Night Terrors (12 page)

I don’t smile back. He’s not bluffing, he’ll actually do this. The Mayor had few qualms about killing people and clearly the Department has even fewer.

‘This is beyond stupid,’ Bron scoffs, although I can hear a quaver in his voice. ‘We’ll just disapparate out.’

Oh no.

‘
You
will.’ The Department goon cocks his head towards Esme. ‘She won’t.’

He’s right; Esme is trapped here. She’s strung up to a bunch of machines somewhere in a hospital. For her, there’s no escape. She can’t wake herself up and, if she dies here, she’ll die in real life. That’s the way it goes for Travellers.

‘Disapparate,’ he tells me nastily, ‘and we’ll throw her off.’

‘We should have tried this with the other one,’ one of the others mutters.

He means Ashley. For a moment, I wonder why they didn’t do the same with her. She’s closer to Esme than I am and it would have proved that she is nothing more than a normal Traveller. Then it hits me: they’re still convinced that Ashley is the dreamweaver. They didn’t do this stupid experiment on her because they didn’t think they needed to. And that means they don’t believe that the dreamweaver is me.

Regardless of Kevin’s allegations, this is about nothing more than flexing their muscles and using every intimidation tool they can think of. My mind whirls through the possibilities open to me to get us out of this unscathed. Every option is a gamble.

Judging by the pristine white door to Mark Bootley’s dreams, he’s been unaffected by either the sleep paralysis or the stalking nightmares. In theory, I probably can stop him from leaping off the cliff by changing his dream but that would place a big neon sign dreamweaver sign over my head.

The thing is, these Department guys really aren’t as clever as they think they are. There’s one very obvious loophole that they’ve forgotten. I ignore Esme and Bron’s taut expressions and roll up my sleeves. I hope this works.

I step over gingerly to Mark Bootley. It’s imperative that he remains oblivious to my presence; if he even looks at me then the game will be up. Other Travellers can use the Bubble to see into people’s dreams but they’re invisible bystanders. I’m not. Not always anyway.

I close my eyes and reach over. Just as his foot lifts and he prepares to jump, I try to pinch the flesh on his hand. It’s not only me who can perform this trick; almost any Traveller can pinch any outlier and they’ll wake up. It’ll stop Mr Bootley from leaping to his dream death ‒ and prove absolutely nothing to the Department thugs.

Unfortunately for me, I’ve been too circumspect. Before I even brush his skin, he springs up into the air. I reach out but he somersaults away and into a perfect swan dive. A second later he’s gone. Shit.

I turn round, flinging a wide-eyed stare at the watching brigade. ‘I tried! I tried the only thing I could think of!’

The first Department man rolls his eyes as the light around us dims. Then we’re back in the corridor and staring at the closed door of Mark Bootley’s mind.

He clicks his tongue and adjusts his cuffs. ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

I swallow hard. I failed completely. If the Department remains intent on taking my inability to save him out on Esme, I’m not sure what I can do. The cliff dream may have vanished from our grasp but there are plenty of other doors.

The Department man starts walking away. He’s going to let us off. ‘Wait!’ I call out, emboldened by my close shave. ‘Where’s Ashley? She’s not the dreamweaver either! Do an experiment like this on her and you’ll see.’

Esme throws me a dirty look. I can’t blame her; I don’t imagine she wants to be threatened with death every time the Department decides to accuse someone.

The other Department men don’t react, they just fall in behind the first one and march towards the exit, their footsteps echoing. A few minutes later Bron, Esme and I are alone.

Bron lets out a shaky breath. ‘That was a smart move, Zoe. I didn’t think we were going to make it out of there.’

‘I almost screwed up,’ I admit. ‘When he jumped, I lunged for him without thinking about it. If I’d caught him…’

Bron runs a hand through his hair. ‘We got lucky.’ His voice is grim. ‘Very lucky.’

‘You could have just told them the truth,’ Esme says. ‘Then Ashley wouldn’t be in danger. And they might leave the rest of us alone.’

Guilt cripples me and I drop my head.

Bron scowls. ‘She can’t do that. They’ll take her and break her. They’ll use her and in the end we’ll all be worse off.’

I shake my head. ‘Maybe Esme’s right. I’m sure they’ve got Ashley. And that first guy said that the sleep paralysis was being caused by the dreamweaver. I was sure it was the Badlands but what if he’s right?’

‘I think you’d know if it was you doing it,’ Bron says drily.

Esme has gone very still. ‘Why do you think it’s the Badlands?’

I quickly run through my experiences. Her jaw clenches. ‘That’s very, very bad.’

‘I know they’ve encroached into the town before. Bron mentioned it. Were you here then?’

‘No. But I’ve heard enough from old-timers who were around.’ She bites her lip. ‘The dragon. It makes sense now. Damn it.’ She twists her fingers into knots.

Anxiety ripples through me. ‘What?’

‘The Department is only interested in this zone because they want the dreamweaver.’ The reluctance in Esme’s tone is palpable. ‘The Mayor made sure that they could live perfectly happily without us so they’ll drop us in a heartbeat if the Badlands continue causing problems. You can’t give yourself up. You’re the only person who can stop the fungus. Whatever it is.’

‘But how? What am I supposed to do?’

‘I don’t know!’ she snaps. ‘You’re the dreamweaver. You work it out.’ She turns on her heel and stalks off. My shoulders droop.

Bron touches my arm. ‘She’s been under a lot of stress lately.’

‘She’s not the only one,’ I mutter.

He pats my arm sympathetically but it doesn’t make me feel better. ‘We need to focus on finding Ashley. Dante’s a tracker. He should be here. He can do it.’

‘He’s in America,’ I say.

Bron nods. ‘I heard. I’m going to disapparate and try to contact him. We need him here.’

Because I’m next to useless, I think miserably, as Bron starts to vanish. I clench my fists and sigh. I need to pick up the pace and become the dreamweaver for real. If I don’t, we could all be doomed.

I glance back at the three black doorways, then freeze when I realise that there’s now a fourth. It’s still spreading. And it might be my fault.

Chapter Nine

The fairytale has turned into a nightmare.

Ian Thorpe

There’s nothing more debilitating than feeling impotent. We all like to believe we’re in charge of our own fates. Otherwise what’s the point of anything?

I stand in front of the four dream doors, debating whether to enter one of them. They represent four minds of four separate people who are suffering right now, whether they’re ‘only’ dreaming or not. But I’m exhausted and I still have Dante’s warnings ringing in my ears: if I slip up, I could get seriously injured. Or worse. Despite that, I’m not sure I can just walk away. I know what it’s like to suffer and be alone at the same time.

I half turn and stare down the corridor. It curves off into the distance, with many other corridors branching off it. There are dozens of them. I wonder how far I would have to walk before I find more black doors. Terror squeezes at my heart. Why me? I’m not brave enough for this. I’m not strong or particularly clever. The dreamweaver should be someone else.

I need to pull myself out of this funk but funk is what I do well. I press my palms against the surface of the first black door and draw back, hissing as an unpleasant tingle runs across my skin. My nose tickles with the faint scent of sulphur. It has to be the Badlands but how it’s leaching into the Bubble is beyond me.

I sigh heavily and am about to turn away when something flickers up ahead. I see a flash of blue.

I glance behind; there’s no one else here. The movement was too fleeting for me to determine what it was but my curiosity is piqued. I shove my hands into my pockets and march deeper into the Bubble. Maybe whatever I glimpsed is something to do with all of this mess so I can’t afford to ignore it. It might be nothing more than one of Bron’s cronies, dipping in and out of different dreams for kicks ‒ and it might be something more.

When I reach the first crossroads, there are pure white doors stretching out in every direction. The odd black ones stand out as much as Dante did against the snow of the ski dream. I catch the movement again. Far down to my left, I see a black door open and close. From this angle, I can’t see who went in. I start to run.

Door after door blurs as I pick up speed. The urge to find out what’s going on overcomes my exhaustion; suddenly, nothing is more important than discovering who else is delving into infected dreams. Before I get close, however, the black door opens again and a small figure steps out. It’s the blue-haired boy who pointed so threateningly at the Badlands dragon. He catches sight of me and grins, then turns and starts to walk away.

‘Hey!’ I yell. ‘Wait!’

He doesn’t stop. I start to run again. There’s a paucity of children in the Dreamlands; most Travellers don’t apparate until they’re past puberty. There are always exceptions but I’ve never seen anyone this young before – and I’ve certainly never seen anyone with blue hair. He has to be the boy that Lilith mentioned. I bet he’s the one who left the tracks by the forest campfire as well.

I dart forward and shout again. He keeps on going at a remarkable speed for one so young. He flings open another black door and steps inside. Damn it. I finally reach it, breathing heavily. I’ve gone further and faster than I realised.

This time I don’t stop to think. When I reach the door I grab the handle, ignore the unpleasant sensation as my skin touches it and then I’m inside.

Everything is bathed in red. This isn’t another sleep-paralysis victim because I’m not in a bedroom; it’s some kind of corridor. I can hear distant shouts, filled with anxiety, followed a burst of staccato gunfire. The light begins to pulse, as if it’s in tune with a heartbeat.

Tension spreads across my shoulders and I bite my lip. I try to quash my fear and plunge further down the corridor.

One corridor leads into another. I search desperately for a sign of the blue-haired kid. I pass a stainless-steel trolley, covered with surgical implements. The red glow makes the sharp blades look as if they’re drenched in blood; that’s not a particularly good sign.

When I peer inside a glass-fronted room and spot a cadaver lying on a table as if awaiting a post-mortem, I flinch. No, this doesn’t look good at all. I spur myself on, carried forward more by momentum than a conscious decision. I keep looking nervously over my shoulder, worried that something’s going to spring at me from behind.

Whoever’s mind I’m in, they certainly know hospitals. As well as the eerie red light, there are a lot of authentic details. That’s not always the case; some dreams are as insubstantial as shadows. A few weeks ago, after brushing past a stranger in the street, I found myself on a tropical island. It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds: there wasn’t a lick of air and, although it looked real enough, there were no physical sensations to support it. I couldn’t feel warm sand between my toes and I couldn’t smell the salt of the ocean. I think that happens when a dream is inspired by nothing more than an image or a television programme.

Here, however, there’s the metallic tang of disinfectant and a heavy, oppressive feeling. This dreamer knows hospitals and dislikes them. The corridor is lined with doors, each one leading to a different room. Complicated medical terms are written on signs above each one but, curiously, most of them are spelt wrong.

I turn, gingerly peering round the corner first to make sure I’m not about to be jumped. The blue-haired kid is nowhere in sight. Another round of gunfire fills the empty space. I check behind me once more: still nothing.

When I look ahead again, I panic. Standing about twenty feet away is a black shape. It’s wearing a white coat but the person inside is as dark and indistinct as the cloud monster was in Archie’s dream. It starts to walk towards me. The fact that it’s not in any hurry causes me more fear than if it hurtled itself in my direction. I spin round, ready to run away.

‘This way.’ I hear a hushed, childish whisper.

I stare at another glass-fronted door. The blue-haired boy beckons to me from the other side. I can already hear the heavy footsteps of the monster doctor as he approaches. I’m too afraid to look back at him so I keep my gaze trained on the boy. He gestures to me again.

I could apparate out and ensure I live to fight another day, or I could find out who the hell the kid is. I’ve made it this far so of course, I have to choose the latter option.

The door opens an inch. I widen the gap with my toe and enter, closing it firmly behind me and turning the key in the lock.

‘Who are you?’ I demand, inwardly praying that the creature behind me doesn’t have his own key.

‘Have you seen the dreamer?’ the boy asks, ignoring my question. His voice sounds familiar but I can’t place it.

‘Not unless he’s Doctor Evil.’ I squint at the kid. Not only is his hair blue but his eyes are too. They’re not cornflower blue or the darker shade that you see on real people; his eyes are bright chips of glowing lapis lazuli which almost hurt to look at. His skin is smooth and blemish free and he’s wearing a tunic like shepherd boys wore centuries ago. There’s a small cloth bag tied at his hips.

He folds his arms in a gesture which makes him appear older than his years. ‘We have to find her.’

I open my mouth to respond but the creepy doctor appears at the door and rattles the doorknob, his black shape looming through the glass.

I look at the kid. ‘I think we should leave.’

His expression is calm. ‘You’re correct. You go first. I’ll follow.’

I hiss in irritation. The doctor raises a fist, smashes into the door and a spider’s web of cracks appear. We’re running out of time. ‘How about you go first? Apparate out.’