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The Aisling Book Two Dream

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The World’s a Stage by Gail Sterling 2

Carole Cummings

The Aisling:

Book Two, Dream

Carole Cummings

Illustrations by Rose Lenoir

Prizm Books

a subsidiary of Torquere Press, Inc.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitious-ly. While this novel is inspired by historical events, it is a fictionalized portrayal, and the author created all characters, events and storylines in the pursuit of literary fiction, not historical accuracy.

The Aisling Book Two Dream

PRIZM

An imprint of Torquere Press, Inc.

PO Box 2545

Round Rock, TX 78680

Copyright 2011 © by Carole Cummings Cover illustration by Rose Lenoir Published with permission

ISBN: 978-1-61040-249-1

www.prizmbooks.com

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO

Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

First Prizm Printing: June 2011

Printed in the USA

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware the this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed”

to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.

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Carole Cummings

To Jenni, who told me so, who gets it and never fails to give me at least one Ah-ha! moment. To Linda, who’s on better speaking-terms with my subconscious than I am, and who makes sharing a little less terrifying. To Connie and Donna, who always at least pretend to be thrilled when I throw chapters at them.

Love and vast appreciation to my husband, Eric, who doesn’t get it and loves me for it, and to my sister and cheerleader, Barbara, who is always convinced I can. Thanks to my children—Jenna, Rachel, Eric Jr. and Olivia—for existing, and for waiting until I’m done typing to talk to me. And to John Comitz, who told a nerdy teenager there is nothing wrong with writing ‘silly things’, as long as those ‘silly things’ are written to the best of one’s abilities.

The Aisling:

Book Two, Dream

Carole Cummings

Illustrations by Rose Lenoir

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

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Carole Cummings

Interlude

The lad’s got scars you en’t seen.

All Dallin had to do was slide his fingers into Wil’s hair, feel about for scarred shapes. Their lack would prove that Dallin was just playing into everyone else’s madness; their presence would confirm—at least circumstantially—that the Aisling was real. Which would, in turn, prove that the Guardian was real.

Wil was still sleeping, curled up on his side but not scrunched in like he was trying to hide. Deeply asleep, cheeks with some color beneath the bruises, not as hollow as only a few days ago, and brow smooth. His right hand lay on the pillow beside his head, the left hanging over the edge of the mattress, fingers twitching slightly. He looked perfectly peaceful, sound asleep, nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the tiny trickle of blood dripping slowly from his left nostril and onto the beige pillowslip.

“Oh, shit,” Dallin breathed, reached out then drew his hand back quickly. “No, no, no, don’t do this to me.” He stared, watched the small trickle pool on the pillowslip, blotch and spread like ink-drops on paper. Slowly, like he was still dreaming, he dragged his gaze away and peered up at the tiny little window, back down at Wil. “Make it rain,” he whispered.

The low rumble of thunder growled immediately 7

The Aisling Book Two Dream

in the distance, the pink-yellow light through the little window darkening to gray in the space of only a minute or two, while Dallin stood there and watched it. Wil stirred, groaned a little and shifted restlessly. A new freshet dribbled from his nose, heavier this time, and then a thin little rivulet seeped from his ear, traced along his jawbone.

“Oh, no,” Dallin whispered, shook his head slowly, and… stared. He couldn’t do anything else, nailed to the spot. “I remember where I’ve seen those Marks now,” he heard himself say then barked out a harsh laugh, turned dazedly to look at the window as the first smattering drops of rain pelted the glass.

Lesson Five
, his mind nattered at him, a wild little cackle hovering beneath its calm, chastising tone,
Everything
he told you was the truth, and you have just spent the
night being educated by the Mother Herself. You are the
Guardian, and here before you lies the Aisling. You have
been Called. The Mother help you both.

Boneless, bloodless, Dallin let his legs give, sat heavily on the bed, just missing plopping clumsily atop Wil, then bent over his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh, no.” A rusty little laugh shivered up his throat, shocky and hollow, and he closed his eyes, fisted his hands. “Fucking
shit
!”

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Carole Cummings

Hey. Hey, Wil, c’mon, wake up.”

Wil groaned, swatted blindly, realizing too late in his sleep-stupor that he’d done it with his right hand. A low hiss skidded through his teeth, and he curled the now-throbbing hand—thank you, Brayden—into his chest, dragging open hazy eyes. He squinted.

“Are you all right?” Urgent disquiet. When Wil only blinked in muzzy irritation, Brayden’s face pinched up with worry, and he took Wil by the shoulders, roughly sat him up. “C’mon, now, say something, do
one thing
I ask, all right, I’m drowning here.”

Annoyed, Wil shrugged out of the grip. “Get off, will you?”

And why was he annoyed and not afraid? He’d just let Brayden paw at him for who-knew-how-long, and would have been just as happy to have slept right through it.

Where had his reflexes gone, damn it?

A balled-up something was coming at his nose—

another handkerchief? what the hell?—pressing a little too roughly. Wil tried swatting that away, too, but Brayden shook his head, said, “Just calm down, you’re bleeding.”

And if that wasn’t the dumbest contradiction Wil had ever heard.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

“What…? Why am I—?”

“What were you dreaming?” Brayden was gently but intractably tipping Wil’s head back, his fingers pressing at either side of the bridge of Wil’s nose.

Wil fumbled at the handkerchief, blinking fuzzily at the ceiling. “Coffee,” he said without thinking. He frowned.

“I was dreaming about coffee, and… rain, I think, but I don’t—” Suspicion crowded out the sleep-haze and murky confusion. “Why d’you care?” He pushed Brayden’s hand away and snatched the handkerchief from his loose grip. Eyes narrowing, Wil started to back himself into the headboard, but there was no need—Brayden had frozen with the first sentence, and now he leapt back as though Wil had just spit hot coals at him. He just stood there, looking down at Wil with a mix of disbelief and too-cogent dismay, shaking his head slowly. Wil couldn’t decide between bewilderment, apprehension or pique.

“
What
?” he snapped.

Brayden didn’t say anything, just stared, still shaking his head, like he was trying to deny Wil’s very existence. Wordless, Brayden turned slowly, stunned gaze going inexorably to the little window above the cupboard. Staring, still, like the steady drops of rain had mesmerized—

The rain.

It all slipped into place, snapped into a broader shape, like those puzzle-pieces Brayden was always on about.

Every bit of blood in Wil’s body dropped to his gut, leaving him cold and sickeningly numb. “Oh,
shit
,” he whispered.

Brayden’s hand was tangled in his hair now, like he’d gone to brush it back and forgot what he was doing halfway through. “Yeah,” was all he said.

Brayden’s voice was thin and shakier than Wil had ever heard it before. Wil’s own dawning dread was somehow 10