Night Terrors (13 page)

The boy’s brow furrows. ‘What’s that?’

He doesn’t know what apparate means? For a moment I block out the forbidding sight of the doctor and stop worrying about his impending attack. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask softly.

The boy doesn’t answer. I don’t think he’s being rude; I don’t think he has an answer to give me. I reach out deliberately slowly and brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch or pull away and he certainly feels solid – but that doesn’t mean much.

‘Are you real?’

The doctor starts to howl. It’s an inhuman sound which chills me to the bone.

‘Are you?’ the kid asks.

I crouch down and take his hands in mine. I press them to my face and his fingers dance across my skin. ‘Do I feel real?’

The boy’s blue eyes widen and he pulls back. ‘Weaver.’

The doctor thumps his body against the door, hurling himself with such force that the whole room seems to vibrate. The door frame splinters.

‘Yes. And I’m not sure I have the energy left to take that thing on. We need to get out of here now.’

The boy’s chin tilts stubbornly. ‘I must find the dreamer.’ He pulls away from me and blinks and a heartbeat later he’s gone. I’m left alone in the small room with only the doctor outside for company. Shit.

I look for a weapon but there’s nothing here. There’s a tinkling of glass and the doctor’s hand shoots through, flailing around. The smart thing to do would be to leave.

I spin round and launch a kick at the doctor’s arm before he can reach for the lock. He howls, his jaw dropping open to reveal even more darkness, and draws back. I pick up a shard of glass from the floor ‒ it’s as lethal a weapon as any.

I delve inside myself to gather the last vestiges of energy from my tired body. If I’m the damned dreamweaver then it’s time I started acting like it. I can’t let little things like fatigue or fear get in my way. I eye the monster doctor and brandish the glass. ‘Come on, then.’

He steps back and turns his head to his right, then he flies out of my line of sight. My stomach drops. I’m not stupid enough to believe that my show of bravado has terrified him and he’s run away – something else has made him go. Trying not to cut myself, I kick away the last of the glass in the door and step into the corridor. The dark shape of the monster doctor is visible in the distance. He’s after something.

I curse and run after him, still clutching the shard. With every step, I’m aware of pain shooting down my spine and flaring out at my tailbone. What had been a dull ache is now far worse. It hampers my movements but I can’t give in to it. Not yet.

I turn the corridor in time to see the doctor advancing on the blue-haired boy. The kid’s back is turned and he’s reaching into his little bag. I make out a small girl with Oriental features in front of him. She’s wearing a hospital gown and her skin is pale with the tell-tale signs of long-term sickness. She’s the dreamer the boy was looking for.

I’m filled with alarm. The doctor will be on them in seconds. I sprint forward ‒ just as something snaps in the small of my back and my legs give way. I crash to the floor.

No! Not now! I try to get up but my legs don’t want to work. No matter how hard I try, I can only raise myself up on my hands. I drag myself forward, my useless legs trailing behind. Come on, Zoe.

The boy still hasn’t turned around. There’s only a few feet between him and the doctor when he suddenly flings out some dust in the girl’s direction. The doctor roars in agony.

Then the red light vanishes and the stark hospital walls are replaced with the sunny outdoors. I hear children yelling, not in pain or fear but in delight. I squint round. We’re in a park. The little girl squeals and runs off towards the swings while the boy turns and walks towards me. The monster doctor has vanished.

I sag in relief while the kid bends down. ‘Are you hurt?’ he enquires, gazing at me curiously.

‘What…’ I gasp. ‘What did you do?’

He gestures at his bag. ‘I helped her.’ He smiles. The girl is on a swing; a  woman is behind her, pushing her higher and higher. Her mother.

‘Who are you?’ I ask again. Did the boy change the dream or did she? Either way, he has more power at his fingertips than I do. I feel hope spread inside me. Maybe I’m not the only one after all; maybe I don’t have to do this alone.

He pats my head, like an adult would do to a child. I decide I don’t like this role reversal at all. ‘You can go now. We both can. But come and find me later.’ His eyes sparkle. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

And then I feel my body tugging: I’m waking of my own accord. The pain in my back must have seeped through and my conscious mind is taking over.

‘Wait! Not yet!’ I cry out in useless protest.

It’s too late. I’m already back in my own house. Bloody hell.

***

I spend most of the day lying on my stomach with a bag of frozen peas on my lower back. I’m not convinced it’s doing me any good but it numbs the area so that I no longer moan in pain when I try to move. Getting up to use the bathroom isn’t particularly easy: I have to roll clumsily off the bed and shuffle to the toilet like I’m old enough to receive a telegram from the Queen.

I’m wary of taking strong painkillers because I know I’ll be affected in the Dreamlands by whatever I take here in the real world. I need as clear a head as possible ‒ but I also need to be able to walk.

The Chairman seems to be enjoying my prone state, snuggling up next to me and purring loudly. When he gets up to nibble some food and performs a series of nimble stretches, I watch him with narrow-eyed jealousy. Once or twice I try the same manoeuvres, wondering if I can work out the pain yoga-style, but I’m left hissing in agony.

The shadows are beginning to lengthen when there’s a knock at the door. I ignore it and remain slumped face down. It’s not long before I hear the door opening. Only one other person has the key but I freeze, worried that it might be the Department coming for me in real life.

My mother knows me well. The second the door is ajar she calls out, ‘Zoe? Is everything alright?’

‘I’m in here,’ I shout, trying not to let relief overwhelm me. I’m assailed by gratitude; she’s checking up on me after my ‘episode’. I don’t want to worry her but it’s good that she cares. Everyone needs someone in their life to do that.

She appears in the living room, a scarf wrapped elaborately round her neck and the familiar scent of Chanel washing across the room. She takes in my position and frowns. ‘I think you’re meant to eat peas, my dear.’

I grimace and struggle up to a sitting position. ‘I’ve hurt my back. I was trying to relax the muscles.’

Her nose wrinkles. ‘You shouldn’t ice it for too long. You might end up with burns.’

‘I’ve been careful,’ I reassure her. I rub my spine. ‘I think it’s getting better.’

‘What on earth did you do?’

The truth will not help me but my mother’s ability to scent when I’m lying is nothing short of uncanny. I have to tread carefully. ‘I think I slept badly,’ I say. It’s not exactly a lie.

Her mouth tightens and she folds her arms. ‘And what really happened?’

Damn it. How can she always tell? ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘This isn’t much of a holiday, Zoe.’

I shrug then regret it as I succumb to the pain once more. I sink down. I really don’t need this. ‘How’s Henry?’ I ask snidely, willing to do anything to change the subject.

She sighs. ‘Sleeping badly as well.’ She tuts and shakes her head. ‘Honestly, something’s not right. There are people up and down the country who are too scared to close their eyes because of what they might dream.’ She knocks her fist against her temple. ‘Touch wood, I’ll be fine. I have been so far.’

That’s because she has a dreamcatcher strung up in her window. Who’d have thought that such a twee ornament would have the power to affect dreams? I’m sure the Native Americans believed in them but I’ve always suspected that the ones which found their ways to these shores were factory made, probably in deepest China and about as far away from America as it’s possible to get. At least my mother’s dreamcatcher was a gift from the States. I wonder if I could get Dante to bring over fifty million of them, then the country would be safe.

‘Of course,’ my mother continues, ‘they’ve been playing that silly song all day on the radio. Now I can’t get it out of my head.’ She starts humming. ‘
Mr. Sandman, give me a…
’

I bolt back upright. My spine twists and I suck in a breath but I still manage to gape at my mother. ‘Sandman.’

She frowns at me in confusion. ‘Pardon?’

The phone rings. ‘Can you get that?’ I ask, lurching painfully to my computer and tapping the keyboard to bring it to life.

My mother gives me another puzzled look but does as I ask. I quickly type into the search engine and scan the results. The blue-haired kid is certainly no man but everything else seems to fit. The hospital dream belonged to a young girl and, according to the first website I read, the Sandman visits the dreams of children and sprinkles dust in their eyes to bestow good dreams on them.

Unhappily, the second website paints him as a villain, disturbing children with night terrors and stalking through dreams to cause havoc and fear. He helped the girl, though; I saw evidence of that with my own eyes. I gnaw at my bottom lip and think about the bag tied to his hip. It makes sense that he’s the Sandman, especially if that bag contains the magic dust – or sand. What doesn’t make sense is why no other Travellers have mentioned him.

‘Well, I’m very pleased to talk to you too,’ my mother murmurs, walking back into the living room with the phone glued to her ear. ‘I can’t believe Zoe hasn’t introduced us yet.’

I freeze. ‘Who is it?’

She beams at me. ‘A charming man.’ She waggles her eyebrows. ‘Is this your new beau, Zoe? He sounds very handsome.’

I close my eyes in dismay. It must be Dante. And she actually said that part about the beau aloud. And how can someone
sound
handsome? I curse inwardly. ‘He’s just a friend,’ I mutter, gesturing for the phone.

She holds onto it. ‘Is he the one you were going on holiday with?’

‘Mother…’

‘I must say, Dante,’ she says, making me rue the day I was born, ‘that’s a very unusual name. Are you Italian?’

I can’t hear the response. Whatever he’s saying, it clearly delights her because her expression lights up. She even giggles. Good lord.

I’m visibly cringing by the time she hands over the phone. She gives me a little wave and a saucy wink then waltzes out of the door.

Screwing up my face, I muster the courage to speak. ‘Hi Dante.’

His voice is full of amusement. ‘Your mother sounds like a lot of fun.’ He pauses. ‘I’ve never been called a beau before.’ There’s a definite purr.

I tense up. ‘I’m sorry about that. She got the wrong end of the stick. We’re just work colleagues.’ Sort of. Are we? I cross my fingers and wait for a response.

‘“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”’

I lose the power of speech. ‘Um…Er…’

He puts me out of my misery. ‘How are things at your end?’

I take a deep breath. That one I can answer. ‘Not great.’

‘Bron was in touch.’ His amusement is gone now. ‘He told me what happened with the Department. I warned you about drawing attention to yourself.’

‘It’s not like I had much choice. That dragon…’

‘People could have apparated out.’

‘Not everyone can do that, Dante. And a lot of them were panicking too much to try. There’s something else’ I tell him about the blue-haired boy.

He’s silent for a long moment. ‘I hadn’t heard the Sandman was real,’ he admits finally. ‘It’s possible though. If anyone can see him, it’ll be you.’

‘Because I’m the dreamweaver,’ I respond flatly.

‘Nobody else could have beaten up a cloud dragon.’

‘I didn’t exactly beat it up,’ I mutter. ‘I need to find the boy again. Lilith mentioned something about a boy – she might have meant him.’

‘It’s possible.’

I sense him holding back. ‘Something’s wrong. What is it, Dante?’

‘The Department has a stranglehold on everything. I apparated into the zone here and,’ he pauses, ‘it’s fully in charge. If it’s like this in every zone I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. You might be the dreamweaver but the Department’s everywhere.’

‘More controlling than the Mayor?’

‘Yes.’

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I can feel myself spiralling into despair. ‘They’re threatening a lot of violence here.’

‘Bron said people were standing up to them,’ Dante chides. ‘That the crowd was talking back. And the Department didn’t actually hurt anyone for it.’

‘Not for lack of trying. Besides, it was the boy who stood up to them. The Sandman, or whoever he is. The voice was the same. The protest didn’t start with us.’ My tone becomes bitter. ‘We’re all too scared.
I’m
too scared. No wonder the Mayor found it so easy to take control.’

‘Control that you broke. And now there are more of us. We’ll work together and we’ll win, even if it means infiltrating the Department and destroying it from the inside. We can do this, Zoe.’

I wish I had his confidence. When I start to overthink things, I am overwhelmed. It’s like leaving the house and wondering whether you’ve left the iron on; you’re sure you haven’t but there’s that niggling doubt which expands until you’re convinced that if you don’t go back and turn it off right now, the building will explode into flames.

That way lies madness. If I can stay focussed, there’s no telling what we might achieve. I force myself to laugh. ‘Either you’re telling me off for being too bold or you’re telling me to stop being so wimpy.’

‘You are a mass of contradictions, Zoe Lydon.’

He has me there. ‘You’re right. I keep doubting myself when I should be concentrating on other things.’ I purse my lips. ‘Have you had any luck tracking Ashley yet?’

‘No.’ He sounds grim. ‘I’ve been catnapping on and off constantly but I can’t find her at all.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. She has to be somewhere.’ Dante’s the only person who can find her when she’s asleep because he’s the only tracker. I might be able to change things, but I can’t find anything – or anyone – who doesn’t want to be found.