Lair of Dreams

“If that’s true, if we’re just being honest here,” he said, giving honest a bit of snarl, “why don’t you go in and tell Flo all about Memphis? In fact, why don’t you call up the papers and give ’em an exclusive: ‘Fake Russian Royalty in Love with Harlem Poet.’”

For a moment, Theta’s mouth opened just slightly. He’d struck a blow. Wounded her with her own weapon. But then the practiced cool slid down her features like a gate over a closed shop. “We don’t all get to live in dreams, Hen. Some of us gotta live in this world. No matter how unfair.”

With that, she stormed back into the theater, slamming the door behind her.

“Goddamn it,” Henry muttered.





The train started with a jolt, and then it was snaking through the dark miles underground. Henry leaned his head against the window. Had he just walked out on the Follies? He had. Every muscle in his body ached. The taste of blood soured his lips, and he ran a tongue over a chapped mouth. When had he gotten so run-down? He needed more sleep was all. The gentle rocking of the train, the darkness, and the exhaustion made Henry’s eyelids flutter.

His head snapped up. A spot of drool cooled against his chin. He wiped it away, and the matron next to him smiled. “You should get more sleep, young man,” she said kindly.

“I suppose you’re right, ma’am.”

The train stopped suddenly between stations, and Henry sighed as they waited for whatever the trouble was to be cleared. The droning hum of the train crawled up Henry’s spine. It was an odd sound—not really mechanical. More… animal, like a swarm far off in the tunnel. A flicker of movement drew his eye to the train window. The lights inside the train bleached the darkness outside so that, at first, Henry saw only his reflection. He pressed his face against the glass. There was a girl on the other set of tracks. She was crouched down, knees to the sides, arms resting on the tops of her bent legs as if she was ready to spring. In the dim work light, she was nearly gray.

Henry looked around, but no one else on the train seemed to notice the girl outside the window. He turned back to the window, cupping his hands on either side of his face to cut the glare. The girl’s head snapped up. She saw him, and her jaws opened and shut, her rotted needle-teeth coming together each time in a fierce bite.

The droning hum he’d heard earlier had increased to a fast war cry.

“D-do you see that?” Henry asked the other passengers.

“See what, Henry?” the matron asked.

“That girl on the…” Henry’s heart thundered in his chest. “H-how do you know my name?”

The matron transformed into the veiled woman.

“Dream with me…” she growled.

In the dark of the subway, the wraithlike girl’s mouth unhinged, and from deep in her throat came an inhuman shriek as she sprang toward the train.

“Get away from me!” Henry shouted, jumping from his seat.

A businessman backed away, hands up. “You were having a bad dream. I tried to wake you.”

Quickly, Henry reached out and grabbed the man’s sleeve, testing it.

“Now, see here!” the man said, yanking his arm back. “That’s quite enough, young man.”

“You’re not a dream. You’re real,” Henry said and laughed, relieved. His shirt was sweated through.

The other passengers stared. A mother pulled her son closer.

“… Must be drunk…”

“… Or he might be sick…”

The train hissed into the Fulton Street station, and Henry realized he’d slept through his stop. But he couldn’t stay on the train another minute. When the doors opened, he bolted and ran up the steps to the streets, welcoming the cold blast of air that greeted him, hoping the entire time that he was awake.

“Extra! Extra!” a newsie shouted. “Park Avenue Princess Catches Sleeping Sickness! Mayor Orders Crackdown!”

Henry tossed a nickel at the newsie. “Hey, give me a little punch to the gut, will you?”

The newsie blinked. “You tryin’ a get outta work or somethin’, Mister?”

“Just land one, will you?”

The newsie buried his fist in Henry’s gut and Henry reeled, coughing. “Yep. Definitely awake. Thanks, kid. I owe you.”

The newsie shook his head. “If you say so.”





By the time Henry made it to the Tea House, he was trembling.

“What happened to you?” Ling said, pouring him tea.

“Bad dreams,” Henry said, warming his hands on the hot cup. “I found out about our mystery woman, though.”

Henry told Ling about his revelatory afternoon with the Proctor sisters.

“Anthony, Orange, and Cross were streets,” Ling said in wonder. “George led me to that intersection, too.”

“Very well. I’m all ears. What does it mean, Mademoiselle Chan?”

Ling tapped her spoon absently against the side of her cup. “Wai-Mae’s ship docks in San Francisco tomorrow. I think George has been trying to warn me that she’s in danger of suffering the same fate. That she needs my help to avoid it.”

“What should we do?”

“I have to tell Wai-Mae. Tonight. She needs to know.”

“I don’t envy you that task,” Henry said, slipping back into his coat.