“Ewww,” Buster said. “Kara’s a girl.”
“Uh . . . yes,” Archer replied. “Pretty much.”
“Grody,” Buster said, and he scampered back down the hall making very little a sound.
The storm continued to rage on, but another siren pierced the night. Archer cringed as he lay down on his side. He glanced at his phone. The little envelope icon was blinking.
Kara’s most recent reply:
Well, on top of this freak storm, I just had a really bad dream.
It felt like an ice-cold needle ran up Archer’s spine. He texted Kara:
What kind of bad dream?
A few rumbles of thunder later, the Barney tune announced Kara’s reply:
You’ll think I’m a nut. It was just a dream. No big deal.
Come on. Tell me.
After several heart-racing moments, Kara texted:
There was this scary guy with white eyes. He had someone tied down to a table. I’m not sure who it was, but somehow, I knew it was someone I cared about. The white-eyed guy he stared at me. And he had . . .
Archer clicked on the text twice, but that was all there was. It just cut off. Then came another Barney text chime.
. . . a knife.
Archer caught another chill as a new text came in.
I thought he was going to murder the person on the table. But, Archer, he handed me the knife. And I did it . . .
Did what? Archer wanted to scream at the phone.
The text came at last:
I killed someone. I can’t believe it, Archer! Why would I do that?
Kara’s dream flooded Archer’s mind. He wasn’t afraid. He was angry. And he was making it personal. He texted Kara back:
That’s so messed up, but listen: it’s just a dream okay? Not real.
But it seemed so real.
Listen, I know you. You would NEVER do something like that.
The wind whistled and howled outside. Kara’s next text seemed to take forever. Sheets of rain slapped at the house, and there was one final stone-shattering crack of thunder. Then all went quiet.
Kara’s text finally came:
K. Thanks. I needed to hear that. Night.
And that fast, the surging anger came back. Archer popped up out of bed, strode down the hall, vanished into the blue bathroom, and shut and locked the door. He flipped on the light and took off his shirt. Keeping his head turned so that he could still see in the mirror, he rotated his shoulders . . . and then hissed.
A stinging, pencil-thin welt striped his back. “How did you do that?” Archer whispered. He began searching his memory, the years he’d spent Dreamtreading. He’d been injured a hundred times while on missions, but it had never turned into something real.
“I have got to finish this,” Archer muttered. The Nightmare Lord had begun pushing the envelope. He’d gone too far. Kara’s dream and the burning wound on his back had made that clear. Something had to be done. Something drastic . . . and soon.
Back in his room, Archer started for his closet but stopped at a bright flash of lightning. It had startled him again, but that wasn’t why he stopped. In the flickering light, he’d seen something on his bed. Now, even in shadow, among the rumpled sheets and covers, alien shapes stood out. “What?” he whispered, flipping a corner of a sheet. He grabbed up his cell and aimed its waking light to see better.
Two dead leaves. A black feather. A segment of cold, iron chain. Archer blinked away a memory of ravens, swirling darkness, and fire. Then, he whispered, “I’ve never brought anything back before.”
His cell phone held high, spraying the bed with light, Archer reached for the chain. He jerked his hand away once, involuntarily reacting. But when his fingertips brushed up against the metal, there was no shock. It was just cold. So was the feather. The leaves too. It was as if these things had been outside in the night. He placed the items on his bedside table . . . carefully.
With a shudder, Archer went to his closet, moved the boxes heavy with sports cards and trophies, and found a particular metal suitcase. Archer turned the three combination wheels in turn. The container opened like something inside was taking a deep breath. Pale blue light shone through the crack as the lid lifted. Archer reached inside and removed a book covered in worn, dark leather and bound with silvery thread. The lettering of the title, The Dreamtreader’s Creed, still glowed faintly.
“This is what I need,” Archer whispered. “I can always get answers here.” He removed the book. The cover was well worn from all the time he’d spent studying. Right from the beginning, the Creeds had helped him understand things.
Archer had known he was different all along. He dreamed differently than other people. He could do things in the dreams, control things, make things happen. The Creeds had explained all that. He’d been born a Dreamtreader, one of three people on earth given unique gifts to be used within the Dream to protect—well, everyone. Turned out, dreams weren’t the harmless things most people thought they were. They could be dangerous. And there was a lethal enemy in the Dream.
“And I am way behind in my reading,” Archer whispered. He took the book in one hand and closed the case. He hadn’t taken three steps back to his bed when he heard sniffling.
And there was Kaylie standing in his bedroom doorway. Her strawberry blond pigtails seemed to droop, and her puffy, cream-white face was as sad as melted ice cream. She clutched her quilted pink blanket and Patches, her scarecrow dolly, as if someone might try to steal them away. Tears ran down her cheeks, her tiny button-sized bottom lip stuck out, and her chin trembled.
Whatever anger Archer had felt toward her from the cell phone incident ebbed away at the sight of her. “Awww, Kaylie,” he said, glancing from his little sister to his book and back. “What’s wrong? Is it the storm?”
Her head bobbed. “The quasi-linear convective system produced a series of microbursts and straight-line winds near hurricane intensity . . . and it scared me.”
In spite of her genius-level mischief, Archer couldn’t help himself. He put the Creeds back in the closet, went to Kaylie, and scooped her up. “I think the storm’s pretty much over,” he said, hugging her close.
“I know,” she said, sniffling. “But I’m still scared. Can I sleep on the floor in here?”
“Uhhh . . .” Archer sighed inwardly. He needed to get back to The Dreamtreader’s Creed. He desperately needed to train his mind, needed to get stronger . . . but . . .
“P-please,” Kaylie mumbled, a sob threatening to break out.
“Oh,” Archer said, putting her down. “Okay, but you’ll have to keep quiet. I have to read—”
“Tell me a story,” Kaylie said, her blue eyes glistening, huge, and hopeful.
Archer sighed. “Okay. One story coming up.”
Kaylie’s tears seemed to vanish, replaced by a luminous smile. She ducked out of the room and returned in a flash with two blankets and several pillows. She snuggled into the whole pile right beside Archer’s bed.
“Okay,” he said, staring thoughtfully at Kaylie upon the pillow bed. “Ah, yes. I have it now. I am going to tell you a story about a princess who lived in the clouds. But first, here.” He handed Kaylie his cell phone. “I need you to fix this. No more Barney.”
“Have any candy?” she asked.
THREE
STORM DAMAGE
“WHOA!”
A collective gasp went up from the students on the bus. Even the driver, Miss Farber, seemed impacted by the sight. She slowed the bus to a crawl.
Archer had never seen so many downed trees. The corner of Laurel Lane and Route 14 looked as though a giant had karate-chopped through the forest. What had been tall white pines or scraggly pitch pines were now just trunks knocked down like dominoes, some uprooted entirely and others snapped at the trunk base.
“See, I told ya!” Jay Stephago said, poking Archer. “A tornado rolled through here. Look a’ those trees. See.”
“It wasn’t a tornado, Bunk,” Archer replied
using Jay’s nickname. “It was a derecho. The wind didn’t swirl; it came straight on. That’s why the trees all fell the same direction.”
“How you know?” Bunk asked, his mop of brown hair swaying in front of his tiny, restless eyes.
Archer was silent a few ticks. He sighed and then muttered, “Kaylie told me.”
“Oh,” Bunk said. “Guess it’s probably true then.”
Archer shook his head. “Thanks, Bunk.”
“I still think it was a tornado,” Bunk said. “I saw this show on cable where these tornado chaser guys . . .”
The bus started rolling again, the grinding of gears overpowering conversation. Archer stared past Bunk to the front of the bus where Kara Windchil sat with Emy Crawford, Bree Lassiter, and a pack of other Dresden High glamour girls.
She used to always sit with me, Archer reflected, the thought leaving a bitter aftertaste. Halfway through ninth grade, Kara had changed her hair, letting it grow out till it flowed like a cape of black silk around her head. Then, a whole new set of friends discovered her, and . . . she just changed.
He watched her for a few seconds more, wondering if maybe she’d turn and wave or wink . . . or something. He turned back to the window and sighed. And waited. And hoped.
A thump on the seat startled him. He jumped.
“Sheesh, who’s the scaredy cat now?” It was Kara.
“I guess, I am,” Archer said, laughing. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Get any sleep last night?”
“Not much,” she said. “But . . . it was better, after we talked. Thanks for saying, you know, what you said.”
Archer shrugged. “Dreams can get pretty bad, but if you know yourself well enough, they won’t hurt you.”
“Yeah,” Kara said. “And I guess, coming from an expert like you, I should probably be able to trust that advice.” She got up abruptly and went back to sit with Bree and the other girls.
What had set her off this time? One minute, she seemed to show genuine gratitude. The next, she was really mad. Just like that, Archer thought. Man, I just can’t figure her out. Not anymore.
Archer’s father had once told him never to try to understand women, but Kara? Kara had been different. He trusted her. She was the one person who knew him well enough to suspect he had something secret going on. In the end, she was the only one he ever told about Dreamtreading. He couldn’t help it. She’d cornered him one day, a little more than a year back.
He’d been reading The Dreamtreader’s Creed in the family basement that summer afternoon. He was in so deep that he didn’t pay any attention to the doorbell when it rang. Archer’s father had let Kara in and sent her to the basement to find Archer. He hadn’t even seen her standing there. He had no idea how long or what she’d heard. Archer remembered the awkward conversation word for word.
“Archer, what’s the matter with you?” Kara had asked.
“What?”
“Archer, what book is that?”
“Book, oh, uh . . . this?” Archer had closed the Creeds and thrown a blanket over it. “It’s nothing, just an old book of stories. You know, like fables and legends, that kind of thing.”
“That’s not like any book I’ve ever seen,” Kara said, stepping closer and peeling back the blanket. She gasped. “I was right. The title is glowing.”
“Kara,” he said. “This is kind of private.”
“What are you into, some kind of cult?”
“What? No!”
“Well, what is it then? You were chanting or something.”
“That was forms.”
“What?”
“Kind of like karate,” he said. “You know how you run through a series of movements with your body, blocks and strikes? It’s like that, only with your mind.”
Kara peeled back the blanket even more. “That sounds strange,” she said. “But then again, you always were a little weird.”
“Thanks.”
“The Dreamtreader’s Creed?” she mumbled. “Okay, Archer, start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”
“You won’t believe me,” Archer argued. It was the last card he could play.
Kara said, “Try me.”
There had been no dissuading her. She’d interrogated him all summer long, and he’d told her everything. When school began that fall, Archer was afraid she’d tell someone. But she hadn’t. Not a soul.
Even when conflicts strained their friendship, Kara had kept his secret.
Kara and Archer had sat on a little bench not far from the well in his backyard. “What’s going on, Kara?” he asked. “This feels serious.”
“It is,” she said, smiling sweetly. The hint of green that tinged her blue eyes seemed more prominent somehow. In fact, her eyes danced with eagerness. “I need to ask you a favor. A big one.”
“Oh, is that it? You had me worried.” He laughed.
She didn’t. “You know that thing you do?” she asked, her tone cautious, her features tense now. “Dreamtreading?”
Archer felt the bottom drop out of his gut. He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one else was in the backyard. “Look, Kara, I already told you everything I can.”
“But you left out something pretty big.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how to do it, Archer? I want in. I want to be a Dreamtreader.” She had seemed eager before. Now, there was a feverish intensity about her. Archer could feel her expectations weighing on him.
He wanted to hide under a rock. No, he wanted to dig a trench under the rock, come out on the other side of the planet, and then hide under the Great Wall of China. Ever since the summer, Archer had been afraid of this moment.
At last, he said, “You can’t be a Dreamtreader.”
Kara’s expression hardened. She leaned back against the bench and swiped the hair out of her eyes. “Why not?” she demanded.
“It’s something you’re born with,” Archer said. “Like a talent. Like being able to draw. Some people can, and some can’t.”
“But everyone can learn to draw, a little,” Kara said. She turned to him and took his hands in hers. “If you have a good enough teacher, right? You could teach me, Archer. Will you? Please.”
“It’s not like that,” Archer said. He wished more than anything that he could help her, that he could teach her. “I asked.”
“What do you mean?” Kara dropped Archer’s hands and crossed her arms.
“Remember, I told you there’s a lead Dreamtreader, the highest ranking one? After we talked this summer, I asked him if you could be a Dreamtreader too. He said no. And he didn’t leave any room for argument. There are always three and only three Dreamtreaders at a time. Something about mirroring the Perfect Three, whatever that means. I’m sorry.”
Kara stood up. “Sorry?” She laughed, but it was more out of anger than mirth. “Sure you are. So what makes you so special anyway? My grades are just as good. I’m very creative. I could be a Dreamtreader.”
“I wish you could, Kara,” Archer said. “I begged Master Gabriel, but he . . . well, he’s set in his ways.”
“Fine, Archer,” Kara said. “Keep your secrets.”
“Keep my—Aren’t you listening to me?” Archer watched her walk away.
Is she still stuck on that? Archer wondered. It wasn’t his fault.
Archer saw a ripple of slender fingers appear five seats ahead. A pair of bespectacled, owlish green eyes glimmered amiably above both the seat back and an open book. The fingers rippled again.
Hi, Amy, Archer thought, giving her a half-wave, half-salute back. The Salute-Wave—one part friendly, two parts cool.
Amy rolled her eyes and laughed. Archer laughed in spite of himself. He’d known Amy Pitsitakas for almost as long as he’d known Kara. Since grade school, it seemed like they’d always been on the same bus, but Amy’s bus stop was several miles from his own.
Flashing lights distracted Archer from his thoughts. The storm had knocked down some power lines
just up ahead. Emergency vehicles and men dressed like bumblebees surrounded the area and slowed traffic even further. Archer stared intently at the downed trees and houses with torn-up siding. As the bus crept through the damaged neighborhood, Archer muttered, “Please, please, please . . .”
Dresden Senior High School was the oldest high school in the town of Gatlinburg. It was the oldest school in Washington County. In fact, it was the third-oldest school in the state of Maryland. So it was almost a given that Dresden High would have storm damage from the derecho, possibly extensive damage. Obviously not enough to hurt anybody or close school, Archer thought, but maybe enough to scramble regular classes.
A couple of hours in study hall or in the gym would be just enough time for Archer to put in the Dreamtreader training session he so needed. He patted the bulky backpack in his lap and hoped for the best.
Dresden High School had been miraculously spared by the storm. Except for the Internet.
A lightning strike had fried the school’s server, so it would be a week or two before the students could use online resources. Mrs. Sullivan, Archer’s first-block American Literature teacher, had reported the damage sum total with a gleam in her eye . . . right before she assigned the essay topic.
That’s it? Archer silently grumbled. The thunderstorm of the decade, and the only damage to the school is lost Internet? Feeling pangs of disappointment, Archer glanced down at his backpack. The Dreamtreader’s Creed would have to wait, as Mrs. Sullivan had made it abundantly clear that the essay would not wait for the Internet.
Fifteen minutes into the essay, a door closed sharply. Archer blinked to find he’d been doodling strange, twisting vines in the margin of his rough draft on Hawthorne’s short story “Rappaccini’s Daughter.” There was also a rather awkwardly placed spot of drool.
Archer discreetly slid his elbow across the offensive dripping. Then he heard hushed voices and looked up. His eyes widened. Mrs. Mears, the principal, was there, dressed as always in an expertly tailored business suit. She looked like she should be CEO of a tech company rather than Shepherd-in-Chief for a bunch of teenagers. She and Mrs. Sullivan were deep in conversation . . . apparently over the tall young man who stood by the door.