The War for the Waking World (35 page)

Archer, Kaylie, and Nick came and stood at Master Gabriel's side. “Oh, I am certain you will try,” he said. “But know this: you have very little time left. Your Personal Midnight is coming soon. And, personally, I cannot wait.”

Bezeal rose to his full height, spread his wings, and glared. His mantle of darkness writhed about his form, and he hissed menacingly.

Master Gabriel brandished his sword, and then lifted the tip beneath Bezeal's throat. “It is time for you to depart,” Master Gabriel said, his voice as sharp as his sword.

Bezeal sneered and started to raise a clawed hand. “You do not command me—”

“Perhaps not,” Master Gabriel said, “but if you do not want to feel this blade, you will do exactly as I say. Into the well with you.”

“What?” Bezeal cried out. “I will not—”

Master Gabriel lowered Murkbane, and the sword flared. “Into the well, now.”

Bezeal hissed and began to crawl away, but Master Gabriel countered every errant move and shepherded Bezeal right to the edge of the well. “Go on,” he said. “Get going.”

Growling like a mongrel, Bezeal clambered over the edge of the well. He hissed once more, and then dropped. There came a splash of water and a bloodcurdling screech. Then . . . silence.

Master Gabriel grinned. “I took the liberty of replacing the water fouled by the Scath with pure water, like the kind your mother drank years ago. I am afraid Bezeal does not find it very refreshing.”

“Can we look?” Archer asked.

Master Gabriel nodded. The three Dreamtreaders surrounded the well and stared over the edge into the darkness. They saw Bezeal shrinking back to his hooded form, and he was sinking in the water . . . falling away into the depths. His triumphant grin was long gone. All that remained now was the darkness beneath his hood—darkness and those small eyes, just a faint glimmer. As he drifted down and away, the glimmer became very faint indeed.

FORTY-NINE

L
OOSE
E
NDS

I
T WAS NINE DAYS AFTER THE
R
IFT
'
S REPAIR
. W
HEN
A
MY
didn't find Archer at his home, she knew just where to look.

“Shame I can't fly, though,” she muttered as she ran in the direction of Scoville Manor. That wasn't the only thing that she missed. The enormous castle Kaylie and Rigby had erected was gone now. It was just a big, old regular mansion. Amy rang the doorbell.

Archer and Kaylie answered the door a few moments later. “Amy!” Kaylie cried, leaping to embrace her friend.

Archer grinned. “It's good to see you, Amy. How's your mom holding up?”

Amy pulled away from Kaylie. “She's doing well. Just like most folks, there are a lot of strange memories to tease out. At least the nausea's gone at last.”

“C'mon,” Kaylie said, taking Amy's hand. “Come see the animals.”

As the three took to the basement stairs, Amy asked, “So are you and Kaylie just moving in here now?”

Archer laughed. “No, no,” he said. “My dad won't let us, but I've asked Nick and his little brother, Oliver, if they would consider it. It's a long way from Australia, but it would be kind of convenient to have all three Dreamtreaders in the same general area. I'm hoping they'll make the move. Someone's got to take care of all these critters.”

The three of them set about feeding, watering, and cleaning up after the zoo's residents. Archer did his circuit with Dr. Who perched on his shoulder just like old times. No one spoke much during the
work, but when they reached the bottom of the basement stairs, they paused.

“I kinda wish Uncle Scovy was still here,” Kaylie said.

“You mean Doctor Scoville, don't you?” Amy asked.

“That's probably best,” Kaylie agreed, staring at the door at the bottom of the stairs. “But he turned good in the end, didn't he? I mean, he gave his life to help get the Rift turned around.”

“That's right,” Archer said, starting slowly up the stairs. “He did good . . . in the end.”

“What about Rigby?” Amy whispered. “Anything yet?”

Archer shook his head. “Kara searched everywhere in the Dream Inc. building before the FBI took her away. She told me there was a pretty serious bloodstain but no body. Odd thing though: Kara said piles of ash were down there. Piles and piles of ash, spread all over but most numerous around the bloodstain. If the Scath took Rigby out, I'm thinking he took a bunch of them with him.”

Back upstairs, the trio collapsed into chairs at Rigby's kitchen table. “I'm tired,” Kaylie said, the words spoken through her yawn. “I don't know how I'm going to Dreamtread tonight.”

“You'll be asleep, silly,” Amy said.

“Right, right,” Kaylie said. “Good thing.”

“Is it bad . . . in the Dream, I mean?” Amy asked.

“We've seen worse,” Archer replied with a dry chuckle. “But, yeah, repairing the Rift left the Dream in kind of a semi-shredded state. We've been fixing breaches and weaving up support threads constantly.”

“Kind of like here,” Amy replied. “I can't even watch the news anymore. Too much sadness. There was so much destruction, Archer. So many people's lives just ruined.”

“What did the FBI do with Kara?” Kaylie asked.

“I don't know,” Archer replied. “She's admitted to everything, but I hear they're calling it some kind of terrorist attack . . . like Dream Inc. just gassed everyone into some kind of mass delusion.”

Kaylie raised her eyebrows. “In the world?”

“Well,” Archer said, “is it any more farfetched than Lucid Dreaming? The Rift? Any of it?”

Amy shook her head. “We've all got a lot of healing to do,” she said. “Yep.”

When Archer and Kaylie came home, Mr. Keaton and Buster had just finished setting the table. They'd eaten a marvelous lasagna dinner in silence, but, as always over the last week and a half, they had exchanged many smiles.

Archer thought his father was doing well, considering the circumstances. The end of the Rift meant the end of his time with his wife. It were almost as if she had died all over again. But he'd gone back to his workshop and started making the wells again. He was even teaching Buster how to do some things in the wood shop. Of course, Buster wanted to make a surf board first, but he'd have to learn the basics before he got into that.

Archer asked to be excused before dessert was served. As he was leaving the kitchen, he heard his father's voice. “Hey, son, you know those new statues, you know, the new ones near the Jesus statue in Rio?”

“Yeah,” Archer said. “What about them?”

“Well, one of them,” Mr. Keaton said, “and I know this is going to sound crazy, but they were doing a show on them, and . . . well . . . I could swear one of the statues looked like your friend Rigby's uncle.”

“That's not crazy, Dad,” Archer said. “I see the resemblance too.”

“Funny thing,” Mr. Keaton said, “someone's been leaving big bunches of flowers at the foot of that statue. Not as many flowers as the Jesus statue gets, but still. Funny, huh?”

Archer shrugged and headed for the carport door. The winter air was back in full force, and it was going to be a cold night. Archer didn't
mind it so much. He went through the backyard gate and tromped down to the wishing well.

He knelt on the frozen ground and put his head against the stone of the well. “Mom, I miss you,” he said. “But in a way, I'm grateful I got to see you again . . . even if it wasn't real.” Then his words trailed off, and the rest of the conversation took place in his mind in a prayer.
God,
he thought,
please take care of my mother . . . and all those who died during the Rift. And please help us never to lose our anchors . . . ever again
.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I, W
AYNE
T
HOMAS
B
ATSON
,
DO
HEREBY ACKNOWLEDGE
that the following remarkable people invested great love, energy, sacrifice, and kindnesses in ways that I will never be able to repay.
Dreamtreaders
, like all my novels, couldn't have happened without your support and presence in my life. To you, I offer these simple thanks:

Mary Lu Batson: gorgeous wife, best friend, co-dreamer, and life-mate—to you I offer the greatest human thanks. You committed your life to me, a rare thing these days, and extraordinarily precious to me. Navigating life with four teenagers, teaching, and trying to be a writer would be absolutely impossible without your fantastic support.

Daughter Kayla: your passion and initiative and dreams and drive to help others are nothing short of inspiring. Love you, K-doodle!

Son Tommy: you are a tender warrior, my son. I love the joy you find in God's creation, everything from noticing the gold light before dusk or the smell of wood smoke on a chilly evening. You are a constant reminder to me that God's richest blessings are never-ending.

Son Bryce: you are the quiet strength, my son. I love the way you become a student of what inspires you, learning every facet and detail, and then
explode
into action. You are committed to excellence. May God use you to do great things.

Daughter Rachel: upon you, God has also placed His creative touch. You are a teacher and a storyteller, a singer and songwriter. I am thankful for the bubbly life you inject into every day. You have a heart full of love to give, and I'm grateful to shepherd you . . . for a little while.

Mom & Dad Batson: I don't know how else to thank you. You gave up 45+years of your life to directly or indirectly help me be a better son, friend, man, employee, writer, and husband. Thank you!

Mom & Dad Dovel: you gave me your daughter and much love besides. Thank you!

Leslie, Jeff, Brian, Edward, Andy, Diana, your spouses, significant others, families, and friends: thank you for creating a landscape of adventure. It is no small thing to be able to raise a sword with such as you.

Doug & Chris, Dave & Heather, Chris H. & Dawn, Dan & Tracey, Warren & Marilyn, Alex & Noelle, Alaina, Cameron & Jasmine Strauss, Bud, Candy, Angie, Danely, Lisa, and all the SotB Crew, and all friends past and present: I can't thank you enough for the camaraderie and adventures. May there be many, many more.

Folly Quarter Dreamers: Erin, Kirsten, Julie, Regina, Barb, Sherrie, Dreia, Lindsay, Susan—you are one amazing group of teachers! Verily, to you I cry out in a loud voice: Deer!

Students Present and Past: you have no idea what precious blessings you are to me and the world. Pip-pip Cheerio!

Sir Gregg of Wooding: agent and friend. Thanks for being among the first to believe in my stories. It is an honor to know you, my friend.

Steele Filipek: well met, Sirrah! Seriously, you are an amazing editor. Thanks for chipping away the chaff so
Dreamtreaders
could emerge.

Thomas Nelson / HarperCollins: you opened the door for me back in 2004. Thank you for the long and incredible ride.

Christopher Hopper: the disciples told Jesus, “We have left all to follow you. What shall we have?” The Lord replied, “Truly I tell you, no one who has left home or wife or brothers or sisters or parents or children for the sake of the kingdom of God will fail to receive many times as much in this age, and in the age to come eternal life.” God is true to His word. He linked us in friendship, and I'm grateful. How many O-dark-thirty writing sessions have we shared? How many laughs? Thanks for your friendship, bro. Through airships, flatulent barrister gnomes, spiders, and much more—it has been an honor to ride together. Right™.

The fantastic staff of G.L. Shacks, Glory Days, O'Lordan's, Rams Head, and other haunts for putting up with me writing there at all times of day . . . or night. Special thanks to Oscar's in Eldersburg. Ralph, you are Da Man!

Thank you to Prog Metal Zone for introducing me to tons of progressive metal bands that both fuel and inspire my writing. Jeff Stevens, Proprietor/Publisher Progmetalzone, always has a great new selection of epic music, music that is the perfect accompaniment to an epic story.

E
STEEMED
D
REAMTREADERS
3 C
ELEBRANTS
:

W
RITING
C
HALLENGE
W
INNERS
' N
AMES
: