Riley Bloom Dreamland (9 page)

They want to learn and grow and improve.

They want to glow brighter so they can move up as many levels as possible.

Which is why it was so easy for me to sneak my way back inside.

But which is also why I felt so terribly guilty about having done so successfully.

Still, the guilty feeling didn’t last all that long. I had a dream jump to get to. I had no time for shame.

I needed to keep moving. I needed to find a way to be thirteen. It couldn’t wait any longer—the need was too great.

I headed toward the soundstage, figuring I’d reenact everything Balthazar had taught me. I’d go silent, go quiet, tune in to Ever’s energy pattern, her
imprint,
and take it from there.

Maybe I wouldn’t have access to all the stunt people and makeup artists, and cos-tumers, and props, and all that—but there was also nothing wrong with keeping it simple.

Short, sweet, and simple—it would get the job done.

I’d spend a little time with my sister, get some good tips, then find my way out.

Easy-peasy.

I brightened at the idea. It felt good to have a plan. Or at least that’s what I thought up until it went black.

And I mean
black.

Like, no lights, no glow, no nothing kind of black.

Even though I hadn’t been in the Here & Now all that long, that was the first time I’d ever experienced something like that.

I couldn’t remember it ever once getting dark. Everywhere you went there was light to be found. Always sort of radiating with a soft, goldeny, glistening glow. And though I could never spot the source, it was constant, luminous, making it seem as though the entire place was lit from within.

Unless, of course, you wanted to manifest snow, or rain, or wind, or some other type of foul weather (believe it or not, some people actually missed that kind of thing)—but even then it was relegated to a small, selected area that was easy enough to avoid while it played itself out or the person grew bored of it, whichever came first. And in no time at all, everything returned to that soft, beautiful glow once again.

But the kind of all-encompassing, opaque, inky dark I found myself in, well it was the sort of thing I hadn’t seen since our family camping trips back on the earth plane. And even then, we still had the moon. We still had the stars to shine down upon us.

But in Dreamland there was nothing like that. And when I tried to manifest a flashlight, and then a whole armful of flashlights, it barely made a dent in the heavy canopy of black velvet sky.

I should probably admit right now, that that was pretty much the moment when I started to have second thoughts. I’d never been a fan of the dark—especially the pitch-black kind of dark—the kind of dark that can’t be easily cured.

I started to leave, was more than willing to cut my losses and
vámanos
myself right out of there. The night felt so threatening, so ominous, that the idea of lingering on a really long waiting list was starting to look pretty good.

But just because I was willing to leave doesn’t mean I was able. When I lifted my own hand before me, held it before my eyes and wiggled my fingers, well, I couldn’t even see it. It was as though I’d lost all my digits.

With no way of knowing whether or not I was headed in the right direction, I resorted to baby steps. Small, timid, baby steps. All the while cursing myself for sending Buttercup off on his own, for telling Mort I could handle it fine. Picking up the pace when the panic started to mount, and regretting the decision the moment I crashed straight into a wall. Crashed so hard I was sure I’d just made my semi-stubby nose even stubbier.

I stood there, palms pressed to my face, my entire body shaking as I choked back the tears. Stealing a moment to give myself a very stern talking-to, reminding myself that fear was for sissies, panic led to no good, and crying was an indulgence I could not afford.

Repeating it again and again until it started to feel real—until I started to believe.

And that’s when I saw it.

The tiniest, briefest flicker of light.

It was quick.

Fleeting.

Here and gone in an instant.

Still, it was enough to convince me to wait patiently, silently—hoping with all of my might that I’d see it again.

The second time was as brief as the first, but it was enough to get me moving—enough to convince me to take one more baby step toward the source. Stopping each time it went dark, then taking another step forward when that quick beam of light pierced through, then stopping the second it went black once again.

It felt like forever before I reached it.

Though by that point I was just glad to have made it, even though I had no idea where I might be.

I stood outside the building, ran my hand along the coarse, rough wall, pretty sure it wasn’t one of the ones I’d already visited—overcome with the sinking, dreaded feeling that it just might be the building I’d glimpsed earlier.

The one that looked old.

Run-down.

Forgotten, abandoned, and left to rot in a way that should’ve been condemned.

And when the light flashed again, I saw where it came from. Saw the way it slipped through the cracks of an old, boarded-up space that probably once held a door.

I edged toward it, smooshed my cheeks against the splintery slats, and peered in.

Startled to find a kid I guessed to be about my age—a boy with hair so blond it was practically white, and skin so pale it blended into the hair. And when he turned, when he looked in my direction and his gaze settled on mine, I saw that his eyes were so deep and blue they reminded me of California swimming pools.

With the blond hair, blue eyes, and pasty pale skin, he wasn’t all that different from me—and yet, his features seemed so exagger-ated, so startling and unexpected, I couldn’t decide if he looked like an angel …

Or more like its opposite.

I froze, unsure what to do. But before I could do much of anything, he’d already jumped from his chair, already moved to the place where I stood.

A couple of distressed pieces of wood the only things standing between us, as he placed his hands on his hips and said,

“You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice was much higher than I would’ve expected, but deadly serious nonetheless.

I nodded. There was no use denying what we both knew was true.

“No one’s supposed to be here after closing.”

I shrugged, folded my arms across my chest, and peered past his shoulder. Trying to think of something to say that might get him to lighten up, let me hang around for a bit, at least until the darkness went away.

But the second I met his eyes, I knew those words would never come. There was something very odd about him, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Usually the dark does the trick. It’s enough to keep all the stragglers away. That’s the whole point, you know. That’s why it happens. And yet, here you are.” I bit down on my lip, did my best to hold on to his gaze.

“I guess you don’t scare easily, then?” I squared my shoulders, recognizing a challenge when I heard one. Clearly he had no idea just who he was dealing with, and maybe it was time that I told him—heck, maybe I should even
show
him.

Big bad ghosts were my specialty. I’d already dealt with quite a few. From what I knew, the really bad ones were all lingering down on the earth plane, so how bad could this blond kid be if he was hanging out Here, in some old, abandoned soundstage?

I was tempted to roll my eyes, but I made myself refrain. Figuring at best, he was just some silly wannabe—at worst, he actually thought he could scare me.

Puh-leese.

“Yeah, I get it.” He looked me over carefully. “Fear is for sissies, right?” I looked at him and shook my head. I’d been so distracted by my own thoughts, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.

“What?” I squinted, taking him in, or at least what the slats allowed me to see. Not getting much more than a glimpse of a crisp, white shirt that was worn with the kind of pants, belt, and shoes my dad used to wear for important meetings at work. Shaking my head yet again at how some of these ghosts continued to dress despite the fact that they could manifest whatever they wanted.

But he just smiled, removed a few slats, and waved me right in. Motioning for me to crouch low so I wouldn’t hit my head, then he replaced those slats again. “I asked if you were here about a dream,” he said.

I stood before him, pretty sure that’s not at all what he’d said. But thinking he might be able to help, that if I played it just right, then I might still get what I came for, I decided to let that one go.

“You know, come to think of it …” He paused, his grin growing wider. “I could use a little help around here. So, how about you help me with my dream jump, and then I’ll help you with yours. Deal?”

He extended his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

So I did.

I ignored my better instincts and clasped it in mine.

15

H
e told me his name was Satchel.

Satchel Alexander Blaise III.

And I stood right before him, listening to him recite it, completely impressed.

The name sounded weighty. Important.

Like he might descend from royalty or something.

But Satchel just shrugged. Assured me it was just a name that’d been passed down in the family until it was his turn to wear it, not so different from a hand-me-down shirt.

Assured me that it didn’t mean much of anything, so I shouldn’t attach too much meaning to it.

There were other things that mattered more.

“
Much
more,” he said.

“Yeah, like what?” My gaze pored over him, hoping the answer might help me get to know him a little better, might prove that there was nothing to be afraid of, that he was really no different from me.

Hoping that it might rid me of the creepy, nagging feeling that had stirred up inside me ever since I made my way in and grasped his hand in mine.

But he just shrugged again, saying, “We’ll get to that later. First, I need help with this dream.”

He led me deeper into the room, and finally I saw where that strange and flickering light had originated. He had some antique projector rigged up in the back that pointed toward a big, stained old screen—its corners all yellowed and curled, with a series of rips and tears that crept along the bottom seam.

“What’s this?” I asked, thinking this room was so much smaller than the one I’d done my practice jumps in, and wondering why he was using such old, outdated equipment when there was shiny, new, modern stuff to be had, if not manifested.

“New is not always better.” He glanced at me, fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves.

“This works just as well, and besides, it’s authentic.”

I stopped right there, refusing to take another step closer. “Authentic to
what,
exactly?” My hand on my hip, my lips screwed to the side, needing a bit more to go on.

He huffed, patted his hair with the palm of his hand—smoothing a haircut that wasn’t just totally and completely outdated, but that also looked as though it was whipped into obedience with superglue and spit.

“Authentic to Dreamland,” he said. “This, all that you see before you, it’s all of the original equipment. It’s what they used to use before …” He paused, then, shaking his head, decided to leave it right there.

Though I wasn’t about to let him off so easily. If he needed help, then I needed answers, despite whatever deal we may have struck just a few moments earlier.

I narrowed my eyes, fixed him with my most serious, stoniest stare. Watching as he sighed, threw his arms in the air, and said,

“
This
is the stuff they used to use before things changed around here. This is all the original equipment that …”

And that’s when I knew. Knew it before the words left his lips.

His eyes locked on mine as he confirmed the thought in my head.

“This is the stuff the dreamweavers used back in the day.”

Dreamweaving.

According to the gate guard, Mort, and most definitely Balthazar, dreamweaving was not done in these parts anymore. Heck, I’d gotten a major case of the stink-eye just for making an accidental mention of it.

I looked at Satchel, my eyes growing wide.

But he just smiled, his face radiant, almost angelic, when he said, “Trust me, once you weave a dream, you’ll never want to dream jump again.”

16

“
T
he secret to dreamweaving is to keep the ingredients as organic as possible. It needs to come off as real and authentic, otherwise the dreamer will wake and the message will fail.

With dreamweaving you have to make it seem like something the dreamer would’ve come up with by themselves—something they’d never even guess was not their own creation. Dreamweaving is all about leaving a big impression. It’s all about the impact you make.”

I nodded, committing his words to memory, wondering if I should maybe manifest myself a small notebook so I could scribble it down, just like Balthazar had done with my backstory.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Satchel said, nodding at me. “You can use all the monsters, dragons,

witches,

warlocks,

fairies,

werewolves—whatever fantasy creatures you like—as long as it’s
real
to the dreamer—as long as it’s part of their experience, part of their world. As long as it’s something they either secretly, or not so secretly, believe in.

If it’s real to them, then it’s fair game. It’s all about
knowing
the dreamer. Knowing what they
care
about … what they
desire
… what they
fear
. Or, in many cases, what they
overlook
.”

I squinted, wondering how he could possibly know all of this. But just as soon as I’d completed the thought, he smiled and said,

“I studied under Balthazar.”

I gasped, wondering how that could possibly be when I figured him for the same age as me. And then it hit me—maybe he
was
the same age as me.