Between

Twenty-five


Vivian scrubbed away blood and dirt in a hot bath, hoping to warm the bone-deep chill that set her teeth to chattering. But the cold had little to do with temperature, and being naked in the tub only increased her feeling of vulnerability and exposure and didn’t help her relax at all. Besides, it made her think of Poe splashing happily in the bathwater, which reminded her of the limp body sliding off Gareth’s sword and onto the moonlit grass.

This memory drove her out of the water and onto her feet, pacing, wrapped in a quilt pulled off the bed for warmth. So many other scenes that she did not want to see played over and over in the theater of her mind. Duncan’s eyes as he died. The bodies swinging from the tree, her tree. Esme begging her for help. As long as Vivian kept moving, she could hold these pictures back, but she could not suppress the voices. They went on and on, an incessant annoyance that would not be stilled.

In her hand she carried the stone key, or what she had assumed was the key, although it bore no resemblance to any item by that name that she had seen in life or on the movie screen. Destroy it, George had said. Very funny. His directions all along had been less than helpful, and this one topped the charts.

The thing was too real to be destroyed. This she knew to be true, even while she struggled to make sense of what this meant. It wasn’t just the unusual weight of it, or how it was black in a way that made obsidian look faded gray. The true strangeness of the key was in the way it seemed indefinably more, as though it possessed an extra dimension, a substance and weight unknown in any of Vivian’s realities.

How could one destroy such a thing? Where could it be hidden?

Briefly, she’d thought of throwing it back into the fountain. Maybe she should have done so, but Gareth would tell Jehenna all, sooner or later, either of his own will or under duress. And she would search the fountain, surely, just as she would search Vivian. Which meant getting out of here, now, and running—

Where? Where in all the worlds could she go that the Sorceress would not find and follow her?

The only hope, if there was any, was to end this. To find a way to destroy Jehenna, to stay alive long enough to make this happen. Or to figure out what the key was for and use it herself. It must lead to some kind of power or Jehenna wouldn’t be so interested. If only George had been able to teach her things.

So hard to think with the clamor in her head, but it seemed clear to her that she must act. Retribution would come in the morning, of this she was certain, and so she must not be here in the morning.

All that remained to be decided was where she would go.

She thought longingly of Wakeworld. George’s cabin was there—he might have books or papers that would give her information about the key and what it was for. Zee would help her—she had a feeling he might possibly even accept the tale she had to tell about Surmise and all that had happened here.

It would be safe, if anywhere was safe.

Until Jehenna came looking for her. Wakeworld was no refuge, and how much further harm would be inflicted on innocent people if the Sorceress turned her attention in that direction? Besides, Isobel must be here somewhere. Esme was in the dungeons because Vivian had been too stubborn to dress for the banquet. Already people had died in Surmise on her account.

And there was only one place in Surmise that she knew to go.

The decision made, Vivian felt a space of calm at her center. It spread through body and mind, ending the shivering, calming the voices, allowing her to sense the doors both seen and unseen that surrounded her.

She unwrapped the quilt from around her shoulders and spread it on the bed, taking time to lay it smooth. Put the gown back on. Checked that the stiletto was safe in the pocket. The key posed another problem. It was too big and heavy to carry safely in the pocket. After pondering this problem for a little while, she tore two long strips from the bedsheets and used them to fasten the key to her thigh. It felt heavy and awkward, but it was hidden by the long skirt of the gown, and a few experimental leaps and twists assured her it would stay in place.

All preparations made, she crossed the room to the tapestry that concealed the walk-in closet, picking up a candle along the way. In the faint, flickering light, the back wall appeared solid, but the voices told her otherwise.

“Open,” she commanded, and the outline of a door appeared.

She shoved the door open, the candle illuminating a spiral staircase curving down and out of sight in total darkness. It was carved of stone, gleaming black in the flickering light. No railing, nothing between her and a plunge into impenetrable blackness.

One hand against the clammy wall for support, she took the first step down, and then another. Beneath her bare feet the stone was damp and slick, treacherous.

Outside the small circle of light shed by her wavering candle, she could see nothing. Each slow footstep echoed, from above, from below, creating the sounds of a phantom army that seemed at times to pursue her, at others to ascend toward her.

She felt suspended in space, with nothing in all the worlds but stairs and the darkness and the wordless murmuring of the voices. With every step the fear expanded, growing into a terror of darkness and of falling. But always she took one more step. And then another.

A fluttering sound, a small gust of wind. Something brushed against her hair. She ducked, lost her balance on the slippery stone and barely caught herself from falling. Hot wax spilled over her fingers and she dropped the candle. It plummeted downward, a tiny glimmer of light in unfathomable blackness, and went out.

Again the brush against her hair. She crouched, shielding her head with her arms, waging war against her fear. Little by little her heart rate slowed, her breathing eased. Whatever was flying around hadn’t hurt her yet. As for this stairway, there was nothing magical about it. It was a real and solid thing; it led somewhere.

Downward. Where the dungeons were.

Tentative at first, she straightened, put one hand against the wall and felt her way, first one step, and then the next. Down and down she went, one slow step at a time, until at long last her searching foot found not another stair, but level floor. Three cautious paces brought her up against a solid wall.

Her hands fumbled for a door, but found none. No handle, no frame, not so much as a crack in the stone. She reminded herself that she was a Dreamshifter, that this was not the first time she’d needed to open a door. But just as she opened her senses to search for a way through, listening to the voices to see if they would offer a clue, she heard the rustle and flutter of a multitude of wings.

Vivian spun around, her back flattened against the wall, to see green eyes glowing in the dark. Not just one pair, but many, hovering high and low. Shrill screeches filled the air. And then one pair of eyes arrowed directly toward her.

Throwing herself sideways, Vivian staggered into empty space and fell heavily on hands and knees. Scrabbling forward on a cold earth floor, fighting the long skirt that bound her legs, she cracked her head against something solid. A flash of stars spun before her eyes. One of the creatures screeched close to her ear and Vivian dragged herself onto her feet, fumbling for the stiletto.

Green eyes dove. She waited, waited, until the thing was almost upon her, and then stabbed at the eyes in the dark.

A scream of pain and anger, and the green lights blinked out, but there were more, too many to count, coming fast. Her hand bumped against a wooden latch, clung to it. It shifted beneath her weight, and she heard a grinding sound. Empty space now where the wall had been. A door. She flung herself through. A wing buffeted the side of her face. Claws raked her arm, tearing through the fabric of the gown and into her flesh.

She slammed the door closed with her shoulder and leaned her weight against it, holding her breath, straining her eyes and ears for anything that moved. Nothing happened. No more sounds, no more green eyes. Only a darkness that seemed deeper if possible, laced with a sharp, fetid stink.

Dragon.

Of course there would be dragons here. Maybe they were locked away; maybe they roamed freely through the network of tunnels and dungeons. Maybe they were waiting for her. This, at least, was a familiar fear. Vivian laughed a little, there alone in the dark, and began to walk in the only direction open to her, one shuffling step at a time.

How far she walked she couldn’t tell. The voices gave no more direction, had receded into a distant buzz. Time and distance were measured by her hesitant footsteps, the beating of her heart, the rhythm of her breath. Her feet and legs began to ache.

When she felt the touch on her face it was no more than a wisp of sensation at first, a thin strand across one cheek, no more alarming than an unruly hair. But it clung, and as she stepped ahead there was another, and another, sticky strands of something across her nose, her mouth, catching in her hair. She tried to scrub them away, but they clung to hands and arms, and she realized there was only one thing they could be.

Webs. Giant webs. Somebody’s nightmare made real.

The sound of her own breathing swelled to fill the darkness. Not just any spiders, then. Dark-dwelling spiders who shunned the light of day. Black widow. Brown recluse. Funnel web. No boundary of reality, either, not here. Why stop at the spiders she knew, not when there were creatures like Shelob and Aragog—giant spiders, with hairy legs and mandibles and multiple eyes that all could see in this dark. Eyes that were watching her now, right this minute, waiting to grab their prey.

Something was surely crawling on her scalp and she swatted at it, shaking her head, running both hands through her hair and bringing them away sticky with webbing too strong to break.

“What kept you?” a voice said, about six inches from her left ear.

Vivian’s heart lurched sideways. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “I’m armed.”

“I’ll be sure to keep my distance.” The voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it. “If you’ll promise not to attack, I can give us some light.”

There was a grating sound, followed by a spark that brightened into a steady glow. At first she shielded her eyes, even from this small brightness, but in a moment she was able to see and recognized the face of the Prince, holding up a lantern in one hand.

The light illuminated countless webs strung across a corridor that led off into the darkness. Behind the Prince was an open door. Vivian caught a glimpse of a narrow bed, bare stone floors and walls. He held the lantern to his advantage, keeping his own face in shadow and illuminating hers.

She blinked. “Where the hell were you? What are you doing down here?”

“Sleeping. Or at least I was until I heard you stumbling about in the dark.”

Vivian looked over his shoulder to the bare chamber, trying to make sense of his presence here. She wanted to shout at him for abandoning her to the ugliness in the arena, and what came later. Instead she heard herself saying, “But you’re the Prince—”

“So why am I sleeping in a cell in the dungeon? Astute question. You may also have noticed I don’t exactly dress in the latest fashion.”

“Jehenna is responsible for this.”

“Actually, no. In fact, if she knew exactly where it is I lay my head, I’m not sure she would approve.”

“Then, what?”

“The old shifter. Your grandfather. He told me you would come, and he left something for you. Come in, and I’ll show you.”

She hesitated, and his face softened. Very gently, he grazed her bruised cheek with his fingertips. “Whatever happened tonight, I truly regret. I—” He sighed. “Please, come in and I will try to explain.”

Trust no one.

But there wasn’t a choice, not anymore. There was absolutely no way she was going to survive unless she enlisted some help. And so she entered, recognizing a whisper of dream as she crossed the threshold.

Landon followed, hanging the lantern on a hook where it illuminated a painting, the only thing that hung on four bare stone walls.

It was life-size, done in oils. Another dragon, serpentine neck, clawed feet, dragging tail, every scale rendered in exquisite detail, wings spread. But the face was yet the face of a woman, just lengthening into a dragon snout, auburn hair blowing back in a tangle of curls. Golden eyes that Vivian had recently seen in a mirror.

Involuntarily, her right hand went to her shoulder, stroking the skin there. Still soft, still smooth. Still human, thank God, no matter what sort of pattern had been tattooed upon it.

“Where did he get this?”

“He didn’t say. Not real talkative, the old one. He also said to give you this.”

This was a notebook with pages pasted into it and a few handwritten notes. Vivian scanned the headings: Dragon Goddess of Borneo, Dragon Queens, Mother of Dragons, The Dragon Ladies. Drawings accompanied some of them, images of creatures part woman, part dragon. Scaly wings and breasts and long human hair.

“Maybe you need to sit down.” Landon’s voice sounded far away, and she barely felt his hands on her elbows as he maneuvered her across the room. When something touched the backs of her knees she collapsed onto a wooden chair, numb, disbelieving.

Fairy tales and myths. Women who had dragon blood in their veins, who transformed at will into dragons. Fine for a fairy tale. Not so fine for a woman named Vivian looking at an image of herself transforming into a monster. She pressed the heels of both hands against her eyes to shut out both painting and notebook. “I f*cking hate dragons,” she muttered.

“That,” said the Prince, “is likely to be a problem.”

“It’s not possible,” Vivian said. “I don’t know what the hell kind of game he was playing at, but this is ridiculous. Where did he get that freaky painting done, I wonder?”

Dream images, long suppressed, spilled over into consciousness. Always there had been the dreams of the dragon pursuing her, but side by side there had been the others—the dreams in which she soared through star-studded night skies on giant wings, the dreams in which fire flamed from her throat.

Getting up from the chair, she moved closer to the painting, scanning all four corners for the artist’s signature. She found it at last, half-hidden by the spiny tip of the dragon’s tail. One angular, stylized letter. Z.

The same hands that had painted the cover of the Dragon Princess book. Had caressed her skin through dream after dream, slain dragons on her behalf, carried the crumpled body of a bird. The same hands, and yet not the same.

Landon stood behind her. “It is said that—she—the Queen—has dragon blood in her veins.”

“What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You don’t know.” His face registered something part shock, part sympathy. “This complicates things.”

“I don’t know what?”

His eyes were grave. “Je—she is Isobel’s mother.”

Vivian stared at him. He waited. And the last fragments of her own carefully created reality dissolved. “My grandfather and Jehenna—” The Dragon Princess fairy tale suddenly made perfect sense—not a fairy tale at all. A knot of pain lodged in her solar plexus. She thought she might disintegrate, the cells that made up her body like so many dandelion seeds drifting through uncountable doors into uncountable dreams.

“Seduction, magic,” Landon said. “She ensnared him. Much harm was done, and in the end he locked her away.”

He taught Jehenna the Dreamshifter lore. He was only allowed to teach it once, and when he tried to give it to Isobel, her mind broke. Fighting for breath, for something solid to hold on to, Vivian managed to ask, “And then what?”

He shrugged. “Apparently she got free. Some years ago he felt her growing stronger, his own power weakening. That’s when he brought these things here and asked me to tell you all of this if you found your way to me.”

In all the worlds, the Wanderer was alone. He’d tried to tell her about what he’d done in a story. An attempt to break her in gently, perhaps. But how could you possibly come gently into the knowledge that your grandmother was an evil sorceress, that your destiny was to transform into a dragon?

“I hate dragons,” she said again, tasting bile in the back of her throat, remembering the body of a teenage boy blackened and smoking on an emergency room treatment table. Duncan and the old man skewered on each other’s swords in the stadium. The hideous thing that had hunted her through all of her dreams.

Herself.

Breathing around the knot of pain that drew tighter with every beat of her heart, she turned her attention back to the Prince. “What happened—between you and my mother?”

Landon’s voice sounded old and weary. “She dreamed me into life, your mother. That’s how it began. She had the Dreamshifter’s blood in her veins, and some dragon blood as well, and with that the power to make her dreams real. She dreamed me a prince, my kingdom only a garden—roses, and a bench, and a fountain. A small kingdom, but more than enough as long as she was there.”

Vivian closed her eyes against this, fisted her hands until her nails dug into her palms, thinking about just such a fountain, and what had happened to her that night. Knowing that her mother’s dream, like her own with the tree, had been twisted and woven into the fabric of Surmise.

“And then?”

“Your grandfather took your mother away to teach her.”

“And Jehenna dragged you and your fountain into Surmise, made you Prince but never King…”

He shook his head. “Hate her for many things, child, but not for that. It was your grandfather brought me here.”

“That makes him as bad as she is—”

But the Prince shook his head. “No. Jehenna was locked away. Your mother’s mind—broke—with the dream sickness and she could not come back to me. My choices were bleak: spend the rest of my life alone by the fountain or be wiped out of existence as if I had never been. He offered a third—that we bring your mother’s dream, and me, into Surmise. He said I would be needed here. And he opened a way into this room for me—that I might live long enough to do what is needed.”

“I—don’t understand.”

“Child—I have lived for more than a century. Without a special room, I would have been dead years ago.”

She just stared at him.

“But my mother—Jehenna—”

He shrugged. “Nobody knows how old Jehenna is. There is some magic that keeps her alive. As for your mother—the Dreamshifters are long lived, and she has Jehenna’s blood as well.”

Vivian struggled to accommodate so many new beliefs, thought about Zee, waiting in the bookstore for her to show up so he could hand over the messages George left with him. Zee, who had painted her transforming into a dragon and had still looked at her as though she were desirable. “So you’ve existed here—all these years—so that you could help me when the time came.”

“That, and hoping against hope that Isobel would find her way back to me. She did, one night, come to me in a dream…”

“And my grandfather knew all of this, planned all of this. He knew Jehenna would kill him.”

“He hoped to find a way to destroy her. He didn’t want to involve you, but he said he feared it was your destiny.”

“I don’t believe in destiny—”

The Prince cut her off with a short laugh. “You, of all people, had better believe.”

Vivian was thinking, and not liking what came into her mind. “Why?” she asked, finally. An inadequate question, she realized, even as it left her lips.

“Because of what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“A powerful woman—one with the blood of Dreamshifter, Sorceress—”

“And dragon.” Vivian’s eyes went to the picture. She shuddered, reached for the comfort of the pendant, and then remembered that this room was in Dreamworld.

If anybody had earned her trust, it was Landon. She hoisted up the skirt to reveal the black cylinder strapped to her thigh. “This was in your fountain,” she said. “Inside a fish.”

He drew an audible breath. His hand reached out as though to touch, then drew back. “I don’t know what it is, but I am certain it should be hidden.”

“He said if I were to find it, I must destroy it. I don’t know how.”

Both were silent for a space of several breaths. At last Landon asked, “What will you do now?”

“Whatever I can. I was—directed—to come here. I believe Isobel might be held here in the dungeons.”

“I’m coming with you.” His face had hardened, no longer vague or even good-natured. He looked dangerous, the fairy-tale prince about to confront the dragon in order to save the princess. “My promise to the Wanderer is fulfilled. I would welcome death with open arms, if it meant that Isobel was safe.”

Vivian nodded, feeling a small warmth at her heart to know that she need not be completely alone.

Landon blew out the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. She felt his hand on her arm, let him guide her back into the tunnel.