the look in his eyes stopped her from protesting.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m worried,” he said softly, looking around her room. “We’re in your room, aren’t we? This is where you live?”
“Yes,” she said, a little confused. Suddenly he was pacing around the room, studying it intently, moving to the window to test the locks… she felt anxiety start gnawing at the pit of her stomach again and wrapped herself in the soft, fluffy robe that usually hung on the back of her door. “What are you worried about?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said softly, turning back to her. “But I think… this is going to sound ridiculous, but I think you’re… real.”
Mira processed that for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said blankly, not sure how to translate ‘no duh’ into his language. “What—”
“I mean… you’re not someone I’m dreaming. You’re a real person, with a life outside of the time we spend together.”
Mira tilted her head, mind racing. Was this some new anxiety symptom? The subject of her escapist sex dream fantasies was performing some kind of bizarre meta-analysis on the dream. She could feel the edges of it fraying and she fought to keep herself calm. Unsettling as this was, it was also undeniably fascinating. Wasn’t she the one who was supposed to wonder ifhewas sentient? Whose dream was this, anyway? “Of course I’m real.”
“Well, that’s not proof,” the man said, half to himself, and Mira folded her arms across her chest, frowning despite herself. “I mean…” He turned back to her, eyes narrowing. “I’m also real.”
“Sure.” This seemed like more familiar ground, somehow, for all that it was confusing. “You and this language, totally real.”
“I’m serious.” Her suitor was looking at her hard. “I’m … we only meet in dreams. But I have a life outside of that, and so do you. Do you believe me?”
To her surprise, Mira realized that she really wanted to. And it was that, more than anything, that made her sit bolt upright in bed with her heart hammering in her chest. She stared wildly around her room, half convinced she was going to see him standing where he had been in her dream… but of course, the room was empty. It was just before dawn, and she drew the covers tightly around her, shivering with more than cold.
That appointment with her therapist couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 6 - Conrad
Conrad’s heart was pounding when he hastened through the Palace in search of Cato, hoping like mad that he and Lana hadn’t yet left for the day. The two of them had been spending regular days in the Fog, trying to get to the bottom of Lana’s curious and as-yet-unknown abilities… but right now, all Conrad could care about was the dream he’d just had. He’d seen her, he’d spoken to her… and before the dream had fallen apart, he was absolutely convinced that she’d seen what he was beginning to realize was the truth. She wasn’t a figment of his imagination, she was a real person—one who thought in turn that he, too, was only a figment ofherimagination. It had made his head spin to realize it. No wonder the dream had fallen apart when he’d told her… he only hoped that she didn’t simply discount what he’d said as part of the dream when she woke up.
He found Cato on the steps of the Palace, clearly still waiting for Lana, and he exhaled with relief, hastening down the steps to join the mage. “I talked to her,” he said without preamble, his words falling over each other in his haste to explain. “I saw her, I talked to her, I told her she’s a real person—which, yes, I know was foolish, but I hadn’t exactly planned what I was going to say, and I told her that I was real, too, and…”
“And?” Cato said impatiently. But Conrad exhaled, aware that the end of his story was an anticlimax.
“And then I woke up.”