Dreamwalker (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Prosperidad awoke to the blare of a siren as an ambulance screamed by her home.

A sensation of evil permeated the air around her, like she'd awakened shrouded in the smoke from an arsonist's fire. Guilt coursed through her veins as her prophetic gift announced she'd set some awful chain of events into motion.

She whipped back her covers and jumped out of bed. She cleared the kitchen table for her magic by just the moon's glow, afraid that a light at this hour might alert two of the thousand eyes St. Croix had on the streets. There was already had too much to explain to the drug lord.

She pulled a starched white tablecloth and a leather pouch from the pantry. With a smap, she opened the tablecloth upon the kitchen table., She dumped the contents of the pouch on the countertop. From the pile she sorted four crystals; one white, one red, one blue, one black. She placed them at the table corners, boundaries to corral the energy.

She selected a black mahogany stick from the countertop pile. A green parrot feather protruded from one end. With broad, fluid motions, she swept the sharpened, singed point of the mahogany stylus across the expanse. The green feather danced swift steps in response to each flick of her wrist. In five quick tacks, she etched a perfect five-pointed star.

She gathered five votive candles and placed one at each tip of the star. She struck a match and in one transit all five were alight.

On the counter behind her, she filled a crystal chalice from an earthenware bottle. The clear liquid had the sharp, strident smell of unrefined alcohol. She added a pinch of herbs from a saucer and placed the chalice at the star's center.

The flames of the candles sparkled in the goblet's many facets. The alcohol flickered like starlight in the glass. The floating herbs bobbed in the refracted candlelight.

Prosperidad concentrated on the surface of the liquid, the way she watched the lake outside her grandmother's house so long ago. Everything around her faded out of phase, save the chalice. The liquid's surface shimmered. The visions began.

In the alcohol, Varushka Zenig appeared in a, black seaman's coat, studying a drawing of Pete. Dissolve to the woman putting two bullets through Tommy DiStephano behind a dumpster. Dissolve to Mama D, lit by flashing blue lights, wailing at the doors of an ambulance.

A lifetime of reading the future had erased the word “coincidence” from her vocabulary. It was all cause and effect, action and reaction. St. Croix's assassin couldn't find the boy in that alley without help. They must have been followed her last night, and her warning to Pete lit this explosion's fuse.

The price must be paid,
she heard her grandmother's voice say.
All you see must come to be. You intervened and now…

She shook her grandmother's voice from her head. In the chalice vision's background, she caught sight of something else. Someone watched the paramedics outside the restaurant from the shadows. She waved her hand over the chalice. The view zoomed in and lightened.

Pete Holm's face came into focus.

She laid her palms against the chalice and twirled it on the axis of its stem. The alcohol swirled, and when it stilled, Pete materialized, in fitful sleep on a ragged couch. The room could be in any poverty-racked home in Atlantic City.

She wondered what could keep him here in the face of such a threat.

Copper wire hung between the legs of the couch. A fleeting, victorious smile passed across her face. But for dreamwalkers, sleep was not rest. He was on the other side now. On Cauquemere's side. With no knowledge of the rules. If she could help him…

Look what your “help” has done already,
her grandmother's voice said.

She set her jaw in grim determination and ignored the scolding. She couldn't abandon the life she'd put in danger. But she'd need help.

From the shelf, she took a mortar and pestle, grilled maize and a few pinches of dried herbs and fruit. She ground the ingredients together into a fine, gray powder. Dipping her finger in the chalice, she added several drops of the alcohol to the mix. She blew on it three times and chanted a rumbling invocation to the
loa
gods.

She coated the tip of the mahogany stick in the mixture and traced a smudged spiral on the edge of the tablecloth. With the negative energy surrounding her dispelled, the path to communicate with the
loa
was clear.

She pulled a small, homemade doll from a shelf. Straw filler poked through the thinning, hand sewn cloth. The colors of the voodoo talisman her grandmother made her may have faded, but its power was undiminished. She placed the doll in the spiral's center.

She invoked the names of the
loa
and begged their forgiveness. Then she offered the doll to them, as an exchange, her life for one that was threatened. Take her. Save Tommy.

Now she had to contact Pete. Searching him out again in person would get them both killed. However, unknown to St. Croix, she had her own method of clandestine communication.

She grabbed a piece of paper from the countertop, scribbled a hasty note, and folded it in nine sections, the number of completeness. She pressed the note into her palm and picked up one of the votive candles off the table. The circle of light broke and the chalice images vanished.

Guided by the dim candlelight, she made her way downstairs to her reading room. She put the candle on the table where she'd delivered the prophesy to St. Croix. A preserved antelope head sat on a shelf, glass eyes staring out at nothing. She placed it on the table. The polished horns glowed in the candlelight. An ancient taxidermist had stuffed the head and given it a leather bridle adorned with a form of hieroglyphics. She slid the note into a cavity in its underside.

“Brother Antelope,” she said, “speedy messenger between here and beyond, please deliver this message to its intended.”

She stroked the nose of the antelope and blew out the candle. She made her way back up the stairs in the dark.

Another loan against the future,
her grandmother's voice said.
The debt grows. What is foretold must unfold…

Prosperidad covered her ears.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Pete dove into the world of dreams from Tyrone's couch, he surfaced in the mansion, his only safe haven outside the tactile world. He sighed in relief. His sanity needed a breather.

He wanted to rest, to sit in the sunroom and smell the orchids, to forget about comas and Cauquemere, to forget all about Atlantic City.

But there wasn't the time. The mansion couldn't be an escape. It was just a safe portal to Twin Moon City and Rayna. And he needed to see Rayna. He needed to feel the vitality he missed in Legacy Hospice. He also needed to know more about Twin Moon City.

They'd need time to talk. The farther from the city center they met, the farther from the all-seeing eyes above the palace, the longer it would take hunter Jeeps to find them. As he subconsciously sent the tunnel to Cauquemere's palace before, he'd send it in the opposite direction tonight.

Pete started for the trap door in the hall. Then he caught himself and stopped.

Why was he going to go through empty handed? Rayna could use some things. What should he bring to the girl who has nothing?

Weapons were the first thing that came to mind. But outnumbered a hundred-to-one, in the long run, they would just bring more trouble. At the other end of the spectrum, he considered the traditional girlfriend gift route, but jewelry and the like were even more ridiculous. And a bit presumptuous. Then it came to him.

Food.

Twin Moon City residents were condemned to hunger without the blessed release of starvation. Rayna had to be dying for a decent meal.

Pete went to the mansion kitchen. He'd mentally finished it years ago after reading about the kitchen in the Vanderbilt's Asheville estate. Pure white marble countertops offset cabinets of dark oak. The oven, stove, and refrigerator were cast iron and white, the zenith of 1930's technology. Anachronistic, but an old mansion would just feel wrong with a microwave oven in it.

Hot food was out of the question, but the pantry was full. He filled a sack from under the sink with canned goods and stuffed some utensils and napkins in his pockets.

He slung the bulging sack over his back like some Santa Claus for the starving and headed for the trap door. A cool, musty breezy greeted him when he opened it.
The tunnel stretched out unchanged. Candles flickered along the packed earth walls. Pete descended the steps.

The tunnel still terminated at a ladder to the ceiling. Pete scaled the ladder. He gave a panel at the top a push and it rotated up on its hinge. He tossed the bag up first, grabbed a candle, and stuck his head into Twin Moon City.

The candlelight revealed a small apartment bedroom. By Twin Moon City standards, it was in great shape. The mattress and bedding were gone, along with the dresser drawers. Clothes lay scattered about. A tasteful painting of a New England harbor still hung on the wall, and a freestanding full-length mirror leaned against the door to the bathroom. The place had been ransacked, but not decimated like the older parts of the city.

This area of the city felt different as well. The surge of energy that rushed beneath his feet in the city center was just a trickle now, not as concentrated as it was closer to its destination. Perhaps it also meant there were fewer souls this far out. Fewer souls would draw fewer hunters. He hoped.

Pete cleared a corner of the dresser and dripped some molten wax on the top. He mashed the base of the candle into the congealing wax as a makeshift holder. Its weak yellow light filled the room.

The living area of the apartment had not fared as well. Ravaged, trendy Scandinavian furniture lay upended in the corners and the kitchen was in pieces. Weapons fire had transformed one of the front windows into a sea of misshapen jewels on the floor. A few bullet holes salted the back wall. The hallway door hung on one hinge, the lock and handle blasted away.

From the apartment's second story view, the neighborhood only looked half-bad. Some shop windows remained intact and the road wasn't littered with personal belongings. Why with the right investors…

Pete flipped a couch over near the window and sat on the one undamaged cushion. All he had to do now was wait for Rayna to find him.

Fifteen silent minutes passed. One gunner Jeep made a roaring pass down the street, but held its fire, on the way to a hotter destination.

Footsteps creaked in the hall stairwell. Rayna appeared in the doorway.

“Pete!” she whispered.

Pete's heart skipped a beat at the disheveled sight of her.

“At your service.”

She nearly skipped into the room. He wrapped her in a hug that became much longer than he expected when she didn't release. Rayna felt wonderful in his arms, real and alive. The power of her soul ran through her, the power that had been absent in the shell at Legacy Hospice.

“I knew I felt you here,” she said.

“This way,” Pete said, pulling her away from the living room. “I made us dinner reservations.”

They entered the candlelit bedroom. Pete beckoned Rayna to sit on the floor by the bed. Rayna caught sight of the full-length mirror and did a double-take before sitting down. He slid the sack of food out into the candlelight and extracted a can of ravioli. Rayna's jaw dropped.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You brought food! The perfect gift.”

“I had a hankering for Italian tonight,” Pete said. “Hope that works for you.”

Rayna grabbed the can and yanked off the pop top.

“Dog food would work for me right now,” she said. “This is as good as steak and lobster.”

Pete handed her a spoon. Her cheeks flushed, as if using a utensil had not crossed her mind. She slid the spoon from Pete's hand.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm starved. This stuff is hard to come by.”

“No apology needed,” Pete said. “Dive in. We should talk and eat at the same time.”

“Aren't you eating?”

“No,” Pete said. “Not hungry. I ate…”

He stopped himself just short of saying “in the real world.” For Rayna,
this
was the real world.

“…before I came,” he finished. “This stuff,” he gave the sack a nudge with his foot, “is a gift for you, or anyone else here who needs it.”

Rayna smiled and devoured a big spoonful of ravioli with a look of ecstasy.

“Damn good cooking, Mr. Holm,” she said.

“I slaved away all day in the kitchen,” he said. “Now, we need a plan, so I need some information.”

Rayna swallowed quickly. “Fire away.”

“I brought you food instead of a weapon. I thought added firepower would just attract more hunters. Right?”

“One hundred percent,” she said. She raised a ravioli salute. “Food is fantastic.”

“This place here,” Pete said, waving a finger over his head, “isn't as devastated as the rest of the city.”

“No. It takes a while for the new sections to run down. Veteran residents just pass through for some looting. The gunner Jeeps expend some pent-up energy blasting buildings when they need to, but they generally stay on their prey's scent hard. Until enough new residents show up here, the Jeeps roam elsewhere.”

“Do you get to talk with the others?” Pete asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “It's hit or miss. Whoever you run into. Nothing organized. It isn't safe to stay together. Even groups of two gather gunner Jeeps like a magnet. Besides, a good number of the residents are close to cracking and turning hunter. They aren't good company.”

Pete thought about Waikiki Simon.

Rayna scraped the bottom of the ravioli can with the spoon and looked like she was about to give it a lick. He reached in the sack and tossed her a can of green beans.

“Here,” he said, “eat your vegetables.”

She smiled and popped open the can.

“How did you know I could ‘leave a reflection' that first night?” he asked. “Can you do that?”

“No way,” she said. “I told you, I'm no dreamwalker. My sister told me she used to use that trick in her nightmares.”

“Any other tricks she shared with you?” Pete asked.

“No, that was about it. There was a lot about her nightmares she didn't share. She tried to shield me from it all.”

“How did Cauquemere get loose in the tactile world?” Pete said. “Why isn't he still bound here?”

“Estella said he was released through a mirror in some voodoo ritual. That's why I was a bit surprised to see that one.” She pointed at the full-length mirror in the room. “Hunters destroy them first thing when somewhere new joins the map. The man has a vampire-level aversion.”

“You would think that Cauquemere would have a little better handle on the furnishings when he created these places.”

“He can't. The areas are pulled wholesale from people's memories. Cauquemere isn't too creative if it isn't torture.” She took a mouthful of beans, but still managed to force out, “Idiot savant.”

In the same way leaving a reflection instantly made sense, Pete suddenly knew how to use the mirror. It was so simple.

“Give me a hand with this, Alice,” he said. He stepped over to the mirror. “Wonderland time.”

Rayna put the empty can on the floor and went to the mirror's opposite side. They each lifted their side of the base and Pete led them into the living room. He positioned the mirror so it faced the street. They stepped back.

“Ohh-kayy?” Rayna said.

He lined up the abandoned bakery across the street on the first floor, dead center on the area right in front of the counter. Pete raised his hand to the mirror, fingertips spread wide. He closed his eyes and channeled the energy in his body so that it pooled in his shoulder. He held his breath and pushed the energy further down his arm, like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. The power spun his fingers out of phase with this location and they tingled.

He placed his fingertips against the cool mirror. It felt soft, like Jell-O wrapped in cellophane. His epiphany said the surface should give, he'd pass through, and end up in the bakery. He pushed harder. The mirror just flexed. He didn't have the horsepower.

“What are you doing?” Rayna asked.

He had to somehow be stronger. A second inspiration hit.

“Come here,” he said.

With one hand still on the mirror, he took hers. It felt like he'd plugged into a high voltage outlet. Life force flew through him, a force warm and wonderful and unmistakably Rayna.

His fingertips danced with a life all their own. He pressed against the glass and passed through. He pulled Rayna along. He felt dizzy for a split second. When his head cleared, the room had changed.

He and Rayna stood in the bakery.

“Wow,” Rayna gasped. She gave Pete's hand an extra squeeze.

Through the bakery window they could see the mirror in the second floor apartment.

“I think we just found our invitation to the palace,” Pete said.