The Curse of Arkady (21 page)

Bailey took the button from her. “That's it?”

“For starters, till Tomaz has time to work with you both. Don't expect too much of her, Bailey. She is very smart in her way, although limited, but she trusts and loves you and will give everything she's got to please you. It is your role, as her protector, not to abuse that devotion.”

“I'll be careful,” vowed Bailey.

“Good. 'Cause if you send her out to see if a wolfjackal stands there, she'll be eaten in one gulp.”

Bailey gasped.

Eleanora stood, nodding. “Don't forget that.”

“I . . . won't!” Bailey had to force herself to breathe in the middle of her words. She held the button tightly.

“In the meantime, I'll be listening for you. We also seem to be attuned.” Eleanora smiled. She glided round the kitchen table and kissed Bailey's brow gently. “Take care and call when you need me.” She tapped Bailey's crystal. She slid her fingertips over the pendant at the hollow of her throat, nearly hidden by the ruffled neckline of her blouse, and disappeared.

Bailey cuddled Lacey gently in the palm of her hand. “Have I got a game for you,” she said softly, and pictured the cookie reward in her thoughts.

 

Give a mouse a cookie!
typed Trent and Jason could almost hear the dry laugh accompanying it. Grinning, Jason typed back,
Elephants work for peanuts, but pack rats have even crumbier wages.

Jason laughed harder. The thought of a poor exhausted Lacey curled up in her shredded paper nest with even her tail tucked in beside her was too funny to take seriously. That, coupled with the thought of Bailey shapeshifting into another pack rat, whiskers trembling and bright eyes looking for sparklies, made him laugh till he nearly snorted.

Bailey must have sensed their combined mirth because she typed
Hmppph!,
added a smiley face with its tongue sticking out, and signed off the Internet messenger.

Which was too bad because Jason wanted to talk with her about the dangers of the wolfjackal lurking, but Eleanora had undoubtedly found a way to ward the Landau apartment or she wouldn't have been so certain Bailey would be safe there. Outside, however, was another matter. Bailey could be brash, but she would never be mistaken for stupid, so he had to hope for the best.

Trent sent a message to him, though, that stopped all his thoughts about Bailey. He blinked and read the screen twice to make sure he understood.

His brain stampeded. Jonnard Albrite, tall, thin, older, somewhat worldly even, a camp counselor of sorts, and cabinmate of Henry Squibb. Jon, a plant from the Dark Hand of Brennard, who leeched Henry's powers from him and tried to do the same to Jason! Of course they were afraid of Jon, but Henry wasn't to remember that!
When was this? How did Jonnard even get mentioned?

Oh, man. He couldn't be remembering . . . could he? Jason stared for long moments at his computer screen, trying to think of what to say or do. Finally, Trent sent another message.

Jason sat back. Trent was implying that Henry was still a Magicker, even without power. Because Trent was? He couldn't be sure. There might be an even more awesome answer. Before he could respond, Trent typed again, insistently.

They both signed off then.

Jason climbed into bed, but sat with his legs drawn up. He reached for a book and began to lose himself in it, in its own magic and mysteries, when he felt a familiar tingle and lifted his head. Tomaz Crowfeather appeared in a brief, rainbow shimmer. He lifted one hand in greeting, an open handshake without the shake.

“Good or bad time, Jason?”

“Good, I think.” He dog-earred the corner of the page to mark it, then closed his book. “Gavan told you?”

Tomaz drew up his desk chair and straddled it, sitting backward and crossing his arms across its back. “He did. We had all hoped the dreams were gone, but it appears not. Are they frequent?”

Jason considered that. He dreamed every night, vividly, but not that dream. Every handful of weeks, perhaps. He shrugged and said as much.

Tomaz nodded. He scratched the side of his jaw with a blunt thumb, the beaten silver disks on his turquoise bracelet rattling gently as he did so. “Are you using the techniques we talked about?”

“I'm trying to. Deep breathing before I sleep, imaging, the other stuff you mentioned.”

“Good. Good. Without a lodge or sweathouse, it is difficult to concentrate as you should, but there are two things you must always be keenly aware of.” Tomaz leaned over the chair back. “You must always be aware of whether it is your dream you are walking in, or another's. If it is your dream, you are in control, but you must take care, for there is much for you to learn within it. If it is another's . . .” He frowned. His bronzed skin wrinkled deeply about his eyes. “It will be difficult, Jason.”

“How? To leave? Will I be trapped in there?”

“Possibly, but it goes beyond that. You must tell if it is friend or foe. And, either way, there still may be something valuable to learn.”

Jason felt very cold. He drew the blankets of his bed up over his pajamas for warmth. “How do I do that?”

“Again, that is difficult. Dreamwalking is not reality. We see things symbolically, and according to our own backgrounds. A coyote for me means one thing, for you, most likely another.” Tomaz nodded as if to emphasize that.

“Then what do I do? How do I know?”

“You must reach even deeper within yourself and test for the truth. Even a dreamwalk meant to show or warn you of lies will ring of the truth. And you must learn to do it quickly, Jason, or else you could be trapped by another. In all other ways, your Magick and Talent can help you. In a dreamwalk, it could prove deadly.”

He went icy. Even the blankets and comforters on his bed no longer helped. “Deadly?”

“You are very vulnerable to your dreams. You can be hurt both physically and mentally. So. You must think of every dreamwalk as a challenge, a race if you will, to determine what it is made of, what it can give and take away from you. You cannot hesitate either way, Jason.”

“If I'm in someone else's dream, then . . . what do I do?”

“For the moment, till we've had time to train you more, you get out. Any way you can, as fast as you can.” Tomaz reached out and patted Jason's knee. “Let me show you a path that works for me. Again, our dreams reflect who we are, our heritage and our culture, so your path will be different for you.” He talked to Jason a while longer, his voice low and soothing. Then Tomaz reached out and covered him up as he lay down sleepily, still listening, and was still in the room talking as Jason realized he'd drifted off to sleep.

H
E dreamed of the McHenry house again. As used as he was to this dream, it did not strike him as odd that it had changed, changed as he realized and grew within his knowledge of what Magick was and what being a Magicker meant. He understood the Gate now and how he opened it, and what it meant that he did. He even understood the catacombs and the deathly still figure lying on the cold stone tomb waiting for him and trying to draw him close.

What he did not understand was why he dreamed it over and over. Was he supposed to understand and vanquish every speck of it before he could move on and grow? As Tomaz had told him, it could be his dream or someone else's. He thought it was his dream. His Path. He had to learn its lessons. If not, would this specter of Brennard haunt him as long as his days in Magicking went on? Was this a war for his right to be what he was, or even more serious, a struggle for his very soul?

If it was, how could he hope to protect others like Henry and Trent who hadn't the skill? Was he meant to open a Gate where the nightmare reach of Brennard and his Dark Hand could not go? Was he the one, and the only one, who could find a way to safety?

Jason paused at the vast paneled doors to the old estate. They stood closed, foreboding and massive. If he was intended to find a safe way, this was not it. The doors crackled with energy, sinister and draining. He hesitated to touch the entry but knew he had to, his hand resting over the dark gold wood and feeling a heat generating from it. Every hair on his body stood on end. Every fiber that he had within him told him not to do it, not to go farther, not to touch the cursed door! But he had to. He knew he had to.

He ran his palm over the door's surface, an inch or so away, without actually touching the wood. Tiny sparks of energy flared and flashed as he did. Every now and then one actually zapped his skin like static electricity. He jumped when it zapped him; he couldn't help it. Clenching his teeth, he shoved his hand out to the door and pushed it inward.

They opened soundlessly, both great doors pushing in at once. Moonlight flooded in over his shoulder, a wide silvery beam cutting through the darkness of the old estate, splaying across the interior. For a moment as he stepped inside, he almost felt as if caught in a spotlight. His shadow cut a jagged black figure within the moonbeam.

He crossed the foyer quickly, the floor creaking dangerously under him. Jason did not want to plummet downward as he often did, crashing through into the chambers below. He had a mission tonight, and it drew him, and so his movements were deft and sure. He crossed into the inner room.

As he opened that door, the moonlight gave way to golden, electrical lights, and the pleasant heat of a lit fireplace with logs burning brightly and the feeling of being in a real room somewhere, a welcoming. There were chairs and other upholstered pieces scattered about, all facing the fireplace. There were cardboard boxes against the walls, and cabinets open, their contents spilled outward and into some of the boxes. There was a sense of leaving, of packing here. Jason stopped and looked around.

“Come in, Jason. We haven't long here, as you can see.” Unlike the room, the voice was cold and unfeeling.

Jason turned and saw the chair closest to the fireplace swing about slightly. There was a man sitting in it, quiet and still; brunette hair curled to his shoulders and his face had the pallor of marble. The man was dressed in a dark suit, with a soft white silken shirt. There was an unearthly aura to his entire being. He looked at Jason, unsmiling, dark eyes seeming to pierce right through him.

“Got off the tomb, I see,” Jason commented. He was used to seeing this figure lying atop that cold sarcophagus.

The man laughed. None of the mirth reached his eyes or voice, or colored his skin with a pleasant blush. There was no humor in him at all as he leveled his gaze on Jason's face. “It was an effort I made,” Brennard said. “No thanks to you.”

Jason had no more intention of coming near Brennard now than he would have if the man were still atop his cold stone tomb below and reaching out for help. “What are you doing here?”

A thin, chill smile. “Don't you mean . . . what am
I
doing here?”

“Either way. What are either of us doing here?”

“I know,” said Brennard. “I might tell you. Or I might not. It depends.”

For a dizzying moment, Jason wondered if he were really in a dream or if Brennard had crafted a way to meet, to trap him. If he blinked, would he wake up, or would he lose everything by being caught? He ought to be able to wake if he had to, to escape. If this
were
a dream. And if it wasn't . . .

A shiver ran down his back, icy cold fingers trailing along his spine.

Still, given his choices, he'd rather be here facing Brennard than Statler Finch. The odd comparison ran through his thoughts, startling him for a moment, and he took a step backward because it really wouldn't do to be facing Brennard off-balance. Nor keeping half his mind, half an ear, out for his unprotected back. His left hand ached a bit, but he did not rub it. He would not touch that scar in front of his enemy. Why, he was not sure, but he thought it might not be a good thing to let Brennard know he had any edge against Jason.

“Come closer. Let me have a look at you in the light.”

Jason took two steps forward, not really carrying him all that much closer, but enough to be polite. Look him over, Brennard did, the dark eyes of the Magicker examining him from head to toe.

“Strange clothes,” Brennard commented dryly, “But I am told that I should get used to them. Some things are better. Some are not. Much is greatly changed.” The elder, who did not look in years to be much older than Gavan Rainwater, shifted in his chair, large slender hands moving restlessly. “You've a focus, I presume?”

“It's not what makes me a Magicker, but yes.” Jason fought the need to put his hand on his crystal, to take it out and check it, make sure it was safe against this man. The more he wanted to do it, the more he felt that it was because Brennard was somehow making him want to do it, and therefore he would not.