Dreamfire (22 page)

Dustine hadn't been telling him to back off; she had been letting him know that Josh wasn't the only source of information available to him.

“Oh, man,” he said. He didn't know if he felt better or worse now. He started to turn back the cover and heard the sound of Josh's crutches hitting the floor in the kitchen. Without thinking, he stood up, tucked the book under his shirt, and went into the hallway. He hit the stairs two at a time.

Will couldn't remember being this concerned about a pile of pages since he saw his first girlie magazine years before. He entered the Weavers' apartment without hesitation and gave Kerstel a quick, casual wave as he passed through the living room. For the first time, the bedroom he had been given didn't feel so large and empty; he realized the doorknob had no lock. He pulled down the shades for no logical reason and opened his math textbook on the bed for a cover.

For an instant, he wondered if he really wanted to read Ian's diary. Would beginning on a path of small deceptions be worth knowing what happened last summer?

But he knew Josh would never tell him. And he would keep on walking into traps the way he had today; he would keep on triggering her fears until the day came when the stress was too much for both of them and she told him to get out.

He pulled back the book's cover.

Glued to the inside cover was a column cut from a parchment scroll. Someone had blacked out two lines with a Sharpie:

Hianselian Ambrose Donovan Micharainosa

Two boys born—alike as mirrors

flame and fount in eye of Seer.

This one burns his wick to ashes

and keeps burning, never still,

brewing anger out of passion,

for a void he'll never fill.

One day of majority

gives these words all authority.

His own heart he will forsake

while grasping at the reins of life.

Is love made or what we make?

He will not take true love to wife.

Wrongly he thinks his pain greater

than the injury he pays her.

Another's love he will abuse,

“free and hardened heart” he proves.

On the wrong door he goes knocking

and is met by Queen's outcast.

A door evil is quick in locking—

there to be torn fore and aft,

and seek not of kith but kin

for a sound sanctum therein.

Death has her own tales to tell,

but those I do not know so well.

On the first page, a piece of notebook paper.

Dear Ian,

I know you don't want to talk to me or see me or whatever, so I'm going to write this down because it's important. Haley just gave me a note saying you convinced your mom to move out. I know you're mad at me, but it's not fair to punish your family. Haley couldn't say it, but he doesn't want to go. I don't know what moving would do to him.

I don't know what else to say. If you have to leave me, I wish you wouldn't do it like this. You're taking the coward's way. You're better than this, I know you are.

Josh

On the second page, a note torn from a steno pad:

June 25th
To: I. McKarr
From: H. McKarr

   
1. Ring

a. I returned the ring to the store.

b. They gave me a full refund.

c. The salesclerk sends her condolences.

   
2. Moving

a. G. Carane has agreed to let us live with her.

b. G. Carane lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

c. Baton Rouge is over six hundred and seventy (670) miles away.

The scroll and notes were glued into the journal. A small plastic baggie was stapled to the fourth page. It was full of ash, but the burning had been hurried enough that Will could sift through and find bits of photo paper.

There was one more letter.

Dear Ian,

If I could think of a way to make this easier for you, I would. I'm aware of how pathetic that must sound, but it's true and I mean it.

My whole bed is covered in these notes now. Writing takes longer than talking but I don't mind. Some things are hard to say out loud. I know because I've been trying to say them for months now.

You know what I want to write next but I'm not going to. I don't want to put you under any obligations and I don't want to add to your burdens. I know what trying to get over someone is like, for reasons that should be obvious to you, of all people. I know how you feel. Don't listen to Whim, he doesn't have a clue. His scroll says something about Deloise, and he's still working up the guts to tell her what it is.

As for Josh, all I can tell you for certain is that if you can't be with her because of your scroll, then you'd only be hurting you both by staying with her. She should be able to understand that.

I'm going to tuck this under your door and then go to bed, but if you decide to write back, there's one thing I have to ask: Do you think I'm a horrible person because of how I've treated Haley?

Okay, good night. Maybe we can continue this tomorrow night at the cabin.

Yours,
Winsor

The rest of the journal was empty.

 

Eighteen

She had almost
gotten him killed. She had almost gotten them all killed.

Josh sat in history class the next day, stewing. She sat next to Louis Poston, and Will sat across the room, staring out the window at a day that had never really dawned. The sky was still dark, the fluorescent lights overhead helpless against the gloom. In the hush that filled the classroom, Camille Gothan had torn a nail while clipping it, and that Korean kid who never talked, Man-Shik, had unexpectedly produced a silk hankie to stop the bleeding. Brianna Selts had managed to take her bra off without removing her shirt, but then made the bad decision to hand it to Jay Appleton, who passed it around the classroom to be autographed.

Josh didn't know why she had decided to sit beside Louis. Maybe she was a glutton for punishment, sitting next to him and wishing that he had just done his damn job and delivered the pizza to her house five weeks before.

The grass is always greener,
she reminded herself. If Louis had arrived instead of Will, the problems would have been the same. Or maybe worse. After all, Louis had parents who would have found it odd when he started spending so much time at Josh's house, doing things he couldn't talk about.

His parents would have been terribly upset if Josh had gotten Louis killed.

She already had one death on her hands. She couldn't handle another.

That morning, she had woken up with Ian's voice in her ears:
I saw a gate beyond the arch.
She had rolled right off the office futon, saying as she fell, “I don't remember letting go of your hand.”

And she didn't, but she must have, because he had slipped out of her grasp and into the Dream, into that terrible, dark nightmare with the broken windows and the sound of distant explosions.

Then she had arrived at school to find all the hallways and classrooms decorated for Valentine's Day, which had been her and Ian's honorary anniversary because they'd been together for so long that neither of them could remember when they'd first started dating.

Sixth grade,
Josh thought
, when he punched Eddie for calling me puny. Fourth grade, when he gave me his dessert every day at lunch. Kindergarten, when he asked me to hold some flowers he was picking for his girlfriend and then ran away.

Ian had died because of her stupid, arrogant foolhardiness. She couldn't let the same thing happen to Will. She didn't even want to talk to him, look at him, think about him, do anything that might lead to caring about his well-being, because she was beginning to believe that she couldn't protect him.

She knew she had been so upset the day before because she already cared about him too much. Far,
far
too much.

She forced herself to glance at him, sitting two rows over and a seat ahead of her. Resting his chin on a propped palm, he stared out the gray-washed windows at the cloudy, drizzling day beyond.

At she watched, he lifted his head and turned to catch her staring at him. She winced, wondering if her gaze held some weight he could sense. His look for her was so earnest, an apologetic almost-smile on his lips, but too sad for a real smile. Then he glanced at Louis, sitting beside her, right between them, and whatever vestige of a smile he had worn slipped away. Josh opened her mouth to say, “No, wait, I didn't sit here because—”

But, of course, she had.

The bell rang. “See you, Josh,” Louis said, and Josh mumbled some appropriate reply while shoving her book into her backpack. She fumbled with her crutches, hoping she could catch Will before he left the classroom. But Jay Appleton pushed past her, and she saw Will reach the front of the row. Before he could get away, she let her crutches clatter to the floor, dumped her backpack on the nearest desk, and hopped forward so that she could grab Will's arm too hard, her fingers digging into his sleeve.

“Sorry,” she told him. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

Then she hugged him.

Her apology was inelegant, she knew. She probably sounded like a third-grader being forced to make up after a playground mishap, but maybe Will didn't care, or maybe he knew that however plain her words, she meant them, because he didn't hesitate at all before hugging her back. He hugged her completely, his arms wrapped all the way around her back, and she was so relieved by his response that she pressed her face to his shoulder so he wouldn't see her expression.

“It's okay,” he said. “Forget it.”

“No, I was terrible to you.”

“You were scared.”

Oh god, did he see through her so easily?

“I
was
scared,” she admitted, and for an instant, just a fleeting half thought, she considered telling him about all her fears and all her failures. But no—
no, no, no
—he would lose whatever faith he had left in her.

Reluctantly, she let go of Will and stepped back, one hand on a desk to steady herself. “I'll listen next time,” he said, and he laughed ruefully. “I swear, one of these days I'm going to learn to listen to you.”

Josh laughed with him. Despite her relief, though, she felt mystified by how easily their conflict had been resolved. Why did he always make things so easy for her? And
how
?

He swung her backpack onto his right shoulder, his own bag hanging from his left. He was smiling at her again, a real smile. He said, as if she had asked, “It's going to be fine, Josh.”

She felt herself smile back. She wasn't sure she believed him, but she wanted to.

*   *   *

Josh had an idea during sixth period, but she had to wait until she and Will were alone at home in the library to bring it up.

“I was thinking,” she said, “about the man in the trench coat.”

“Which one of them?”

“The first guy we saw, that taller one, without gloves. Let's call him something.”

“How about Snitch, since he's willing to talk? At least, relative to the other guy.”

“Good. Snitch. I've been thinking of the other guy as Gloves. Anyway,” she hesitated an instant before going on, “I don't think there's any doubt now that the two of them can alter the Dream.”

She felt relieved when Will immediately said, “I think you're right. Which shouldn't be possible unless they're dreamers.” Then he hesitated, just as she had. “Or, according to Whim, the True Dream Walker.”

“The True Dream Walker is a legend. Did Whim get to that part?”

“Winsor made it pretty clear.” Will rubbed the back of his neck; Josh had thought for a while that he had a disc problem before realizing it was a nervous gesture. “Whim also said that the True Dream Walker is your guiding light and that's why you wear his symbol.”

Josh laughed. “He's not my guiding light. He's a legend. I wear his symbol because I believe in what his legend stands for, and I like to be reminded every time I go into the Dream.”

She held the pendant out for Will to examine. “Supposedly, the True Dream Walker built the first archway to the Dream, and when he did, he gave the original dream walkers five charges: compassion, commitment, courage, modesty, and might. The plumeria has one petal for each charge, and because the petals form a spiral, it's also a symbol for the Dream.”