If Souls Can Sleep Read online

  The elf, who had seemed so light at first, grew heavier with each passing minute. Adding to his burden was the hammer, which he refused to discard. His gait was awkward, and the wound in his side protested with every step.

  From a few paces in front of him, his mysterious guide glanced back at him repeatedly, regarding him from behind the expressionless, owl-like mask. Valenthor didn’t have to see the man’s face to sense his impatience. He neither stopped nor slowed after they had left the confines of the town.

  As the grueling hike stretched into eternity, Valenthor’s thoughts faded into a vague awareness of his surroundings. It wasn’t until the man in the mask finally came to a halt that Valenthor truly saw the forest around them. Indeed, the small glade was an island lost in an unending sea of trees. Up above, a sliver of a moon and handful of stars pierced the gloomy sky.

  Valenthor gently lowered the elf to the dew-kissed grass and then collapsed beside her, shivering.

  “So cold…” he muttered through chattering teeth.

  The man in the mask knelt beside him. “You have lost a lot of blood,” he said, gingerly exploring Valenthor’s injury with fingers wrapped in leather. He reached for something inside his coat.

  “Will you to tell me your name now?” Valenthor asked weakly. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

  “Call me Locke.” He held out a small bottle filled with a dark, murky liquid. “Drink this. It will assuage your pain and restore your vigor.”

  Valenthor pulled out the cork and downed the contents in one swallow. It tasted like vinegar mixed with—

  Jägermeister?

  —anise. He coughed until the burning in his throat faded.

  “Why did you save me…save us?”

  The wooden mask remained motionless for a moment. “We have enemies in common.”

  “Sir Angus and his men?” Valenthor asked.

  Locke scoffed. “Forsooth, the knights. Among others.”

  Valenthor pulled himself into an upright position. He tensed, waiting for the pain to lance through his ribs, but numbness had settled over his body. Locke’s drug seemed to have the same effect on his mind. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and surrender to oblivion. Instead, he studied the elf, looking away after several minutes of watching the swell of her chest rise and fall.

  “Do you know who she is?” he asked Locke.

  “I have my suspicions.”

  When Locke didn’t expound, Valenthor said, “She has uncanny abilities…magic.”

  “Naturally.”

  Valenthor licked his dry, cracked lips. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and the cold was already a distant memory. A fog was gathering in his head. He pushed it away.

  “Why do you wear a mask?”

  Locke rose from his haunches and drove the end of his staff into the ground. It stood on its own, a lone sapling in the glade. “Wherefore doth anyone don a mask? I must have something to hide.”

  Valenthor might have pressed the point, but he knew his senses would soon leave him. “My name is Vin—”

  “Valenthor of the Three Rivers,” Locke provided.

  “Actually…” The thought fled his mind, and Valenthor shrugged inwardly. His eyes closed, he said, “We owe you our lives, Locke.”

  The disturbing laugh came again. “Forestall the end of the world, and your debt will be forgiven.”

  ***

  Vincent lay perfectly still in his bed. The throbbing in his head ticked away the seconds. Memories of last night popped into his severely dehydrated brain at random intervals. That first shot with Marc. Playing cards and more drinks. Jokes that lost their luster in the light of day. Talking to Paish about politics, of all things. The softness of her freckled breasts.

  Many pieces of the evening were blurry at best, but he recalled every aspect of The Dream with startling clarity.

  He wondered which was worse, reliving the sins of last night or reflecting upon the insanity that was the continuing adventures of Valenthor.

  Was that my punishment for falling off the wagon and fooling around with Paish? Is The Dream itself payback for letting Clementine die?

  He thought he might be sick, but deep breaths kept his stomach in check. At least Paish had not spent the night in his room. He figured she had either left for home last night—early that morning, actually—or she had crashed on the couch. The thought of facing her kept his back glued to the bedspread until his bladder finally threatened to rebel.

  Slowly, he sat up, got to his feet, and walked over to his bedroom door. He opened it warily and let out a long sigh when he saw the empty living room. Jerry’s door was closed, but Vincent knew he would be at work.

  On the one hand, having the apartment to himself brought some relief. On the other, he didn’t necessarily like being alone with his thoughts. Or his guilt.

  I need help.

  He wandered into the bathroom. The sight of the rust-stained toilet made his stomach quiver. He repressed the nausea, finished his business, and went to the kitchen for some water. Cup in hand, he then headed for the couch but stopped suddenly in front of the desk. On impulse, he pulled open the top drawer and took out an out-of-date phonebook, which he took with him to the Low Rider.

  He opened to the yellow section, searching the categories for inspiration.

  There has to be someone out there that can help me figure this out. My stoner roommate and his self-professed expert on fantasy just aren’t cutting it. And God knows I can’t help myself.

  Vincent flipped through the pages but harbored little hope of finding a professional who specialized in crazy, life-stealing dreams. But then, he spotted a name he knew and decided it must be a good omen.

  Unless I want to share my mind with Conan’s lesser-known cousin, what choice do I have?

  Chapter 9

  A silent wind pelted Milton’s face with icy snowflakes. He knew he ought to be cold, but he couldn’t feel much of anything. Was the numbness a side effect of prolonged exposure to the elements, he wondered, or another symptom of his exhausted brain?

  The freezing air hadn’t dulled his other senses, however. Ever since he had gotten off the bus, still feeling on edge from facing DJ and his peculiar questions, Milton heard his pursuers’ footsteps echoing through the alleyways. Shadows crept along the never-ending line of streetlights behind him. Several times he had stopped to confront them, to fight or to surrender.

  To end the charade once and for all.

  But no one answered when he shouted into the dead, frosty night. And when he stopped to investigate the side streets and small spaces, he found only the silhouettes of garbage cans and misshapen shrubs.

  Milton refused to be lulled into a false sense of security. He knew his enemies were out there—if not on his heels, then lingering farther back, waiting for Mother Nature to do their dirty work for them.

  Stifling a yawn, he trudged through an ankle-deep carpet of snow. There was no heat to be found. The storefronts and apartment buildings around him were lightless and lifeless. He wondered if there was an all-night diner nearby, wondered where in the world he was. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reach any memories to explain how he had come to be there.

  It’s as though that part of my mind is hibernating. Too bad I can’t afford to wait until spring to figure out who, exactly, is after me.

  DJ had said something about the end of the world—right before telling Milton he couldn’t run forever. Was DJ caught up in the conspiracy? He didn’t want to believe it. If nothing else, DJ was too young to be in the CIA. But even more disconcerting than the boy’s words was the wolf on his sweatshirt and his snake tattoo.

  Those images represent the enemy. They symbolize a threat.

  Milton knew he was close to a revelation, but the more he focused on the wolf and serpent, the further the truth retreated. In the distance he heard someone laugh. Or was it the cry of a crow?

  “Why can’t I remember?” The words left his mouth with a stream of
steam.

  They must have tampered with my brain. I discovered what they were up to and managed to escape, but not before they locked the secret away in my mind. They’ll stop at nothing to find me…to keep me from telling the world about their sinister plot to—

  Milton opened his eyes wide and gasped. The street was gone, replaced by a large room lined with lab equipment. He lay on a table. A man with a high forehead and gray-green eyes stared grimly down at him. The man wore a white coat.

  In his white-gloved hand, he held a syringe.

  Then the white glove was gone, replaced by a dark fist clutching a sword.

  Milton pitched forward, nearly falling to the pavement but catching a hold of a snow-covered bench. The cold metal sent a jolt through him, wrenching his thoughts back to the present. Sitting down, he tried to hold onto the face of the man with the bleak gray-green eyes, but already the vision was fading. Staring blankly at the whitewashed landscape, he forgot what was in the man’s hand and then forgot the hand entirely.

  Before the memory was lost entirely, he whispered a single, stray word: “Odin.”

  As though in answer to a password, a door opened in his mind. Milton closed his eyes, eager to explore a memory that hitherto had been hidden from him. Before he could cross the threshold, however, the door slammed shut.

  He knew only an instant of despair before his thoughts were whisked away to another place from another time.

  ***

  Milton sits in a soft armchair with a bold floral pattern. His fists clenched, he says, “You crossed a line, William!”

  Across the room, a windowless parlor adorned with an unbelievable variety of spoons, a man of Japanese descent crosses his arms. He meets Milton’s accusing gaze with a relaxed, almost bemused expression. A ghost of his charming smile glints in his dark eyes.

  “And which line might that be, Milton?” The man’s tone is steady. Polite. Professional. It only fuels Milton’s indignation.

  “For starters, you invaded someone’s thoughts without permission,” Milton replies. “And to make matters worse, you shared your exploits with the entire group without even consulting your fellow officers first. Don’t you think the rest of them are going to try it now too?”

  William Marlowe reaches for a goblet of red wine and takes a dainty sip. He’s the only one in the room wearing a suit, the only member of the Lucid Dreaming Society who would ever think to wear a tie to a meeting.

  “Why shouldn’t they try it?” William asks mildly.

  “Because it’s reprehensible!” Milton shouts.

  To his left, sitting on a sofa—covered with the same big, red roses as Milton’s chair—a woman clears her throat. “Let’s all just take a breath, and we can discuss the ramification of William’s discovery.”

  “The four of us should have done that before bringing it before the full Society,” Milton snaps, glaring across the room at William. “Or, better yet, before our vice president attempted something so dangerous.”

  “Be that as it may…” Annette says, her Southern drawl making “may” sound more like “my.” “We have an opportunity to talk about it now. Can I get you some more tea, Milton?”

  Milton tears his eyes away from William’s, glances at the nearly empty mug, and says, “No, thank you.”

  Annette smiles warmly. She’s a big woman, her girth occupying all of one cushion and a fair portion of the neighboring one. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back into a long ponytail. She has a pretty face but wears too much eyeshadow. Her penchant for gaudy jewelry is outmatched only by her generosity.

  “Maybe you should start at the beginning, William,” Annette suggests.

  At the other end of the couch, the fourth LDS officer chews on a pencil, intently studying the blue shag carpet. Milton wonders if he is even listening. Cormac hates meetings at Annette’s house because he can’t smoke. Milton considers reminding Cormac that the role of secretary includes taking notes but then thinks maybe this conversation would be better kept off the record.

  “Certainly, Annette.” William sets his wineglass down on a coaster made out of needlepoint. “We already know that naturals can find one another in their dreams, creating a shared dream experience. Members of the LDS have been doing that with varying degrees of success for many months.” His eyes meet Milton’s for an instant. Turning back to Annette, he adds, “We also know it is possible for naturals to visit non-naturals in their dreams, as with Janet and Keith.”

  “Janet and Keith are members of the Society,” Milton interjects. “They let us in willingly.”

  William continues as though he didn’t hear him. “The next test, obviously, would be to learn if naturals could enter the dreams of non-naturals who did not expect him or her to show up.”

  “An unsuspecting victim,” Milton mutters.

  “Milton.” Annette speaks his name with a tone usually reserved for a fidgeting child. To William, she says, “And you were successful?”

  William shrugs and reaches for his wine. “I already told the Society exactly what happened. While drifting off to sleep and, then, while in a dream state, I focused on the subject…” He clears his throat. “…on the woman who cleans my condo. There was initial resistance…an unconscious reaction, I’m sure…but she did not seem surprised to see me. I had predicted as much. She knows me, after all.”

  Cormac looks up for the first time. “What do you suppose would’ve happened if she didn’t know you…like if you disguised yourself or something?”

  “Only one way to find out, I suppose,” William replies cheerfully.

  Milton scowls. “He crossed a line. Am I the only one who sees that?”

  “But, Milton, isn’t that the point of the Lucid Dreaming Society?” William asks. “Didn’t we come together to break through the barriers of modern science…to penetrate the deepest reaches of human understanding?”

  Milton rolls his eyes. “Damn, that’s poetic, Will.”

  “Language!” Annette scolds, adjusting a gold broach perched atop her ample bosom. Three bejeweled owls watch Milton warily.

  “I’m sorry, Annette, but it is our duty, as officers, to develop guidelines for the members of the Society, not only for their own good, but for the good of a public that is unaware of our existence.” Milton takes a steadying breath. “We must pass a motion banning the intrusion into the dreams of non-members.”

  Cormac grunts and removes the mangled pencil from his mouth. “That’s a bit hasty, yeah? Besides, normal folk won’t be the wiser. They’ll think it’s all part of the show, just another crazy dream.”

  “That’s not the point!” Milton shakes his head, as much out of disgust as to clear his thoughts. “And what if you’re wrong, Cormac? Think of what harm would befall the Society if the world’s first impression of naturals, we seemingly ordinary human beings who were born with such an extraordinary ability, is that we are bunch of voyeurs…or worse!”

  Cormac shrugs and resumes gnawing on the pencil.

  William leans forward. His fingers are steepled. His elbows rest on his knees. He’s in full-blown psychologist mode. “Encountering people in their dreams is not unlike running into them on the street. So long as we adhere to the ethics that govern us in the waking world, we have nothing to fear.”

  Milton notices that William always says “waking world,” not “real world,” as most other LDS members do.

  “In the real world, there are police to punish those who violate the law,” Milton says. “In the dreamscape, we have an unfair advantage. Who will ensure that we don’t sacrifice our morals in this pursuit of knowledge?”

  William doesn’t miss a beat. “We are good people, Milton. We watch out for one another.”

  “The Society is a family,” Annette adds. “And as you pointed out, it’s our job, as officers, to keep everyone safe…naturals and non-naturals alike.”

  Milton winces. It doesn’t surprise him that Cormac, who always struck him as something of a brute, is siding with William Marlow
e. But he had hoped Annette would understand the hazards that surely lie ahead if LDS members started dropping into the dreams of friends, loved ones, colleagues…

  Annette smiles warmly at Milton. She isn’t stupid, he thinks, just hopelessly naïve.

  “Without rules, we condone anarchy,” he says to her, but his words are directed at William.

  “We all swore an oath to behave ourselves and to be discreet,” William says. “By thinking up new rules, we needlessly limit our potential.”

  “Snooping around other people’s subconscious seems like a big detour on the road to self-discovery,” Milton argues.

  Annette claps her hands once, drawing everyone’s attention. Dimples frame her big smile. Though Milton is angry with William, he imagines himself smacking the grin right off her face when she says, “Let’s vote on it, shall we?”

  Cormac says, “Nay,” without hesitating, followed immediately by William. Annette appears to consider the issue for several seconds before throwing in with the others. Now Milton feels like he was slapped in the face.

  The discussion turns to what Annette, the Society’s president, should say to the other LDS members so that they exercise caution if they attempt to enter a non-natural’s dream. In the end, Annette decides she will remind everyone that unseemly behavior is grounds for immediate expulsion from the Lucid Dreaming Society, at the officers’ discretion.

  Milton hardly hears the conversation anymore. And when Annette finally gives William an obligatory reprimand for not sharing his discovery with the officers first, Milton doesn’t bother to chime in. Breathing evenly in spite of his pounding heart, he can’t decide which is more frustrating, that William got his way again or that he didn’t see this crossroads coming a long time ago.

  The meeting ends, and Cormac is the first to leave, an unlit cigarette pressed between his lips. Annette clears Milton’s teacup and William’s goblet. Milton tries to follow Annette out of the parlor, but as he walks by, William takes him by the elbow. Clenching is teeth, Milton reluctantly faces the man.