Dreamseeker (6 page)

Rita snorted lightly. “I think you can guess the state of my finances. If I had anything, you know I'd offer it.”

I was so moved by their generosity that it took me a moment to find my voice. “Even if that added up to enough, we're still left with the problem of finding someone. I can't just go the Greys and ask for help in hiring a Healer, not after what we did to their Gate. They don't strike me as the forgiving type. And they work for the Shadows, who we
really
need to avoid.”

“Well,” Rita said, “forgive me if you've already discussed this—I'm playing catch-up here—but what about Miriam Seyer?” She raised a hand to forestall my objection. “Yeah, I know you don't trust her. I don't either. But all you need is someone to set up a meeting, right? Can't you use her for that?”

For a long time I said nothing. In my mind's eye I could see my house burning, that black-haired Seer standing across the street and watching it. Just watching it. What had brought Seyer to my home, just in time to witness the fire? It couldn't have been coincidence. Later, when I overheard her talking to Morgana in the Seers' garden,
it sounded like the two of them wanted me to be safe. But they also talked about controlling my movements, and my being part of some mysterious project they were running. Games within games within games. Every instinct in my soul warned me to keep away from her—far, far away—but Rita's suggestion had merit, there was no denying that. Seyer was one link between the worlds that did not involve Greys or Shadows. Perhaps the only one.

“Why would she help?” I asked at last. “She doesn't give a damn what happens to Mom. And her Guild seemed pretty affluent; I doubt the kind of money we could offer would tempt her.”

“But you have something else she wants,” Tommy said. “Your paintings, remember? She wanted to buy one. Well, now all your art is gone, so there's nothing she can buy from you, or even steal, unless you paint something new.”

The thought of giving one of my paintings to Seyer made my skin crawl; it bothered me that I didn't know why.
Easy, girl. It's just a painting. Not like you're selling her your soul.
“Even if I did that, how would she find out about it? She saw my work the first time because it was in a show at the school.”

Rita said, “What about the gallery your aunt was talking about? Could you put something on display there?”

“Yeah, but what are the chances Seyer would wander through on the day it happened to be there? I just don't see that happening.”

“Maybe if there was some kind of publicity?” Devon suggested.

Tommy pulled out his cell phone and start scrolling through web pages. I couldn't read the text from where I was sitting, but I saw a picture of Berkeley Springs Castle flash by. Then: “Bingo!” he announced, and he turned the phone to face us. The text was too small to read, so I took it from him, read what he'd found, and then passed it on to the others. The web page was
www.bsoldmillgallery.com.

Vendor list for the Independence Day Show,
it said. Aunt Rose's name was on it. So were dozens of others.

“Of course,” Tommy said, “Getting on that list would only help if Seyer was still keeping tabs on you online.”

A chill crept up my spine. “You think she's doing that?”

“Don't you?” he asked.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to believe that when we left Terra Prime, that was the end of our involvement with that dreadful world. But Alia Morgana had referred to me as her
project
, which meant she probably had people keeping tabs on me. And since we knew that there were Greys who used the internet for surveillance—that's how they'd found out about Tommy's alleged dreams—we'd be fools not to expect the same level of expertise from Morgana's people.

She was watching me. The thought of it made my skin crawl, but I knew in my gut it was true. “Only three days away,” I muttered. “Not a lot of time to paint a masterpiece.”

“It doesn't have to be a masterpiece,” Devon said reasonably. “Just good enough to pique her interest.”

I shut my eyes for a moment. I could see Seyer standing in front of me, her eyes glowing yellow, like a serpent's, reflecting the flames from my house. Like a demon from Dante's Inferno.

It's for Mom,
I told myself. Gritting my teeth, I forced the ominous image out of my mind.
Do it for Mom.

“All right,” I muttered. “I'll talk to Aunt Rose about painting something for the show.” I shook my head. “She'll be ecstatic about that, anyway.” I handed Tommy back his phone. “Let's see if we can't draw the serpent out of her den.”

B
ERKELEY
S
PRINGS

V
IRGINIA

J
ESSE

I
'M NOT ALONE.

I look around, but no one else is visible in the black dreamscape. I listen as carefully as I can, but I hear nothing out of the ordinary.

No, that's not quite accurate. There's music surrounding me, a ghostly orchestral hum like you sometimes hear in the middle of the night, conjured by the vibrations of the air conditioner. Maybe real music, maybe imagined. Almost subliminal.

That's new. And on another night I might have paid more attention to it, perhaps even tried to trace it to its source. But tonight I have bigger things to worry about. The sense of someone watching me is so strong that it gives me goosebumps. Is it the avatar girl again? The mere thought that a stranger might enter my dream is so unnerving that my spirit wavers briefly, and for a moment I'm tempted to wake myself up, to flee the dreamscape. But my hunger for knowledge is greater than my fear. I need to understand how other people can enter a world that my mind created, and what they can do to it once
they're here. Not to mention the sheer stubbornness factor: I'm damned if I'm about to be driven out of my own dream.

Slowly I begin to walk, but my attention is less on the doors this time, and more on the darkness surrounding them. As I come to each door the ghostly music seems to get a bit louder, then it fades again. The melody is changing each time, very subtly. Like each door has its own musical theme. Weird.

Suddenly I see a flash of movement off to one side. I turn toward it and see the avatar girl standing there, watching me. Why didn't I see her before, when I looked in this direction?

As soon as my eyes meet hers she turns away and starts walking.

“Wait!” I cry out. “Just for a minute! I want to talk to you.”

She shows no sign of having heard me. She's walking quickly, speeding up bit by bit but not running outright, moving off into the darkness. I follow her, mirroring her pace, not wanting to close the distance between us (because what would I do next, tackle her to the ground?) but hoping that if she realizes I'm not a threat to her she'll slow down and talk to me. I have questions that only she can answer, and I'm not going to let her out of my sight before I get a chance to ask them.

The music seems louder, now that I'm focused on her. Maybe that's just an illusion. Or maybe it's easier to hear such things when you're not paying attention to them. The arches are changing shape as she passes them, too. Crystal spines vanish in a puff of glittering smoke. Stone arches stretch upward, sides thinning out, rounded tops transforming into a graceful point. The new shapes, tall and peaked, remind me of an Arabian palace.

It's a shape that has meaning to her, rather than to me.

The implications are chilling, but I continue on. The only thing worse than having a stranger mess with your dream, is having that happen and not knowing how they did it. Or why.

As we approach a dense cluster of archways she breaks into
a run. With a start I realize that the pattern of these arches is familiar: this is the cluster where she lost me the last time, when I couldn't follow her through an arch. I can see from the way her body is tensing for one last burst of speed that she's about to try the same trick again.

Not on my watch.

Her final dash is sudden, but I'm right behind her, and I'm ready for it. As she enters the arch I launch myself at her, closing the gap between us with all the reckless ferocity of a baseball player sliding into home plate, grabbing hold of her so that she can no longer pass through the arch alone. The force of my momentum knocks us both off our feet—and then suddenly we're falling through the archway together, and we hit the ground on the far side with enough force to drive the breath from my body.

Fear and elation flood my soul: I made it!

But to where?

Thick grey fog surrounds us, so I can't see much of anything. While I struggle to get my bearings the girl breaks away from me and gets to her feet. I see a flash of fear in her eyes; clearly she didn't think I could follow her here. Then she's running again, full speed this time, and by the time I can get to my feet the fog has swallowed her whole.

I look up at the shadows looming over me, tall and thin, their crowns spreading into a dark mass overhead. Trees? Am I in some kind of forest? There are long black streamers trailing down from unseen branches, and I fervently hope they're just some kind of hanging moss. The ground beneath me is soft and damp, and it takes impressions well; I realize that I can see her footprints clearly.

I start to follow her. The fog changes as I do, shifting in color from bluish gray to a dull green, then to brownish mauve. It's still thick enough to hide her from my sight, so I'm forced to run blind. The trees are also changing, shrinking in both
girth and height, and there is less and less of the black stuff hanging from their branches. All in all the place doesn't look as threatening as before, but I'm not reassured. I'm chasing a girl who invaded my dreams. The rest of this is just window dressing.

Finally the fog thins out, and I see that the last of the trees are gone. There's an open plain ahead, and my quarry is visible in the distance. She must sense my approach, because she glances back nervously over her shoulder to see where I am. Too close for her comfort, apparently. She starts running even faster, and I sense desperation in the effort. This time I'm hard-pressed to keep up. But all of that only increases my determination: I'm not going to let this strange creature get away from me until I find out how—and why—she's invaded my dreamscape.

Now the entire world is changing around me, far more dramatically than before. First I'm running on a field of plain dirt, then it's a field of grass, then it's poppies stretching out as far as the eye can see. Overhead the sun is yellow, then white, then red and swollen, filling half the sky. Then yellow again. Whatever dream world we've entered, it appears to be totally unstable.

There's a wide hill ahead of us, and she's starting up its slope. It's not very high, but once she goes over the top I won't be able to see her any more. I try to run even faster, but I'm already going at top speed, and my legs are starting to get tired. How long have I been chasing her? I thought it was only a few minutes, but now it feels like an eternity. Dream time.

But if this is a dream, then I can control it, right? Thus far I've been too busy running to think about strategy, but surely I can leverage that to my advantage. As I continue running I try to detach my mind from the pounding rhythm of the chase, focusing my attention on the hill itself, trying to unmake it. God knows, this dream is volatile enough that doing so should
be easy, but to my surprise the alien landscape rejects my efforts. I try to make other changes, but nothing responds to me. I can't make a single poppy wilt or a butterfly leave its perch, much less flatten a multi-ton mound of soil.

She's nearing the summit now. I'm getting tired. Any minute now I'll lose sight of her, perhaps for good. And all the answers she might provide will be lost.

I can't let that happen.

I try again to alter the dreamscape, drawing upon the force of my frustration as a kind of fuel. And after what seems like an eternity the dreamscape finally responds. I see a tiny bit of soil come loose from the top of the hill and roll down the slope, breaking up as it does so, and I know that I caused that. But it's all I can do. Part of me is elated to have managed even that much, but part of me wants to scream in frustration, because I can't seem to do anything useful. This unstable world shows amazing tenacity when I'm the one who wants to change it.

I focus all my attention back on running, not wanting to lose her. But by the time I reach the base of the hill she's already at the top. The slope turns out to be much steeper than I expected, and covered with loose rocks that shift underfoot, forcing me to concentrate on each step. Progress is agonizingly slow. By the time I reach the top she's long out of sight, and I just pray that from that vantage point I can spot her again.

I pause for a moment at the top to catch my breath and take stock of the situation.

The view on the other side of the hill looks like it's from a completely different dream. There's a vast lake stretching out to the horizon in all directions, its water so still that the surface is like a mirror. The sun (still yellow) reflects from it with such painful intensity that I'm forced to squint to see things clearly. I can make out a narrow tongue of land extending into
the lake, from the base of the hill, but it's not made of regular earth, rather some kind of black sand. I can see the girl's footprints in it, though not as clearly as in the forest soil. Her trail leads down the hillside, along the length of the peninsula, then out into the lake itself.

Or rather, onto the lake.

She's running on top of it.

At first I figure maybe there are stepping stones right under the surface—the mirrored water could hide anything—but her feet aren't splashing when they hit the lake, as they would if that were the case. Anyway, there's no reason dream-water can't support a human being, if the dreamer wants it to.

In the distance an island of black rock juts up from the lake; stark and jagged, it's her obvious destination. There's a tall building perched on its peak, and at first glance it looks like a castle of some kind. But then I blink and it looks more like a cathedral. Another blink turns it into a ziggurat, only with lines of windows instead of ledges running around the outside in a spiral. It's like the building itself can't decide what it wants to be. The only thing that remains constant through all the transformations is the shape of the windows: narrow and peaked, just like the new arches that appeared in my black plain. Through them I can see flickering movement, but though I'm too far away to make out details, I get the sense that no two windows look in on the same interior.

The avatar girl is halfway to the island.

With renewed energy I start down the hill after her, half running, half stumbling. The sight of the strange island has energized me, and even if she manages to lose me now, I might be able to find some answers there. Soon I'm racing down the length of the narrow peninsula, bracing myself to step out onto the lake's surface, just like she did. Because the same rules should hold for both of us, yes?

No such luck.

My first step splashes down into ice-cold water and I land on something loose and slippery. I lose my balance and go flying forward, landing face first in the frigid stuff with a force that sends up gouts of white spray in all directions. Ripples spread out from me like the concentric circles of a great target. When I surface, coughing, it takes me a few seconds to find a section of the lake bed stable enough to stand on. The stones underwater are slick, and like glass marbles they shift beneath my feet with every movement.

Jesus. How am I supposed to follow the girl now? This water is too cold for me to even contemplate swimming, and there's no way I can walk any distance on such unstable ground. I look up, and the sight of her walking so easily across the surface of the lake fills me with frustration and anger. Why can she control this dreamscape so easily, while I have to strain to dislodge a single clump of earth? It shouldn't be that way. A stranger shouldn't be able to control my own dream better than I can.

Unless, I think suddenly, it isn't my dream at all.

The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine, but there's no denying that all the evidence points to that. If I were the true invader here, someone who burst into her world—her mindscape—without invitation, then control of this setting would come naturally to her, and I would be powerless to change things. Which seems to be exactly what's happening.

No, I remind myself. I'm not completely powerless. I did change this landscape, albeit minimally. And maybe now that I understand the rules of the place I'll be able to do more.

Reaching down into the water with all the force of my mind, I attempt to reshape the lake bed. It would be foolish to try to make the water itself support me, like she's doing; one moment's inattention might get me dumped back into the frigid lake. But moving dirt from one place to another offers a
more permanent solution. So, gritting my teeth from the strain of the effort, I try to mold this dream as I would one of my own, superimposing my preferred reality over the current one. The task should require no more than a concentrated thought, but even though I strain my utmost, there's no response. Then, just as I'm about to give up in frustration, a thin strip of earth begins to rise up from underneath the lake. Water falls back from its flanks as it breaches the surface, and a narrow land bridge takes shape. It's only a foot wide and a few yards in length, and it's so close to the water's surface that ripples lap over the edge of it, but as I climb up onto it I feel confident I can extend it all the way to the black island, and once I do that, it should stay in place even if I get distracted.

Finally I'm standing on it, swaying slightly on its wet, uneven surface, ready to get moving again. I look up to see if my quarry is still visible. She is.