Rigby stopped walking a moment and drew Kara off to the side of the school steps. “Listen, Kara, who was this fellow? Not one of the club members, eh?”
“No,” she replied slowly. “No, it was just someone I met when you told me to go explore.”
“I wonder how this man found you,” Rigby said. “I purposefully set up our training arena far from populated areas in the Dream. Did this person ask for anything?”
“Only the dance.”
“Did he try to give you anything?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“It bothers me that some dream being found you, that’s all,” Rigby said.
Kara put her hands on her hips. “It was just harmless dancing. That’s all. I was in full control the whole time.”
“And you’re certain your dancing partner wasn’t someone you imagined into being?”
“I’m positive,” she said. “You’re scaring me, Rigby.”
“A little fear’s not such a bad thing, love,” he said. “The Dream can be a perilous place.”
Kara rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm. “Can we go again . . . tonight?”
Rigby eyed her warily a moment and said, “Of course we can.”
Kara actually leaped for joy. “I’m not going to be able to think straight today at school. Or tonight? I hope I can cross the REM sleep threshold quickly. But what to do? Another planet? Fly on a dragon? Be a queen?”
“Move on!” a teacher called out from the top of the school’s steps. “Get to homeroom, people!”
“Tough to decide when anything’s possible,” Rigby said, taking her arm. After a few steps, he stopped. “Wait, did you just say ‘REM sleep threshold’? Where did you . . . ’ow do you know that term?”
Kara blinked a moment but then brightened. “You told me,” she said. “You were talking about your uncle’s field of research, the REM sleep threshold and all that complicated stuff. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t, actually,” he said. “Funny, that.”
Kara sighed and lightly touched his shoulder. “Rigby, what time can we go?”
“If I finish my homework by nine, I’ll hit the sheets around ten.” Rigby scratched his head. “It usually takes me about a half hour to get to sleep. I’m sure I’ll be out cold by 10:45 or 11:00. I’ll come get you after that.”
“What are you two talking about?” Bree Lassiter asked, bounding behind them.
Rigby took Kara’s arm on one side, Bree’s on the other. “The club, of course,” he said. “Whatever else is there to discuss?”
It was a rough Monday morning for Archer. The Dreamtreading missions over the weekend had been exhausting. That plus chores and homework were more than enough to drain his batteries. He was late to the bus stop and had to sprint to get the driver’s attention. He nodded off in the back of the bus and banged his head on the emergency exit latch. He got off the bus dead last, just in time to see Kara Windchil slam the new kid Rigby Thames with a crushing embrace.
Figures, Archer thought, shaking his head.
“Did you finish the lab write-up for Chem?” Amy asked.
Archer blinked. That little corner vault where half-remembered truths are kept swung wide open. “Awww, man, I took it home but never finished it.”
“Archer, it’s 40 percent of our grade!”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Dead man walking here.”
“Sit with me at lunch,” she said. “I’ll help you finish.”
“I don’t want to copy.”
Amy slapped his shoulder. “I wouldn’t let you copy,” she said. “But, I’m better at Chem than you are. I can be . . . your resource, yep.”
Archer stopped walking and looked at his friend. She wore her wintery-blond hair back, always. No makeup, ever. Sweats, T-shirts, or jeans . . . and an occasional spring dress, but nothing trendy. Still . . . she was pretty in a mousy sort of way.
He stopped his line of thought right there. This was, after all, Amy Pitsitakas he was thinking about. Longtime friend, reliable, steady as the sun, and twice as cheery. Not quite on Kara’s level, but still, a friend.
“Thanks, Amy,” he said. “I can definitely use the help. Either that or face Dr. Pallazzo’s wrath.”
“Wouldn’t want that.” Amy giggled over her shoulder as she walked away.
As if a TV channel changed, Archer’s thoughts went back to Kara and Rigby Thames. He watched them, practically arm in arm, chatting like neighbors as they entered the school’s front entrance.
I wish I knew what they were talking about.
Archer wandered to homeroom. He had a lot on his mind and one more day to wait until Gabriel’s next expected visit. It was a weighty burden to bear alone. Forty-two breaches one night, fifty-seven the next. Things were getting out of control. And on top of that, he’d been tricked into a blood pact with Bezeal. Gabriel was certain to flip out.
He flopped down into his seat, opened his binder, and skimmed his schedule of classes. American Lit and Math before lunch; Psychology, Gym, and Chemistry after.
“Snot buckets,” he muttered. He’d brought the Chem book instead of Math by accident.
He strode up to the teacher’s desk. “Mrs. Snodgrass, I need to go back to my locker for a different book.”
“Best hurry,” she replied. “Announcements are about to start, and you know Mrs. Mears will be doing hall sweeps.”
“Can’t you write me a pass?”
“It’s your responsibility, Archer,” she said. “Hurry up.”
Archer took off at a trot, ducked through the seniors meandering through he hallway, and charged to his locker bank. He hit his combination without a hitch, reached for his Math text, and froze. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Guzzy Gorvalec and his entourage of bullies. Archer didn’t think they were looking his way, but they were definitely moving in his direction up the hall.
Archer knelt to keep as low a profile as possible and feigned searching for a book. But his eyes kept darting toward the approaching threat. Guzzy looked agitated, angry. The rest of his cronies just looked tough and mean. They were deep in some conversation as they passed behind Archer. He heard snippets of what they said until they’d moved out of range.
“. . . better think twice,” Guzzy had said.
“Done it before,” said another voice, maybe Devery Gates. “. . . do it again.”
“You thinkin’ Gallows Hall?” a third voice, high and whiny. Definitely Randall Pell.
“Friday,” Guzzy said, “. . . right after Gym.”
When Archer sat down again in his homeroom, he didn’t focus much on the morning announcements. He stood up absently and robotically recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Gallows Hall was the not-so-pleasant nickname students had given to the infamous dark hallway near the gymnasium. If there was going to be a fight or any kind of illicit deal, Gallows Hall would be the place. And if Guzzy and his crew were involved, things could get very bad in a hurry.
It was ten o’clock at night, and Archer couldn’t find his father.
“Dad?” Archer called down the basement. “Dad, you on the computer?” There was no answer.
He checked the den. Not there. He leaned over the couch and looked out the picture window. His father’s car was there. Where is he?
Archer strode out into the kitchen. It was dark. So was the dining room beyond. But light gleamed from the glass doors leading to the screened-in porch. He remembered how his mom, when she was alive, always forced his dad to go out on the porch to smoke his weekly cigarette.
“It’s only one cigarette a week, honey,” he’d told her so many times.
“It’s one cigarette too many,” she’d always told him. “Out you go.”
Archer moved slowly toward the glass doors. His dad was in his usual chair in the corner. He could stare out over the backyard hill, down to the well. Archer cringed. His father’s hand held a still-burning cigarette and trembled. He’d been smoking more than once a week lately, Archer
knew, but the tremors were a more troubling development.
Ever since the nightmares started, Archer thought.
He opened the sliding glass door slowly so as not to startle his father. “Dad, it’s getting kind of late,” he said. “Why don’t you come on in?”
His father took a long drag on the cigarette and didn’t turn. “Just enjoying the cool breeze,” he said.
Archer didn’t think his father was enjoying anything at the moment. “It’s not a cool breeze, Dad,” he said, rubbing his upper arms. “It’s cold.”
His father shrugged and flicked cigarette ash.
Anchors.
The thought drifted unsolicited into Archer’s mind. Dad’s lost his anchors. He’s drifting now. Archer walked around the little glass table so he could face his father. “Dad, look at me,” he said.
Archer’s father turned his head so slowly it gave Archer the creeps. There seemed to be way too much white in his eyes. He looked terrified.
“Dad, I want you to listen to me,” Archer said. “That dream you had the other night. That’s a bunch of bunk. You know that, right? You did everything for Mom. You took her to talk to the pastor twice a week. You worked two jobs. You flew her all over to all the specialists. And when she was going, you stayed at her bedside and held her hand.”
He blinked exactly one time. “Should have done more.”
“Remember what Mom said to you at the . . . at the end?” Archer asked. “She said you were the best man she ever knew, that she’d wait for you in heaven. She never blamed you. Not one bit.”
There came such a scream from somewhere in the house that every hair on Archer’s neck, arms, and legs stood straight up. It had been a terrible shriek, high and wailing. Kaylie, Archer thought at first, but there was something in the pitch or tone. Not Kaylie. Buster!
“Dad, that’s Buster!” Archer rounded the table and raced for the stairs. His father’s slower footsteps followed.
Leaping into Buster’s bedroom and hitting the lights, Archer stopped cold. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw. There were Buster’s feet, flailing frantically by the headboard. There was a sheet waving around, and there was the sound of Buster’s screaming and crying, but Buster’s head was not visible.
Archer didn’t waste another second. He ran to the bed and discovered his little brother had somehow pushed the mattress askew on the box spring and managed to fall through the gap in the headboard. And he was thrashing violently.
“Buster! Buster, stop!” Archer cried out. “Don’t! You’re going to cut yourself!”
Archer’s father appeared. “I’ve got his feet,” he said. “Gentle now. Let’s get him out of there.”
Archer grabbed one of Buster’s shoulders and used his other hand to try to hold his head steady. But it was tough, a lot tougher than Archer thought it could be. Buster was strong, and he was out of his mind with terror. Finally, he slid free. But his forehead was bruised, and his nose bled.
“No, no, no!” Buster cried. “I don’t wanna die! No! Please!”
The way Buster said “please” ripped Archer’s heart. “Buster, it’s a dream!” he said. “Look at me! Buster, look at me!”
Buster finally blinked. His eyes narrowed and he flung himself at Archer. He grabbed Archer so hard that he couldn’t breathe. But then Buster slid off of him and flew at their father.
Archer watched them embrace and was glad for it. Maybe a hug was just the thing his father needed. But one thing was certain: Buster hadn’t needed that nightmare.
“I was at the beach, Dad, y’know?” Buster explained. “I got caught in a reef and couldn’t paddle out. That’s when the shark got me. Dad, I saw its teeth bite down on my leg. It wouldn’t stop. There was blood everywhere, and the thing just kept biting down. It just kept biting me!”
Archer made fists so hard his knuckles cracked.
TEN
THE LURKER’S TOYS
“A THIRD HAND MIGHT’VE PROVED THE DIFFERENCE,” Mesmeera said, creeping up the tunnel behind her Dreamtreading partner.
“What? Archer?” Duncan replied, finishing each word with a huff. “He’s a loose cannon.”
“If he is a loose cannon,” she replied, blowing a sandy-colored lock of hair out of her eyes, “then he is because he followed after you. He’s strong. That’s all I’m saying. We may miss his mental muscle before we’re through.”
“Not likely,” Duncan replied. He stopped at the fork in the tunnel and worried at the scraggly edge of his red beard. “Most of the Lurker’s threat is an overdeveloped legend. After all, he’s a Lucid Walker, not a Dreamtreader.”
“Still,” Mesmeera countered as she crouched beside him. “You know what Master Gabriel would say. He’d—”
“Master Gabriel’s Incandescent Armor would go supernova if he knew what we were doing right now.” Even in the shadowy passage, Duncan’s eyes blazed. “To put it mildly, Master Gabriel would not have approved.”
“Perhaps . . . we should have appealed to his greater wisdom.”
“Look, we made our choice when we crossed the Archain border. How could we pass up an opportunity to end it, to burn Number 6, Rue de la Mort to the ground forever?”
“But can we trust that weasel?”
A bell tolled, its clear tone rolling up the tunnel. Duncan counted. “Nine bells,” he said. “We’d best keep moving.”
“Agreed,” she said. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
Duncan made up his mind. “We go left,” he said. “And to answer your question, I don’t know. Heaven help me, Mes. I just don’t know.”
The left-hand tunnel wound deeper through the hard stone of the cliff side, rising and falling, opening enough so they could stand or tightening to the point where Duncan and Mesmeera could barely crawl. On and on they traveled until, on a slight incline, Duncan abruptly stopped.
“Not a dead end?” Mesmeera said.
“No, no dead end. Don’t you smell it?” he asked.
“Smell what? Other than the musty stone, I—” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyebrows, cheeks, and upper lip converged, scrunching in the center of her face. “Oh, oh, that’s . . . that’s horrid. No, beyond horrid. Abominable.”
“Few scents are as distinctive as rot,” Duncan replied. “There are dead things ahead, but something else too.”
“Something sharp,” she agreed. “Almost chemical.”
“I think chemical is precisely what it is,” Duncan said. “The Lurker is known for such things.”
“Do we go on?” she asked.
“We are Dreamtreaders,” he said. “We rule the Dream.”
“Shepherd, you mean, not rule?” she said quietly. “Right?”
Duncan didn’t answer. He turned and continued the gradual climb. One toll of Old Jack later, he signaled a halt. “Ten bells,” he whispered. “And we’ve come to the end of the tunnel. There’s a chamber here. Ah, the smell is so strong here. Barely breathable.” He knelt at the edge and motioned for Mesmeera to join him there. “Careful. Don’t overextend, but look. What do you think?”
“Odd for a delved tunnel to empty out so high on a wall,” she said, squinting.
“I thought so as well.” He peered out of the round, three-foot-wide opening. Outside of the tunnel, the chamber floor was a drop of at least fifteen feet. Likely more.
“That rotten smell is aggressive here,” Mesmeera muttered, gazing down into the dark room. “Biting and pungent. I can only imagine what’s down—Oh. I definitely don’t care for these accommodations.”
“What do you see?” he asked. “Your eyesight is better in the shadows.”
“You really don’t want to know.”
“Nonsense, Mes. What’s down there?”
“Devices,” she said. “Wheels, chains, racks, manacles, and all manner of pointy things. This is a torture chamber.”
Duncan swallowed. “Perhaps you’re right. I didn’t really want to know.”
Mesmeera focused her will. A narrow flight
of stairs materialized. She clambered out of the tunnel and stood, sweeping her heavy cape behind her. Then, fierce green eyes shining in the twilight, she drew her twin daggers and began her descent.
Duncan lingered a moment. He eased back against the tunnel wall and looked behind him. He’d heard something back up the passage. No, not a sound. It was more of a shift in air pressure, like a pulse.
Mesmeera called in a breathy whisper, “You coming?”
Duncan took one last look down the tunnel, shrugged, and followed his partner into the chamber below.
Each new breath brought a gust of decay. Breathing became a chore. Then, he stopped on the stairs. I am an incredible idiot, he thought. He looked down at his hand and willed a little green bottle into being. It was McPhereson’s, the strongest cologne he could think of. He splashed it all over his cheeks, under his nose, and even soaked his beard.
He was suddenly overwhelmed with ginger and lime. “That’s obnoxious,” he muttered. “But better.”
On the ground, the Dreamtreaders paused. Mesmeera stared at the floor and strode a few paces. “There are dark stains,” she said.
“Blood,” Duncan said, catching a chill. “It trails away.”
“In all directions.” Mesmeera made a deep rumbling sound in the back of her throat. “Still think the Lurker’s abilities are just legend?”
“The Lurker chooses to dwell not far from the Lord of Nightmares,” Duncan said. “What did you expect?”
“Still,” she said. “Something lingers here . . . besides the stains and the stench. It is as if misery is in the air.”
“I feel it too” he said. “This may be the best place to anchor.”
“Here?” Mesmeera asked.
Frowning, Duncan said, “It is most likely that danger will find us here. Anchor first.”
“Anchor deep,” she replied.
Only they were not anchoring first at all. The two Dreamtreaders had been in the Dream for ten strokes of Old Jack, but they had waited to anchor.
“A get-out-of-jail-free card,” Duncan had called it. His plan: if things got ugly, the anchors would be close by, allowing quick escape.