“I can’t go tonight,” Archer said. “Law Nine. Tomorrow night for sure.”
“Very well. Keep me posted. I will return soon with news of your new Dreamtreading partners.”
“What about number three? Who’s going to take the Verse District? I was hoping you’d reconsider—”
“I said I will return with news, Archer. Not wait around to deliver the news . . . now.”
Gabriel vanished in a scattering of tiny shooting stars. Archer watched them streak, brighten, and go out. Somehow the stars seemed angry. Master Gabriel certainly had been.
Archer unlocked his bedroom door. When he opened it, he found Kaylie on the other side. She immediately began to whistle. She grinned innocently. For a moment, Archer thought a little halo might appear over her head. He wasn’t buying it for a second.
“Kaylie, were you eavesdropping?”
“Who . . . me?” Kaylie giggled nervously. “I was actually looking for Dad. Oh, but I guess he’s in the basement. Nope, not eavesdropping on you and Mr. Gabriel at all.”
Archer crossed his arms. “Kaaay-lieee, if you weren’t eavesdropping, how did you know who I was talking to?”
Kaylie just smiled. “Well, duh, silly. It was the weird blue glow around the door. Hello?” She pranced away without another word.
Bluish glow, he thought. She’s not supposed to see that. Or . . . maybe she was. Archer thought back to the fateful battle against the Nightmare Lord. It seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t. Not at all. Things would have turned out very differently if Kaylie hadn’t helped out. She was a natural. If only Master Gabriel would see . . .
Archer went back to his room to check his text messages. Nothing new appeared on his phone. All in all, the visit with the Master Dreamtreader had gone pretty well. The prospect of finally getting some help was encouraging. But still . . .
Archer couldn’t banish the unsettled feelings that were crawling around in the pit of his stomach. Gabriel had said things could go very wrong “if the Dream fabric is allowed to weaken.” Archer knew if he didn’t get help sealing up the breaches soon, it wouldn’t be a question of “if,” but “when.”
DREAMTREADER’S CREED, CONCEPTUS 6
Temporal, Ethereal, and Dream.
Three worlds, separated by the unseen fabric from which all things are knit together. Your domain, Dreamtreader—your charge—is, of course, the Dream. But in patrolling and safeguarding the Dream, you shepherd also the Temporal . . . your waking world. Have a care, for this is no small thing. Either by purposeful attack or by sheer decay over time, breaches will appear in the fabric. Dream matter will intermingle with what you would call reality, creating peculiarities that neither world will be able to explain. As a Dreamtreader, your chief concern is to find and seal each and every breach.
Leave the breaches to rot and fester, and they will expand. Like the tide eating away at a castle in the sand, the fabric will weaken. It will grow unstable. Breach will tear into breach, forming larger and larger ruptures in the Dream fabric until, at last, a rift will form. Dream and Temporal will merge, and no citizen of one will know for certain which realm he is in, whether he is asleep or is awake.
All will be chaos as the people of the Temporal realize their new abilities make them feel invincible when they are far from it. People will die by the thousands. And in the Dream, whether a Nightmare Lord sits on the throne or not, there will be terrifying storms. Intrusion waves churned up by the sudden and simultaneous nightmares of millions will boil up and rage across the Dreamscape.
If a rift be allowed to form, all will pay a dear price.
FIVE
NO MORE NIGHTMARES
“WHAT’S WRONG?”
Archer glanced up from the lunch table and found Amy’s owlish gaze surveying him. “Nothing,” he mumbled, again letting the buzz of the cafeteria—teachers droning on the PA, staccato bursts of laughter, the clatter of trays, the slurp of milk, and a hundred conversations—wash over him like a tide.
“Nothing?” Amy echoed. She put her lunch tray down on the table. “I’m not buying it, Archer. You look like you just swallowed a sea urchin, yep. So what’s the deal?”
He exhaled deeply and said nothing. He didn’t mean to be rude to Amy, didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. Kara and Rigby sat at the corner table where they always sat at lunch. Today, like always, they were deep in conversation. And, like always, there were grins, laughs, and knowing glances. It made Archer sick. It was—
“Excuse me?” Amy’s voice pierced the cloud. “Earth to Archer. I’m right here, y’know.” She followed his gaze. Behind her round wire-rim glasses, her eyes narrowed. “Oh, oh, I see it now. You’re still nursing an old crush, aren’t you?”
“What?” Archer snapped suddenly from his thoughts. “Wha-a-t crush? Me? No. Of course not.”
Amy put a hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side. “As if I weren’t here all last year? C’mon, Archer, you were totally crushing on Kara Windchil. I mean, who could blame you, really? Long, perfectly straight, silken black hair . . . dark eyebrows and lashes . . . those weird but alluring blue eyes?”
“Stop it, Amy,” Archer said. “You make her sound like a goddess.”
“She is,” Amy replied. She smirked. “Or at least she thinks she is.”
“Cut it out, would ya, Amy? You’re just as pretty. And I am not still crushing on her. I’m—”
Amy picked up her lunch tray and walked away. It was a strange walk, slow and measured. And then, the look. Amy turned her head just enough for Archer to see a glimmer from her left eye. There was profound happiness in that eye: a kind of joyful lightness and a kindling fire of hope.
What did I say? he wondered frantically. She was the one describing Kara like some kind of gorgeous movie star. I didn’t . . . That’s when Archer got it. I told Amy she was just as pretty.
Archer gave himself a wicked facepalm. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered crossly. He had to admit it was true. Sure, Amy was pretty in a mousy kind of way, but still . . . And her personality, her heart was so much kinder—
Stop. Archer dropped a nuke on those thoughts.
When he looked back at Kara and Rigby, he had a completely different mind-set. Archer shook his head and wondered how he ever could have trusted either one of them. He glanced up at the clock. Five minutes left of lunch. He hadn’t even touched his food. That was something of a tragedy for Archer because food . . . well, food was glorious. But the churning in his stomach warned him that eating something now . . . would not end well.
But, Archer reflected, he had trusted them. His decision. Thanks to his Uncle Scoville’s groundbreaking research, Rigby had learned to Lucid Dream. He could enter the Dream consciously, just like a Dreamtreader. And he’d taught others: Kara . . . and a whole team of kids from his old school. Archer had called them allies, and together they’d routed the Nightmare Lord from his fortress at Number 6 Rue de la Mort.
Routed, he thought. Not quite. The Nightmare Lord had tricked them all. He’d tricked Archer most of all, tricking him into a foolish, tragic move that cost the lives of his Dreamtreader allies, Duncan and Mesmeera. Still, in the end, the Nightmare Lord lost. Archer took some solace in that.
But even that victory felt hollow because Rigby and Kara had claimed the rulership of the Dream. And worse still, they’d begun to market Lucid Dreaming . . . as a business venture. They’d begun taking some of the world’s richest and most privileged on Dream safaris and making buckets of money from it.
Safaris. Archer rolled his eyes. How could Rigby and Kara be so shortsighted? Taking more and more private citizens into Lucid Dreams as if it were no more dangerous than watching lions and gazelles from a touring bus?
They pretended to be just advisors to the company, Dream Inc., but Archer knew better. Rigby Thames was too ambitious, too controlling to let others manage what really amounted to his family’s secret heritage. Rigby’s Uncle Scoville had begun the research and had discovered the m
ethods and most of the rules to Lucid Dreaming, but he’d paid a hefty price for it. His consciousness remained trapped in the Dream, while his body stayed hooked to life-support machines in a wing of Rigby’s basement. No, Rigby was the brains and the will of Dream Inc., and Kara had become Rigby’s right hand.
It’s their fault, Archer thought. Their fault the breaches are multiplying like they are. And if someone doesn’t stop them, they’re going to tear up the Dream so badly that a rift forms.
“No,” Archer muttered. “I’m not going to let that happen.” He stood up, left his tray where it was, and headed for the corner of the cafeteria. On the way, he reached into his jacket pocket and tested Master Gabriel’s scroll. It was still sealed tight. Figures, Archer thought. Well, while I’m waiting for Master Gabriel to get things ready for the new Dreamtreaders, I’m going to take care of things here.
Just then, the bell rang. Rigby and Kara were already moving, taking their trays to the lunch line window. Archer cut them off.
“Hey!” Rigby jerked his tray to the side. “What’re you doing, Keaton? You almost got painted with barbecue sauce.”
“We need to talk,” Archer said. He glanced at Kara. She looked away.
“The bell’s rung,” Rigby said, his voice still spiced with England, where he spent most of his life. “You ’ad to wait until the end of lunch, did you?”
Archer stood his ground, glanced over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Look, Rigby, this Dream Inc. stuff has to stop. You’re ripping too many breaches in the Dream fabric.”
Kara gasped. “Archer!”
Rigby was suddenly there in Archer’s face. “Shut up, Keaton!” he hissed. “Or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?” Archer challenged. And that was a risk. Rigby was dangerous. He’d once taken down David “Guzzy” Gorvalec, the school’s worst bully, with one punch. But Archer knew how to defend himself. He figured he could pretty much hold his own with anyone.
“The teachers are watching,” Kara warned.
Rigby’s brown eyes smoldered. Archer did his best to match, fiercifying his own glare. Their faces were just inches apart. Finally, Rigby looked away.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk. But not here.”
“Where and when?” Archer demanded.
“My house. After school today. Be there at four. Don’t be late.”
Scoville Manor perched like a gargantuan gargoyle on a hill a few blocks away from Archer’s street. It was a towering Victorian mansion: three stories, two protruding gabled roofs, two tall brick chimneys, some kind of attic sub-roof with a widow’s walk, and the whole thing was topped by a dark wrought-iron weather vane in the shape of a galloping horse.
Archer trod up the slushy uneven walk, with Kaylie rushing up onto the porch to push the glowing doorbell button. They waited, puffs of breath appearing and vanishing like ghosts in the unseasonably frigid air. The bell triggered the usual ruckus of barks, squawks, chirps, and growls—the welcome from Rigby’s basement full of exotic animals—until the door eased open.
“You’re early,” Rigby said through the crack in the door. “Kara’s not even here yet. And . . . what’s she doing here?”
Archer put his hand on Kaylie’s shoulder. “She wanted to see the pets,” he said. “Kaylie loves your little zoo so much. She even considers several of the meerkats to be family. And Doctor Who, of course. You don’t mind, do you? She volunteered to feed and clean all the animals.”
“Please,” Kaylie mewed.
“You’ll feed and clean, hmm?” Rigby asked.
Kaylie nodded vigorously, and Archer saw her blue eyes widen and her tiny button lips go to level five pouty. He knew Rigby had no chance.
“I guess it would be all right,” he said. “C’mon, then.”
He led the way down the hall to the kitchen and turned to the basement door. He turned the knob but paused, a wily look in his eyes. “Wait a moment. You aren’t playin’ at something now, are ya?”
“What are you talking about, Rigby?” Archer asked.
Rigby remained undaunted. “Listen both of you,” he growled. “You best not be thinkin’ of trying to visit Uncle Scoville. I’ve rigged a new system on his door. If you so much as touch it, I’ll know about it.”
Kaylie blinked, little beaded tears forming. She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go near him. Never. He scares me.”
“She’s going to see the animals,” Archer said, lowering his voice an octave. “That’s all.”
“Right then,” he said. “Down you go.”
When Kaylie was safely in the basement, Archer turned on Rigby. “If you ever threaten Kaylie, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Rigby asked, a cruel smile forming. “You Dreamtreaders have some sort of code, don’t you? An oath to do no harm or some such?”
“That’s for doctors,” Archer said. He waited a few heartbeats for Rigby to get the point. “Dreamtreaders may have something similar, but my family comes first.”
Rigby turned and went to his fridge. He pulled out a can of soda, sat at the kitchen table, and popped it open. He didn’t offer a drink to Archer, and they waited in silence for several awkward minutes.
At last Kara arrived. She joined Rigby on his side of the table, crossed her arms, and avoided Archer’s eyes.
“So what’s all this about, Keaton?” Rigby asked.
“I told you,” Archer said. “Your company, Dream Inc. You’ve got to shut it down.”
“Shut it down?” Rigby echoed. “Are you mad? It’s the entertainment sensation of the century. Besides, we’re making a killing.”
“Why do you want it shut down, Archer?” Kara asked.
It was the first time she had spoken directly to Archer in months, and to his surprise, there seemed to be a touch of kindness in her voice. That threw him off stride for a moment. “The Dream,” he said, “it’s not for sightseeing.”
“Why not?” Rigby asked. “We’re doing good there, Archer. We’ve set all of the Nightmare Lord’s other captives free. They’ve gone back to their dreamy little lives.”
“While you took the Nightmare Lord’s throne,” Archer growled. “You used me to get rid of him, and then you took over. How can I trust you? You might just turn into the new Nightmare Lord and his queen.”
“Archer, that’s not fair,” Kara said. “We weren’t using you. We stormed his castle together.”
“And left the Nightmare Lord for me to finish off.”
“Is that all you see, Keaton?” Rigby asked. “You think the Nightmare Lord was the only remaining threat? What about the rest of his hounds and henchmen, eh? Who do you think took them out?”
Archer’s words stuck in his throat.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Rigby said. “And it was no easy task, let me tell you.”
“In your wildest dreams, how could you imagine us becoming a Nightmare King and Queen?” Kara asked, an odd tremble in her voice. “Nightmares are the last thing either of us would ever want. Ever.”
Rigby glanced thoughtfully at Kara, but she said nothing else. Archer stared too. He hadn’t heard that vulnerability from Kara for a long time. He studied her. Her expression seemed honest and sincere, but something about her words felt wooden . . . kind of hollow.
Undeterred, Archer pressed on. “We had a plan: finish the Nightmare Lord. That was it. That was the whole thing from the beginning. There wasn’t a step two: take his throne for ourselves. At least there wasn’t one that I knew anything about.”
“The plan changed, Archer,” Kara said. “If there’s anything we know about the Dream, it’s that things can change in an instant. When the Nightmare Lord took us captive, I saw his other prisoners. They were desperate for help . . . we couldn’t just leave them.”
“Your compassion is touching,” Archer quipped.
“See here, Keaton, there’s no call for that. We made a choice in the heat of the moment. So did you.”
“In the heat of the moment?” Archer replied. “Righ
t.”
“That’s exactly right, Archer,” Kara added. “We wanted you to stay with us, remember? You might have chosen that path with us. Then, when the Nightmare Lord returned for his castle—and you know he would have—we could have defeated him together.”
“I needed your help against him,” Archer said, his words simmering. “And you left him to me alone. I could have been killed. My family could have been killed.”
“We couldn’t predict that,” Kara said. “We didn’t even know that physical things could already pass through the Dream fabric, much less that the Nightmare Lord himself could come through.”
“But no one died,” Rigby said. “Your family ended up fine, right? The Nightmare Lord is gone, his captives are free, his hounds are run off, and best yet, there are no more nightmares.”
“What?” Archer blurted. “Of course there are still nightmares. I had one . . .”
Rigby snickered at that. “When?” Rigby leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “When was your last nightmare?”
“It was . . . I . . . I can’t remember,” Archer said.
“When you took out the Nightmare Lord and we took over Number 6 Rue de la Mort, we stopped nightmares from forming. Forever. Do you know what incalculable good we’ve done?”
Archer was truly speechless. No more nightmares? Ever? He thought back. No one in his family had reported a nightmare. And, now that he’d thought it over, Archer was reasonably certain he hadn’t had a nightmare.
“Are you sure about this?” Archer asked.
Rigby glanced sideways at Kara and grinned. “Not a single one. Ask anyone you know. Anyone. Dreams are free from fear now. Thanks to us.”
An eerie muffled howl halted the conversation. Archer tensed, remembering the three-headed monstrosity in the Dream.
Rigby laughed. “That’s just Licorice,” he said.
Archer lowered his eyebrows evenly. “Licorice is a candy. It doesn’t howl.”
“It does when it’s a rare black coyote,” Rigby said. “Mum and Dad got a call from a collector and had her sent over.”