Six
Vivian was mopping up water and picking up broken glass and flowers when the full implications of Mr. Smoot’s murder finally reached her. On her knees in the middle of the wreckage, the fragrance of the bruised roses filling her senses, it occurred to her that the woman who had so easily walked out of her apartment carrying the box of crystal globes was very likely the same woman who had murdered Mr. Smoot.
Hands shaking so that it was hard to press the buttons, she dialed the phone number listed on the letterhead of her grandfather’s will and was not at all surprised when the secretary denied any knowledge of a Jehenna working for the firm. She called River Valley Family Home and was told there was no news to report. After a long hesitation, she looked up the number for the Spokane Police Department and told a bored-sounding receptionist that she might have information in the Smoot case. The receptionist thanked her for the call, took her number, and said a detective would be calling her back.
Vivian very much doubted this call would be happening anytime soon.
Her insides were shaking, an intolerable sensation that drove her to pacing the apartment, aimlessly picking things up and putting them down. She considered trying to repair the broken dream catcher, but the hoop was crushed and fractured in a number of places and she set it aside. She turned on the TV and turned it off again. Sat down at her computer and opened Facebook and then closed it. There was nothing she could say and she was not interested in anybody else’s news at the moment.
She found herself wondering how her grandfather had died, and the thought that perhaps he also had been murdered threatened to push her over the edge and into hysterics.
“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. “Do something useful.”
Her life with Isobel had provided plenty of practice at calming herself during anxiety-provoking moments, and she forced herself to run through the list of the tried-and-true. A few deep breaths. Some intentional muscle relaxation. Intellectual exercise to move her brain away from emotion and worry into the arena of logic and reason. There were new books to be read.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders to counteract the chills, she brewed a cup of tea and settled down to leaf through the volumes Zee had insisted on lending her. A Practical Guide to Lucid Dreaming was the first. The first few chapters described the practice; the rest of the book offered instructions on how to begin and develop the ability. This one she set aside—the idea of exercising some control was attractive, but her dreams were all too real already. The second was a scholarly tome, A History of Dreaming, with articles by psychologists from a variety of different approaches. Opinions ranged from Freud’s belief that all dreams were sexual in nature, to Jung’s theories of the collective unconscious, to the modern belief that dreams were meaningless artifacts of memory and experience. Book number three, The Door, was written by a psychic. Precognition, dream interpretation, all appealing topics but not something she could settle into. Not now.
The fourth book set her heart to racing. The Dragon Princess. At first glance it looked like a picture-book fairy tale.
Another look made it clear this book was not for children.
The cover art was a strange and beautiful painting of a creature half woman, half dragon. The wings and tail and sinuous body, twined around the letters that made up the title of the book, were all dragon. The upper body—naked breasts and all—was pure woman, and the face and body were Vivian’s own.
The image jolted something loose that had been locked away deep inside her, a dream that she kept even from herself. No clear memory, only flashes of flight, wings, flames, and danger. A very strong compulsion urged her to get up and toss the book out a window. Instead, she exhaled between her teeth and opened it, to find that the whole book was written in a script now familiar, a spiky black hand that matched a certain note in her pocket.
THE DRAGON PRINCESS
In all the worlds, the Wanderer was alone.
Once there had been others, but one by one they had grown old, or fallen prey to monsters. Some had suffered the failing of the mind that came sometimes from walking through too many dreams. Others grew weary and returned to their homes to die.
His body didn’t change. As long as he kept moving, from dream to dream, the curse of age would not catch up with him. Half a century of adventure, and still he passed for a young man.
A responsibility came to him, now that the others were gone: to choose a mate, to make an heir to carry on. It had been impressed upon him, generation after generation, that he must choose wisely. Perhaps because of this, in one world after another, Dreamworld and Wakeworld and in Between, he had failed to find a woman he could love. Through one door after another he passed, closing each one behind him with care, until he was drawn at last into Surmise.
Exactly what Surmise was he didn’t know, not then. When he walked through the door on that fateful day, he knew only that he stood upon mountains at sunset. Against a sky ablaze with crimson, the dragons were flying. Something about them spoke to the ache in his heart—the fierce, wild glide, the way each held itself apart, even while flying in formation. Tears glittered cold on his cheeks and he spread his arms wide, as though he, too, could fly.
A voice startled him.
“Good evening, Dreamshifter.”
She sat on a rock in the shadows. Little more than a child, he thought, seeing the thick cloud of auburn hair falling all the way to her waist, a face as open as a flower. Her eyebrows, uptilted slightly over hazel eyes, gave her a quizzical expression at odds with her air of assurance.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” he’d said, as he was bound to do. There were secrets to be kept.
Sliding off the rock, she glided over to stand beside him and without hesitation slipped her hand into his. It was slightly cold and felt small and defenseless. He tucked both her hand and his into his pocket, wanting to warm it.
“Tell me,” she commanded, tilting her oval chin up to look into his eyes. Hers were extraordinarily clear, seemed to look directly into him and read what was so carefully hidden.
When he didn’t answer, she pulled her hand away. “You mustn’t lie to me. I am a princess.” It felt a loss to him, weary and heartsore as he was, as though her hand had already become a part of his, belonged here, curved inside his fingers.
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “Not now.”
The princess smiled for him, returning her hand to the warmth of his pocket. “You love the dragons, I can see,” she said, and he nodded. Words seemed distant and unreal, in another world, through an endless series of doors that he could not begin to hope to reach. The dragons blurred before his eyes, doubling, trailing sparks.
After a lapse of time he became aware of her tugging at his arm. “This way. I know a place where you can rest.”
He followed her into a shallow cave. A nest of dry grasses provided a warm soft bed, and at her urging he lay down, allowing her to play with his hair and sing him off to sleep. A dream, it seemed to him, a matter he had not the power to resist. In the middle of the night, with sleep weighing him down, he woke to soft hands caressing his body, and without ever fully waking or opening his eyes he made love to the princess there in the cave.
A dream within a dream, he thought, waking much later to a dim gray light. A dangerous matter, but he had walked through many dreams and his mind had always brought him back, at last, to Wakeworld. Turning to his side, his hand fell onto her tumbled hair, along a rounded arm and onto her naked breast. She stirred and opened her eyes, smiling a slow smile. Her hand reached for him again, stroked his thigh, and he felt his flesh stir at her touch. He had been a long time alone.
“No,” he gasped, trapping the hand in his and holding it away, aghast at the thing that he had done. “I—am older than I look.”
A soft laugh greeted this remark. “I, too, am older than I look. Do you want to know my true age, Wanderer, or shall we keep these things a secret between us?” Before his eyes she changed, a woman grown, young, old, and in between, laughing all the while. “Tell me, if I do this—or this—shall you really tell me no?” And all of his objections were swept away in a rush of passion the like of which he had never known or imagined.
In all the worlds.
And since she knew already what he was, and what he did, bit by bit she coaxed the truth from him. Days later, when he was so far gone his thoughts were barely his own, she murmured into his ear, “Teach me.”
He laughed, and spoke the truth. “There are rules. I can teach only one person—one successor. My child, or my grandchild.”
“You have children then? Where are they?”
“No. I have no child.” Something stirred, a memory of why he had come, and what he was seeking. He put his arms around her and stroked her shining hair. “You might give me one, and I will teach him everything I know.”
She pushed him away, pouting. “Why must it be a matter of blood? I can learn—you know I can.”
It was too late to begin to resist her. He felt the danger, the coil of power she had wrapped around him. In that instant it occurred to him to wonder why she never took him down into the village, never had contact with another living soul. If she was a princess, why did she live in a cave at the top of the mountain, always within sight of the dragons? Where was her castle, her servants, where her kingdom? Dimly he recognized sorcery at work but found himself helpless before it.
“I promise to give you a child when you have taught me.”
When he thought of leaving her, it seemed to him that he must die. And he must have a child. Thus it was that he took her by the hand and led her through the door by which he had come into Surmise. And after that another. And another. He taught her all the ancient secrets, so that he might keep her ever by his side.
She kept her promise. Her belly began to swell as a child grew within. There came a day when she chose not to join him in his wandering. “It is time for the baby to come. I must rest.” He longed to stay with her, but she commanded him and he was not able to resist her will.
And so he went about his tasks alone—maintaining the doorways, as he had been taught, keeping them closed that the reality of one world might not flood into the reality of another.
When he returned to look for her, she was gone. The cave at the top of the mountains was empty. He asked after her in the town of Surmise but each time he asked, he saw eyes wide with fear, and each and every citizen of that land denied any knowledge of a princess.
At last, an old man, tottering on his feet and with a beard down to his knees, responded to his question. “I have no fear. Am I not about to die? What can she do to me? You speak of the Sorceress, the Dragon Queen. No princess she. Time everlasting she has come and gone, grasping ever for more power. All of Surmise is her weaving.”
That was all. He would say no more.
Things began to go badly for the Wanderer. Doors would not stay closed. Madness spilled into one world after another as the doors to Dreamworld stood open, as one dream flowed into another, became a river of dream that flowed at last into Surmise. As fast as he could run he closed the doors, only to find them open again behind him.
Year followed year, a long and weary time. At long last, after traveling through door after door, always seeking, ever alone, he found her wandering in a meadow, a chain of flowers in her hair. She looked as she had when he first laid eyes on her, ever young, ever beautiful.
“Where is the child?” he asked, keeping a distance between them.
“She is safe.”
“You promised—”
“And I have kept my promise. I bore you a child. One last thing I would ask of you, beloved.” She crossed the distance between them and took one of his hands in hers. “I would see the key to the Forever.”
He pulled away, shaking his head. “No. That is the one thing I cannot show you.”
She kissed his lips, pleaded with her eyes. “You do not love me.”
“I do. More than my own soul, gods help me, and I have broken all the rules for you save this. This one line I will not cross.”
“Tell me then, if you cannot show me. About the key, and where it leads. And then I will take you to your daughter.”
All men sin, at need. The Wanderer was no exception. He was weary and alone and desired greatly to see his child. And so, he told her the thing of which he was never to speak.
The Sorceress smiled then. “She is in Surmise, as she has always been.”
“But I have looked for her there—”
She only smiled, and her smile told him how wrong he had been to tell her, and what he must do to try to set things right.
“There is something I have not yet shown you; come with me.” And she followed him through one dream, and into another, until at last he opened one final door and stepped aside.
“It is empty,” she said. “There is nothing there.”
“Ah, but if you stand at the center, it will be full of the greatest treasure.”
She laughed at his flattery and entered, always seeking to learn new secrets. Behind her back, before she could turn and lay a command on him, he closed the door behind her, and put a seal on it, meant to last for happily ever after.
He left her there and went away to do his work and to find his daughter. As for the Sorceress, she knew two things the Wanderer did not know, not then, though he learned them later to his great sorrow.
One, the blood of dragons ran through her veins, and as everybody knows, the magic of dragons can do what the magic of man does not understand.
Second, and perhaps most important of all, she knew the truth of Happily Ever After: that in all the worlds, no such thing exists, not even in a dream.
Vivian let the book fall closed in her lap, turning it upside down so the disturbing front cover was out of sight. She shivered, letting all of the implications of the story run through her. After a little while she got up and put on her coat. She put the book into the bag and carried it with her out through the door, locking it carefully behind her.
This time she wasted no time outside the bookstore. A bell jangled as she entered, and Zee appeared at once from behind a stack of books. His face lit up at first sight of her, then sobered when he saw her expression.
Vivian stalked across the floor, jerked the book from the bag, and thrust it into his hands. “Explain.”
Furious and frightened as she was, still she felt her heart turn over as she watched those hands run over the outrageous cover.
“I was afraid you’d take it this way,” he said after a long silence.
“How else should I take it?”
His lips twisted into a mischievous grin. “Amazement over the sheer brilliance of the art, that would be good.”
Already the anger was running out of her, but she stiffened her spine and kept an edge of harshness in her voice. “I’m not hearing any explaining.”
He sighed. “Sit down, why don’t you? This might take a while. Let me put the Closed sign up.”
And Vivian sat as directed, watching his smooth stride as he crossed to the door, the way he moved with incredible lightness for a man so tall, the way his hair fell over wide shoulders, the narrowness of his hips…
She averted her eyes as she caught herself admiring his ass, reminded herself that she was angry, had a right to be angry, and that he was not to be trusted.
“Coffee?” he asked, and she nodded, worried her voice would betray her if she spoke.
He brought two mugs and sat down across from her as he had done yesterday, only now everything was changed because the book lay on the coffee table between them. “All right—ask what you want to know.”
“Who painted that cover?”
His jaw tightened and his free hand twitched. But he met her gaze when he answered, “I did.”
“But how?
“It was commissioned. I was given the title, told how the image should look.”
“But—you hadn’t met me. My eyes, my face—” My body.
“I dreamed you.”
The words fell like stones into a pool, and both of them sat in silence as the ripples of implication spread.
She felt the heat rise to her face at the thought of him dreaming her naked, felt her breath catch in her throat. When she was able to find words of her own again, her voice sounded like it belonged to somebody else.
“How did you get the book?”
“From him. He said you would walk into the store someday and I should give it to you.”
“My grandfather said this.”
“Is that what he is to you?”
“If we are talking about George Maylor, then yes. He is my grandfather. Was.” An unexpected grief washed over her. She had seen the old man only once, but always she had believed he would come back for her. The loss of all he could have taught her was enormous. Besides, he was the only family she had other than Isobel, and just knowing he was out there somewhere had made her feel a little less alone.
Averting her face to hide the tears she was unable to blink back, she missed Zee’s reaction to her words, but there was a new tension in his voice when he answered her.
“Was? You speak of him as though he died.”
“This morning. I just found out. His attorney came to tell me, to bring me the will.” So much easier to tell the story this way, even though she had come to realize that Jehenna was far from being anybody’s attorney.
“That,” Zee said, “changes everything.” He turned the mug between his hands, back and forth, forehead creased, eyes distant.
Thinking. Making a decision. She knew the look, had seen it on the faces of hundreds of patients making choices about life and death. This treatment, or the other one. Try chemo or accept the inevitable. Life support, or organ donation.
At last he set down the mug, very gently. “There’s something else that he left for you. You’ll have to wait a minute—it’s upstairs.” He got to his feet, paused. “You will wait, yes? I think it is important.”
“I’ll wait.” Where else was she to go? She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet up under her, cradling the hot mug with both hands. All the world was shifting around her, but at least the coffee remained the same.
No more than a couple of moments and Zee was back with a manila envelope in hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down across from her. “About your grandfather. And—about the book. I know my painting you must seem strange—”
“Stalker strange.”
“I told you, I dreamed you.”
“That’s really not helpful.” He had dreamed her naked and half dragon, had been moved to paint her from dream. Her face flushed again at the thought of those hands painting the contours of her naked breasts. “It’s not just the picture,” she made herself say. “Did you read the story?”
“Yes.”
“Does it make any sense to you?”
“It’s meant to be more than a fairy tale.”
“That’s what I thought. But I don’t know what.”
The envelope was thoroughly sealed, wrapped in layers of packing tape that refused to give to her fingers. Vivian dug the stiletto out of her pocket, flicking open the blade with a touch of her finger on the release.
Zee whistled. “That even legal?”
“It works,” she said, slicing through the tape in one smooth gesture. She didn’t know about legal, but the bone-handled stiletto was comforting and familiar.
Inside the envelope lay a single sheet of paper. Vivian recognized the handwriting, her name at the top.
“How long have you been holding on to this?”
“Nine years.”
She felt herself staring, pressed the palms of her hands flat against the table to steady them. At last she asked, “And the book?”
“The same.”
“Just waiting for me to walk into your store one day.”
He shrugged, then leaned toward her. This close she could see the fine umber lines running through the translucent agate of his eyes, noted the dilation of his pupils, felt his breath stir her hair. “Yes.” His voice was husky and low. “Always waiting.”
Vivian’s heart was too big for her chest, thudding against her ribs. There was a real danger that she could get lost in his eyes. If he kissed her—
She tore her eyes away from his, breathing hard. Out of her peripheral vision she watched him lean back again in his chair.
Don’t look at his hands, so close to your own on the table. Don’t think about his lips, or try to sneak another glimpse of those eyes.
A ready distraction lay on the table in front of her, a note that had been in this man’s possession, waiting for her to claim it, for so many years. George had written:
Vivian,
I swear to you, my intentions were good. How you must feel, thrust into the maelstrom without warning or preparation, I can only imagine. But the war with Jehenna is a thing of my creation, and I believed it mine to carry it through. If you are reading this then I have failed, and the burden of my sins falls on your shoulders.
Each Gatekeeper may teach only one successor, and I gave that to Jehenna. When I tried to teach your mother—well, you have seen the results of that. I dared not try again with you, lest your mind also break. You will have to learn on your own.
Beware—Jehenna’s power is subtle and great and she will try to twist all those who might help you. Be careful where you place your trust. She seeks the key to the Forever—understand that you must keep it from her, even should this cost you your life. Destroy it if you can; it is not a thing that should have ever fallen into human hands.
You will have to journey to Surmise, which is as good a place as any to look for her. It’s easy enough to find—all dreams lead to Surmise, soon or late, even though it lies in the Between.
You are strong—you may well succeed where I have failed.
George
P.S. Tell the Warlord—seek Excalibur.
And that was all. Somewhere a clock ticked off seconds in the silent room. No other sound but Vivian’s uneven breathing, and Zee’s, measured and slow.
After a moment he got up and walked away. Came back with a fresh cup of coffee, which he set on the table in front of her. “Drink,” he said.
Vivian obeyed, several long swallows, feeling it burn all the way down into her belly.
“Well?” Zee said at last. “You look like I handed you a hydrogen bomb on a timer.”
She managed a shaky laugh at that. “When you met him, did he seem crazy to you?”
His brow furrowed, thinking, and then he shook his head. “Crazy? No. Eccentric, I’d call him.”
“Eccentric how?”
“Well, giving me these things to keep for you, when I’d never met you. Buying that painting and making it into a book. He called me Warlord all the time—Vivian, what is it? Are you all right?”
At his use of the name, the room restricted down to a small circle: the chair she was sitting on, the warmth of the ceramic mug in her hands, the fragrance of coffee, the low table with its scarred chessboard, a game half played, across from her, half risen from his chair, frozen in time, a man with agate eyes and a face scarred beyond recognition, long hair bound back with a leather thong, callused hands bloodstained, holding a sword—
“Vivian?”
She blinked. Managed to draw breath. Zee’s hands were stretched across the table toward her, and his voice said again, insistent, “Are you all right? Do you need to lie down?”
It was possible to shake her head no, she did not need to lie down. She held up one finger to signify that he should give her a moment. Air was necessary and in short supply, and she focused on drawing it deeply into her lungs and releasing. Once, twice, three times. And then she said, in a voice that sounded distant and strange to her own ears, “He left a message for you.”