If Souls Can Sleep Read online

  Milton’s reflexes kick in, and the scene sharpens. Taking control of the dream feels like flexing a muscle buried deep in his brain. The indistinct surroundings—it might have been a grocery store before—transform, becoming a familiar space. Someplace safe.

  Milton watches William warily as he runs his fingers across the spines of the books on the nearest shelf.

  “I consider myself as much a scholar as you, Milton, but I don’t know how you can enjoy the smell of old books,” William says, wrinkling his nose. “So…is this library at Brown or Harvard?”

  “Temple, actually,” Milton replies. He tries to sound casual, but he has never been able to mimic William’s easy nonchalance.

  “Ah, yes, I had heard you were still teaching there.” William looks around at the stacks on either side of them. “I always preferred Harvard’s Psychology Research Library for a nocturnal rendezvous. It was smaller, more intimate.”

  “What do you want, William?” The question comes out more forcefully than he would have liked.

  William affects a hurt expression, but Milton doesn’t buy it. He knows the man doesn’t have a heart.

  “We haven’t spoken since I left the Lucid Dreaming Society eighteen years ago,” William says. “I had hoped we could let bygones be bygones.”

  He unclenches his jaw long enough to say, “It’s your fault the Society disbanded. If you had taken only Cormac O’Shaughnessy with you, it might have lived on after your resignation, but when you conned Annette into quitting too, it was only a matter of time before the Society dissolved.”

  Milton takes a breath. “You and I have crossed far beyond bygones.”

  For a moment, William is at a loss for words. Milton wonders what kind of reception the man expected. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, he thinks. Not when the wounds are caused by betrayal.

  “I owe you an apology,” William says at last. “Many apologies. Can we talk somewhere a little more comfortable? Somewhere with padded chairs and wine? It’s your dream. I’ll let you choose.”

  The urge to expel William from his consciousness comes on suddenly and powerfully. He didn’t invite William to come into his dream. If it were up to him, Milton would have expunged all traces of the man from his mind long ago, memories included. William’s unrelenting obsession with pushing science to its limits—with playing God—had ripped apart the Society, had destroyed Milton’s extended family.

  Worst of all, William abandoned him.

  His emotions get the better of him; the lights flicker violently.

  “Please, Milton?” William says quietly. He looks older, wearier than Milton ever remembers seeing him. Another act? It’s Milton’s dream, but William has enough control to make subtle adjustments without much effort. William is, after all, one of the most powerful dream drifters on earth. Maybe second only to Milton.

  Several more seconds pass while Milton stares into William’s dark eyes. Finally, he reaches into his mind, drawing from memory and imagination. The tall bookshelves disintegrate, and the library folds in on itself. High-legged tables, chairs, a circular bar, and a shiny blue piano form out of nothingness.

  A moment too late Milton realizes that the lounge is nearly identical to one he and William used to visit in the early days of the Lucid Dreaming Society. Might William have played a part in the choice of scenery? A subtle shaping of the floor plan, an imperceptible tweak in the piano’s color? No, Milton suspects the true culprit is his own subconscious.

  “Yes, this will do nicely,” William says cheerfully. He walks behind the bar like he owns the place and inspects the rows of bottles. “What will you have?”

  “I’m fine,” Milton insists.

  William shrugs and retrieves a bottle that Milton recognizes even at a distance. At the base of the long, slim neck is a bold blue circle bearing the profile of a white wolf. It’s one of William’s favorite merlots—smoky, tart, complex.

  In spite of himself, Milton watches as William uncorks the bottle and trickles the deep red wine into a bulbous glass. His movements are graceful and precise. When William sets the bottle down and looks up, Milton quickly stares across the room at the host of empty chairs.

  William joins Milton at one of the bistro-style tables. He swirls the wine around in the glass, takes a long sniff, and lets the liquid slide down his throat. All but smacking his lips, he says, “That’s quite good.”

  Milton crosses his arms, waiting.

  Across the table, William raises the glass again, but it stops halfway to his lips. He clears his throat. “Annette is not well. She has a brain tumor…aggressive meningioma. The doctors have given her mere months to live.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Milton says, once he is able to speak. Even though Annette Young turned her back on the Society, Milton knows it wasn’t personal. She has always been a kind, if naïve, woman.

  “Cormac is going to make a power play.” William tips the glass one way and then the other, watching the violet waves splash treacherously near the rim with each pass. “Without Annette’s support, I won’t be able to stop him.”

  “Stop him from what?”

  William hesitates, then swallows the entire contents of the glass.

  “Stop Cormac from doing what, William?”

  William chuckles dryly. “You know Cormac. One doesn’t need a doctorate in psychology to see the man has many unresolved issues. He has never cared about the science of what we do.”

  “But he was useful to you when you wanted to dismantle the LDS from the inside,” Milton points out.

  William continues, undaunted. “Annette has always brought balance to the group, the superego in opposition to Cormac’s id, if you will,” William says. “Without her, the others will follow Cormac and his new friend Levi down some very dark avenues, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to stop them from rushing headlong into…into…”

  “You want me to be your new superego so that you can remain in the middle as the ego, playing the two sides against each other?” Milton chuckles sardonically. “Sorry, Will, but you made your bed a long time ago.”

  William’s eyes blaze. The very air around them grows heavy. Milton grips the edge of the table, presses his fingers against the wood. It’s solid. An anchor. His connection to the dream.

  If William tries to take control, Milton will fight him.

  But William visibly relaxes, and the pressure fades. “This is bigger than my mistakes, Milton. Cormac is reckless. When Annette is gone, it will be only a matter of time before his actions lead to the Order’s discovery.”

  The Clandestine Order for Psychic Exploration.

  COPE.

  Milton is certain William came up with the name because William was wont to joke that the Lucid Dreaming Society was a support group for those with abilities the rest of humanity could not understand and would not accept. The irony is that William had never been content to merely “cope” with his gift.

  “What goes around comes around,” Milton mutters. He feels foolish for resorting to clichés and childish antics, but he can’t seem to stop taking potshots at his companion. He wants William to suffer because he deserves it.

  William sighs. “I need you, Professor.”

  The words hit Milton hard. Sitting in the piano bar with William—dressed in a stylish and pricey suit, as always—stirs up feelings he buried long ago. For an instant, the past eighteen years never happened. He and his dear friend, his partner in the pursuit of knowledge as well as happiness, are unwinding after a day spent cooped up in a lab.

  But the chatter of other patrons is conspicuously absent, and the piano is silent. None of it is real. Not the lounge and not William’s apology. Not even Milton’s memories of happier times with William, tainted, as they are, by nostalgia.

  “You never needed me,” he tells William.

  “Milton, that’s not—”

  He raises a hand to forestall the lie. “You already tried to recruit me for COPE back when you left the Society. How was it you de
scribed your new club? A group of pioneers exploring uncharted territory with absolute dedication and discretion? As though the members of the Lucid Dreaming Society were just a bunch of oafs whose interest in dream phenomena was so far beneath you!”

  William opens his mouth to interject, but Milton presses on. “You and I have never had the same agenda. I am a scholar who wishes to advance understanding of the human brain and its lesser-known functions. You, on the other hand, have only ever been interested in realizing your full potential solely for your own personal benefit. You would hoard knowledge, lording your abilities over those born without similar aptitude.

  “My answer is the same today as it was back then. You and your secret society can go to hell!”

  William’s sudden smile erupts into a laugh. “Wonderful speech, Milton. But for someone who isn’t fond of secrets, why ever would you choose to associate yourself with the CIA?”

  The temperature in the imaginary piano bar drops fifty degrees. Milton wonders how William could possibly know about his invitation to meet with a representative of the CIA. Milton doesn’t know why the agency is interested in seeing him. He wonders if William does.

  “I suppose you won’t hold anything back,” William continues. “You’ll tell them all about how you have ventured into the minds of unsuspecting sleepers, probing their unconscious thoughts. I’m sure a national intelligence agency will have no problem with the full breadth of your scholarly research. And I’m sure everything you and your new lab partner cook up these days is beyond reproach.”

  Milton forces himself not to frown because he knows William is gauging his nonverbal cues. He tries to keep his breathing at a relaxed pace. He uncrosses his arms.

  “Is that what this is all about, William?” he asks. “You’re trying to coerce me into joining COPE so that you won’t have to worry about the CIA learning about you and your friends? If you’re so worried about Cormac, maybe you should tag along, and we can unburden our souls together.”

  William takes another drink of wine, sets the glass down, and stands up. “Thank you for the drink and for your time, old friend. I hope, for both of our sakes, this is the last time we meet, either here or in the real world.”

  William walks away, heading toward the exit. It is a dramatic gesture, Milton supposes, since he could have just as easily disappeared, leaving Milton’s dream as suddenly as he arrived.

  Before he can stop himself, Milton asks, “What do you mean?”

  Across the room, William turns slowly. Whatever fire had flashed from within his deep brown eyes had long since cooled, leaving behind a pair of orbs empty of all emotion. Like the eyes of a serpent, Milton thinks. Cold and predatory.

  “Because,” William says, “unlike you, I recognize a formidable enemy when I see one.”

  ***

  Milton grunted when something poked him in his ribs.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, staving off consciousness, but the dream—the memory—was already floating away, wafting into the unreachable recesses of his mind back behind the locked door. He tried to grab onto a piece of the conversation, a name, a face.

  Did I dream about Odin?

  The uncomfortable pressure in his side returned, and he opened his eyes. A small shape blocked out a corner of the overcast sky above him. He cried out and scrambled into a crouched position, ready to confront the animal.

  No, not an animal. A girl who couldn’t have been more than three years old looked down at him, neither smiling nor frowning. Her black, braided pigtails swayed in the wind. A dusting of snow clung to her pink nightgown and her bare arms and legs.

  “Good God, you must be freezing!” Milton tore off his coat and wrapped it around her, practically drowning her in the fabric. “You’re not wearing any shoes. Who let you out of the house like this? Where are your parents?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “What is your name?”

  Her voice was soft, a little shy. “Clementine.”

  “Why are you wandering the streets all by yourself, Clementine?”

  She giggled, bringing a pair of dimples to her pallid cheeks. “Looking for you, silly!”

  The familiar twinge of paranoia sent a shiver down Milton’s spine. “But you don’t even know who I am, child.”

  “You’re Milton.”

  He took a step away from her. “How…how do you know that?”

  “Uncle Danny told me.”

  Danny? Who the hell is—

  “Do you mean DJ?”

  She shrugged.

  Milton spun around, scanning every direction. They were alone. “Where is Uncle Danny?”

  She shrugged again.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Before.”

  Milton sighed. “What exactly did your uncle tell you?”

  “You are nice, not a stranger. You will make me safe.”

  Milton had a few choice words for DJ, but he swallowed them. “We have to get you someplace warm. Do you live near here?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Milton took a tentative step forward. “I’m going to carry you. Is that OK, Clementine?”

  “Sure.”

  She was heavier than he had expected. He covered her as best he could with the long coat. She put her thumb in her mouth and lay her head against his chest.

  What were you thinking, DJ? How could the safest place for your niece be with a sleep-deprived fugitive?

  On one hand, he was furious with DJ for burdening him with the child. On the other hand, it felt good to have some company.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out,” he told her. “I just hope your uncle has a plan.”

  And I hope he’s alive.

  Chapter 22

  A loud noise from the kitchen wrenched Vincent from a deep sleep to wide awake. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, bracing for a dizzy spell or some other symptom of what was sure to be a killer hangover.

  Nothing.

  He leaned back against the Low Rider’s less-than-fluffy cushions and scratched his head.

  Didn’t I pass out in the bathtub? How did I end up on the couch?

  The door to his bedroom was open, and the light was on.

  Was I sleepwalking?

  Vincent jumped when he heard voices from the kitchen. The man’s voice was too low to be Jerry’s, and while a woman was doing most of the talking, Vincent couldn’t make of out any of her words. From his bedroom came the sound of dresser drawers being opened and closed.

  Burglars!

  Vincent’s gaze darted to the door that led to the suspended porch. He’d likely sprain an ankle if he jumped down to the concrete that comprised his backyard, but there was no other escape route. He forced himself to take a calming breath.

  Maybe it’s just some of Jerry’s friends…Paish, Tara, Marc…

  Or maybe Jerry left the damn door unlocked again, and some crazies wondered in.

  Vincent stork-stepped over the coffee table and crept across the living room. He considered grabbing Jerry’s lava lamp from its perch atop of the speaker but thought better of it. In Valenthor’s world, bashing people’s brains in was an effective method for resolving conflict. In the real world, however, Vincent knew he was more likely to get shot than anything.

  The hardwood floor protested at his weight at the exact moment he reached the threshold. Vincent froze, wide-eyed. From his vantage, he couldn’t see much of the kitchen, only the doorway to the pantry and the bathroom beyond. Which meant that whoever was in the kitchen couldn’t see him either.

  A tall man wearing a long black coat and dark sunglasses stepped out of the pantry.

  Vincent swore and staggered backward. He wanted to lunge for the lava lamp or make a run for the porch door, but all he could do was stare at the pale-skinned man in black, who came no closer.

  “Vincent Cruz,” said a voice from behind Vincent—from his room.

  Vincent whirled around and saw another man in a black trench coat.
The newcomer lifted his hands in a placating gesture, but the shiny leather gloves undermined the sentiment.

  “What do you want?” Vincent demanded. “We don’t have anything worth stealing.”

  The intruder standing outside of his bedroom looked Vincent up and down. Vincent reciprocated. The man was roughly the same size as Vincent but older, and he had a lot less hair. His dull green eyes somehow made him look smart—or devious.

  “We are not thieves,” the man said. Then he paused. “That is to say, we are not after your personal property. I came because you hung up in the middle of our conversation.”

  Vincent suddenly recognized the voice. “Boden?”

  The man nodded. “Please have a seat. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”

  Vincent shot a glance at the tall man, who was content to watch him, arms crossed, before retreating to the Low Rider. He chose the cushion closest to the porch door. His heart performed a series of somersaults. He felt light-headed and wondered if he was about to faint.

  Boden mumbled something to the tall man that Vincent couldn’t hear.

  Please don’t shoot me. I don’t want to die here…alone…

  “Is my roommate here?” Vincent blurted out. A pang of guilt prickled his gut as soon as the words left his mouth. If Jerry happened to be sleeping soundly in his bedroom, he wouldn’t be for long.

  “There is no need to bring Jeremiah into this,” Boden replied evenly. He took a few steps closer to Vincent. The tall man remained in the kitchen doorway, blocking Vincent’s path to the apartment’s exit.

  “I need you to tell me everything you know about Leah Chedid and her research,” Boden said. “If you can satisfy my curiosity, we will leave you in peace.”

  “Leah?” Vincent asked. “You don’t think she’s a terrorist, do you?”

  Christ, where did that come from?

  “Why would we think that?” Boden asked calmly.

  Vincent’s pulse found a faster tempo. “I don’t know. No reason. I mean, she kind of looks Middle Eastern…but she’s not a terrorist. Not that I’m saying all Middle Eastern people are terrorists!”