Praise for Previous Works:

“There are so many layers, so many twists and turns, betrayals and reveals. Loves and losses. And they are orchestrated beautifully, coming when you least expected and yet in just the right place. Leaving you a little breathless and a lot anxious. There were quite a few moments throughout where I found myself thinking that was not what I was expecting at all. And loving that.”

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“The writing in this story was some of the best I've read in a long time because the story was so well-crafted, all the little pieces fitting together perfectly.”

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“There are no words. Like literally. NO WORDS.

This book killed me and then revived me and then killed me some more. But in the end I was born anew, better.”

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“Love this series! Perfect ending to an incredible series! The author has done this series right.”

-Kelly at Nerd Girl

“What has really made these books stand out is how much emotion they evoke from me as a reader, and I love how it comes from a combination of both characters and plot together. Everything is so intricately woven that I have to commend Sarah Noffke on her skills as a writer.”

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Table of Contents

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REN: THE MAN BEHIND THE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements:

REN: GOD’S LITTLE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements:

REN: THE MONSTER INSIDE THE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty- Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

REN: THE MONSTER’S ADVENTURE

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

REN: THE MONSTER’S DEATH

Author Note

Note

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

SNEAK PEEK OF ALPHA WOLF (OLENTO RESEARCH SERIES, #1):

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

SNEAK PEEK OF AWOKEN (THE LUCIDITES SERIES, #1):

SNEAK PEEK OF DEFECTS (THE REVERIANS SERIES, #1):

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One-Twenty-Six Press.

Ren: The Man Behind The Monster

Sarah Noffke

Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Noffke

All rights reserved

Copyeditor: Christine LePorte

Cover Design: Andrei Bat

All rights reserved. This was self-published by Sarah Noffke under One-Twenty-Six Press. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are seeking permission send inquiry at http: www.sarahnoffke.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary: A bordering psychopath must face the monster inside him before it tears him apart.

Published in the United States by One-Twenty-Six Press

ISBN: 978-0-9862080-9-6

To Kelly, for all the support and inspiration.

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REN: THE MAN BEHIND THE MONSTER

Prologue

When I was born the doctor said I wouldn’t live the night through. I had a problem with a valve in my heart. My pops called a secret healer who lived a few towns away. And now I write this to you as a grown man. I’m not spoiling anything for you from the tale you’re about to read. It isn’t a spoiler that all these years I’ve survived. The true secret is that I lived at all. Actually I lived on an edge, one so dangerous most don’t even know it’s there. I didn’t sell my soul to the devil or dance with her on a clear night. I ran up to the devil and I stole the mask she wore and I wore it comfortably for quite some time. But then I met an angel and she made me want to die. I didn’t though. My secret isn’t even that I lived. It’s that I lived pretending to be the devil, wishing God would save my soul. I knew this was a wasted wish. I have no soul left to save. It’s why I could steal the devil’s persona. It’s why I lived when I should have died too many times.

I don’t hold babies or pause for the elderly. It’s not because I’m unkind. I’m kind. I’m kind enough to never put myself close to anyone vulnerable. I’m afraid I might break them. I’m afraid of myself. I live alone or with the strong and arrogant. But I don’t live close to those who are vulnerable. I don’t live close to those who might dare to love me. I don’t trust myself otherwise.

When I was born God made an awful error. He allowed a healer to save me. He allowed me to live. I’m a mistake. Not because my parents didn’t intend to have me and God failed to kill me. I’m a mistake because of what I can do. I’m a mistake because people like me aren’t destined for happiness. We are the miserable. The lonely. The people you warn your children not to become. The ones you warn your children to stay away from.

I’m Ren Lewis and I was born with too much power.

Chapter One

April 1985

The antique clock on the wall had the most irritating tick. It seemed extraordinarily loud. Probably because the old grandfather was a knockoff. It most likely was manufactured the year before in some backyard by a wanker who failed clock-making school and decided to go into forgery. I instantly liked the clock a lot more.

Snap. Snap.

The middle-aged Middling therapist dared to snap his dried fingertips in front of my face. Sure, I wasn’t paying attention to him. Sure, he’d asked his question to me repeatedly, and without answering I continued to stare at the clock which had too much lacquer and the detail work was a bit rough in places. How much did this shrink shell out for such a phony piece of furniture?

Unhurried, I pulled my gaze around to face the irritated therapist. I had to give him credit. He almost appeared in control of this situation. Bravo. This is the only thing I think he had control of, since I was guessing his overweight wife probably bossed his skinny ass around all day and his three kids owned the parts of him that she didn’t. But this guy had a mock sense of authority over me; at least he had been trying to make a show of it.

I blinked at him blankly. “What was the question?” I said.

“Ren, are you paying the least bit of attention during this session?” Dr. Simon said, pushing his wiry glasses up the thin bridge of his nose.

I took a deliberate moment to actually think about the question. Should I answer honestly or should I save his ego and make him as the poor therapist feel better about himself? Yeah, saving egos is someone else’s job, for sure.

“Not really,” I said, stretching out my arms with a long yawn. “But if it will make this whole mess go along a tad faster then I’ll give it a bit more of my attention. How’s that, doc?”

He bristled, pulling his yellow pad of notes closer to him as he crossed a skinny ankle over his bony knee. “What do you have to say for your actions? Are you the least bit remorseful about what you did to poor Widow Johnson?”

I felt my eyebrows rise with surprise. Yeah, I was remorseful, but not about what I did to the old bag. I was remorseful that I’d been so foolish. Still new to my gifts, I had a lot to learn about limitations. Using my mind control, I convinced the old lady to give me her husband’s old Bentley. Give it to me. No questions asked.

“Here you are,” she said, her Scottish accent much fainter than I remembered in years past. “It’s all yours.” Old Mrs. Johnson handed me the keys to the Bentley Continental, which had only been driven on Sundays. Then she gave me one little bit of advice. “Be careful around the corners. Henry didn’t like the tires to get dirty.”

I’m sure he didn’t. But this car had only one destiny in my hands. It was going to get dirty. Inside and out. I was going to drive it to London. Park it in front of the finest clubs and tempt the finest of women to join me inside it. And my plan would have worked and I would have been laid by a model at the early age of fifteen years old. However, it didn’t work because I didn’t have a license to drive or the know-how to do so.

Instead of driving that sleek ride to London, I crashed it into old man Miller’s stack of hay bundles on the other side of Mrs. Johnson’s farm. I knew then I’d never see a pretty lady undressing herself in that backseat. I had the know-how without all the actual “know-how.” I could control minds, but didn’t know how to do things…simple little things like driving. I needed to learn how to do these small tasks. But being fifteen provided all sorts of disadvantages. And namely, the first disadvantage was sitting squarely in front of me, fidgeting with his note pad.

“The last time you were in here was because you let all of Mr. Gretchen’s sheep loose,” Dr. Simon said, reading from his file on the side table. He needed to have his orderly notes. Needed to be able to refer back to them. He didn’t have the advantage of a flawless, photographic memory, like me. Poor soul with his weaknesses and many shortcomings. How he made it through graduate school is ever a wonder to me.

My green eyes narrowed at the accusation. It was all wrong. As usual. Just like with the Bentley. They thought I stole it, when it was actually given to me. And I didn’t let the sheep loose. I made Mr. Gretchen do it using a bit of hypnosis, partnered with mind control. However, I made silly errors in the process. Firstly, I’d hung around to watch the mayhem of sheep patrolling through our muddy streets. I’d also done a sloppy job of mind control on the dumb farmer. He remembered me. Didn’t know what I did to him, but there was enough suspicion that the whole thing was pinned on me. They thought I just let the sheep out, which is a lot more innocent a crime than what I really did.

“Tell me, Ren, why is it that you keep acting out?” Dr. Simon said, almost looking a little afraid of me, but bent on acting his part as the parish therapist. The church wasn’t just paying him to sign off on the health and well-being of most of its members. They also expected him to fix the lot of us who were intent on the devil’s rule.

I sized the guy up. We’d had at least half a dozen sessions. None of my usual lies had worked, so I decided he was ready for the truth. The truth I always saved until I was in the most amount of trouble. The truth invariably set me free, but not because people believed me. Rather because they thought I was crazy, which I probably am.

“I keep acting out because,” I began in a rehearsed voice, “well, it’s complicated, and it’s actually a secret. I’m not sure if I should tell you. You may get mad at my parents since it was their insistence that I keep this private.”

“Ren, I won’t get mad at your parents,” Dr. Simon said in his soothing therapist tone. “You can tell me anything and we will work through it together. Your parents will suffer no harm by your truths.”

I nodded. Inside I smiled with glee. “The truth is that I was born half Dream Traveler, and not only can I travel through space and time using my dreams, but as this special race of humans I’m also gifted with a skill. Some Dream Travelers have one or maybe even two gifts. I can control people using my mind, hypnotize people with movements, and if I touch someone I can hear their thoughts.” I scuffed some imaginary dirt off my shoe. “That’s the truth. The big secret. Don’t be mad at me or my parents for it.”

The therapist took in a long annoyed breath. “Until you, Ren, are ready to actually talk about your crimes in a real manner then these sessions are futile.”

A slow smile formed on my face. The truth was always the better option in these situations. No one believed it and therefore just assumed I was a no-good teen. A troublemaker. A pathological liar. The truth was I kept telling the truth over and over again and no one believed me. My father, who had spent his life hiding the fact that he carried Dream Traveler blood in him, hadn’t especially liked that I did this. But he was smart enough to realize no one was ever going to believe me. I was Ren. The boy who had been there when my teacher pulled her knickers down during my solo detention last year. The boy who had been the one to call authorities when my entire church group, including our teacher, fell into inexplicable comas. I was the strange boy. The one who things happened around. But people thought it was because I was a troublemaker branded with the word “cursed” across my head. They had no idea it was because since I was ten years old I’d come into my gifts and could control most using my mind and hypnotize anyone I dared. I told them to hold my hand so I could read their thoughts, but they’d totally shrugged me off most of the time. Even though I kept telling the truth, I was dismissed. And that’s what made the whole thing even more fun. What fools they all were. Utter, stupid fools.

But my mum saw through it and knew I was manipulating the lot of them. And her look of heartbreak did cause me a bit of stress. She kept professing her faith in me though. She thought that a heavy hand would never make me see my awful ways, but rather the hand of our Lord and Savior. That’s why she kept convincing the church to take me in after each of my crimes. Counsel me. Absolve my sins. Steer me in the right direction.

However, my mother was as short-sighted as the rest. As a Middling, those who are without gifts or the power to dream travel, she’d never see how much fun it was to manipulate. My mother didn’t see a lot. Mostly because her life was so limited. And I wasted too many years of her life with my antics when I could have been with her, learning the lessons only she could teach me. The ones I only now realize Middlings can teach. Those of the heart. Dream Travelers are too distracted by our minds, by our gifts, to fully understand how love works. However, Middlings aren’t complicated in that way.

“Ren, we’ve been doing this regularly,” Dr. Simon said to me that evening. He was thoroughly done with my shenanigans, and soon the poor chap would sod off to his meager dwelling on the outskirts of Peavey, where his family would abuse him with neglect and pesky remarks about his feeble appearance. He sighed deeply. “Ren, when you get caught, your mother makes her case to the vicar and somehow you end up seeing me instead of the constable. These opportunities for you to have rehabilitation instead of punishment are running out. I suggest you be real with me. I want you to tell me why you act out. Many of your teachers describe you as having a chip on your shoulder. Of being hostile. Do you want to tell me why? This is your last chance.”

More than once throughout my life I’ve been asked what it is that made me so hard, so hostile. Why would something have to make me the way I am? I’ve known dozens of happy people who have nothing to be happy about and still they plaster stupid grins on their faces every bloody day. There are those who are all scared and tortured and they’ve got no good reason for the self-pity. Nothing more than a few trivial things have ever happened to them. Forgetting their lunch. Missing an exam. Not getting the girl. And yet these lowlifes go through life like they were given a curse at birth.

It’s mostly just a choice. Life doesn’t make most of us any certain way. We wake up, and usually without knowing it, act in a way that fits our personality. Nothing made me the way I am. Not really. Things colored me. Persuaded me. But no experience is responsible for making me hostile. It’s just the way I prefer to be. Also, who I am is a result of something inside my bones. Probably a monster who feeds off my unhealthy behavior. I’m not a victim of circumstance. I’m a man who believes that the best strategy involves being extremely cynical and even more conniving. And if there’s one thing I’m more excellent at than all the other things, it’s strategy. I’m a bloody master at it. Hell, I’m fairly certain God takes notes out of my book. He should. If he knows what’s good for him.

I brought my eyes up to meet the therapist’s gaze. I’d made a great show of putting real emotions on my face. My bottom lip quivered a bit. My eyes were filled to the brim with fake tears. And when I opened my mouth an actual croak happened out. “It’s my sister, Lyza,” I wailed. “She abuses me. She abuses me badly,” I sang.

“Your older sister, Lyza?” Dr. Simon said, sitting forward, almost knocking the pad off his thin lap.

“That’s right,” I said, furiously nodding my head. “The one due to graduate early this year and with an acceptance to Oxford. That one. But what you don’t know is she does things to me,” I said, putting a look of shameful hurt on my face.

“Don’t you worry, Ren,” Dr. Simon said, leaning forward, placing a hand on my shaking arm. “We won’t let her hurt you any longer.”

Truth be told, Lyza only hurt me with dirty remarks and cold stares. But Lyza had told our mother since she was thirteen that our mum was no better than a servant in our house. She had despised our mum for being a Middling and I in turn despised Lyza. And now I was going to make her pay for every hurtful thing she did to our mum. See, the thing is, when Ren gets in trouble, so do other people.

I allowed the doctor’s hand to linger on my forearm. Now was probably not the time to tell this homosexual that I didn’t quite enjoy his touch, but definitely go and cart my sister away for abusing her little brother. I grabbed one more thought out of the doctor’s head before he slipped his hand away. That one thought was enough for me to know that the punishment Dr. Simon saw for Lyza would fit the bill until I could up the ante.

Chapter Two

An oppressive wind swept across my face when I exited the shrink’s office. He was already busy calling my parents, then the vicar, and finally the academy. After the abuse I alleged my sister Lyza did to me, all the authorities would be brought in to intervene. It was only her first mark on her pristine record. Overdue really. The way I saw it I was actually doing her a favor. Everyone needs a charge or two on their record, otherwise they look too perfect. No one likes perfect people. And Lyza might have looked fabo on paper and therefore like quite the catch for the universities. However, anyone who actually met my snobby sister wouldn’t assign the characteristic of “perfect” to her. “Overcompensating” maybe. Or “faking it.” Not “perfect.”

One reason, on the long list Lyza would never be considered perfect, was she had the same red hair I did, a violent shade resembling the sirens on ambulances. Thanks to inheriting our mother’s Irish genes, we would never be considered pretty people. Interesting yes. But giraffes are interesting. Unique. Eye-catching. However, no one wants to snog with a giraffe. Poor Lyza had to depend on her brains to get anywhere. I, on the other hand, had too many ways to overcompensate for my startling red hair and almost neon green eyes. I might have looked like a different race of human, but what most judgmental Middlings who took double looks at me didn’t realize was that I am one. I’m a special race of human. A Dream Traveler. And not only that, but if I so desired I could turn their revulsion into lust. If so inclined, with a few hand movements and a well-placed thought I could make almost anyone do anything. I’m obviously a genetic mistake, because no human should have powers like mine.

I threw a smug look at the monstrosity of a church as I strolled by. Then I tossed a salute in its direction. “Thanks for really bodging me up, God,” I said. I’m a monster for sure. Too much power. No conscience that I know of and an unhealthy obsession with abusing my God-given talents.

“Who are you talking to?” a boy propped against a tree in the church yard said. Jimmy was chewing on a long straw of grass. His forgettable brown hair was lying flat against his forehead, obstructing one eye.

“You’re going to get hand, foot, and mouth disease,” I said, walking up to him and yanking the grass out of his mouth and throwing it to the ground with disgust. “For God’s sake, if it wasn’t for me you’d get yourself bloody killed, for sure.”

He gave me a sly smile under his knit cap. “Without you I’d get myself in a lot more trouble, but that’s only because I’d actually get caught.” He kicked off the tree. “Thanks for covering up my involvement with the Bentley.”

“Well, it’s not like you were to blame,” I said, continuing my walk down the pothole-riddled road. “You’re not even talented enough to be a bloody sidekick. You’re just a blasted tagalong.”

Jimmy had been in the car when I wrecked it. It was probably his bloody fault it happened since he had been laughing like a stupid hyena the entire time. He was red-faced and doubled over by the sheer thrill of stealing a Bentley and barreling it through town. Jimmy was a Middling. He couldn’t dream travel and his only gift was that he was one of the few people I could tolerate. Actually he was a pretty entertaining chap. Most don’t appreciate my wry humor and abrasive, endearing nature, but Jimmy had always cherished it. We’d been friends since nursery school. And he was the only person besides my family who knew I was a Dream Traveler with some dangerous skills.

Jimmy was actually there when at ten years old my powers came to me. Still remember that stupid grin on his face when I pulled my first prank on Lyza. He had no idea what I was capable of. Neither did Lyza. Imagine her surprise when I threw weak punches into her shoulder. Then I spouted her most intimate thoughts, sitting on the top of her mind for the three of us to hear. Before that moment, it had never been voiced that Lyza fancied Jimmy, thought my parents should put me in boarding school, or that just that afternoon she picked one of her boogers and wondered if it was still stuck under her fingertips. As soon as she figured out I was reading her thoughts she ran to the opposite end of the house and locked herself away. Lyza has never allowed me to touch her since then, which doesn’t matter because I have no interest in her thoughts. They’re like stale peas in an aluminum tin.

“So did you get away with it?” Jimmy asked, trotting beside me, a mischievous glint in his dirt-colored eyes.

“What do you think?” I said with an indignant huff.

“They’re not doing anything to you? You got off scot-free?” Jimmy said in astonishment.

“Absobloodylutely, just like every time before,” I said, through a long, bored yawn. “Why do you look so surprised?”

He kicked up some dust on the old road. God forbid the mayor actually pave our roads. Hell, why even have roads when we were outnumbered by sheep five to one in that blasted town.

Jimmy shrugged at my question. “I don’t know. I just figured one day your luck would run out. That you’d find someone you couldn’t manipulate with your mind.”

The thought had crossed my mind. It had actually strangely intrigued me. The idea of finding someone who could stand up to me and challenge me was actually an exhilarating notion. So far I had yet to encounter a person who I couldn’t brainwash or read or hypnotize. There were those who were more resistant, like my pops, but still if I was heavily motivated I could break his opposition. Peavey, the town where I lived, was small though. I was certain when I ventured into London I’d find people who’d make me actually strain, even if just a little.

“I can’t control sheep,” I finally said to Jimmy. “Those bloody animals don’t do a damn thing I want.”

Jimmy laughed. “What do you want them to do?”

“Jump off the bloody edge of the fucking earth,” I said, meaning it.

Another laugh. This one a little nervous. “Say, Ren, do you ever use your powers on me?” Jimmy asked, appearing to be taking a great effort to not look at me.

I slapped him on the shoulder, careful to keep my hand on the clothed part and not touch his exposed bicep. I didn’t want to read any of his thoughts. I was certain they’d make me sad, pity the poor chap. “Oh no, I don’t have any interest in wasting my powers on you,” I said, a laugh in my voice. “This is when I have the awful burden of informing you that you’re my friend because your soul is as black as mine. It’s not because I’m making you be my friend. And besides, I don’t want to know what demented rubbish streams through your tiny brain, so I never read your thoughts.”

Jimmy let out a relieved sigh. “All right, well, then what’s our next stunt?” he asked, giddy excitement in his voice.

The exasperated breath made my lips drum several times against each other. Sure I had a dozen or more crafty ideas but what was the bloody point? They mostly felt like a repeat of the last trick. Different victims. Same trick. There were only so many tricks to play on a repugnant town the size of Peavey. One school. One church. One inn. One pub. One market. Pops moved my mum there when they decided to start a family. He wanted to protect the Dream Traveler children he knew they would bear. That’s how he said it. But what he meant was shelter. He wanted to shelter us. And later he admitted that once I came into my powers he was grateful for the decision.

“Think of the kind of trouble you’d cause if we lived in London,” he told me more than once.

I only smiled inside. I was dying to discover the trouble I’d cause in a big city. Yes, I spent most nights dream traveling to London, Montreal, New York. Wherever I desired. But it was different in dream travel form. No one could see me. I couldn’t manipulate people when I wasn’t in their dimension. I needed to be in physical form to really experience the potentials.

And yet I feared that no matter what I’d always grow restless. I feared that over time the city would bore me. It’s hard to be content when you can have anything and do anything. Most would think that I’m a god with every reason to be happy. But I’m a mistake God made. Too much power doesn’t create happiness. It steals it. To have it all means there’s no struggle and without having to pay a price, nothing has value. I wasn’t gifted with powers. I was cursed with them.

Chapter Three

Jimmy and I parted ways at the Gretchens’ farm. The cottage I shared with my family was on the edge of town. It wasn’t enough for us to live in a town that shared one brain cell, we had to live on the edge of it. Living in the town’s center would obviously have been too exciting. We’d probably have stayed up a full hour after the evening meal. The traffic of the two or three cars that passed through town might have kept us up all bloody night.

I left the front door open after I walked through. The old house had a musky odor that no matter how much Mum cleaned it never disappeared completely. Even though we didn’t own farm animals their smell still seemed to infect our residence. Oh, the charm of rural living. People think it’s romantic. Wholesome. Inviting.

It’s shit.

Literally, it’s shitty living. Animal waste was everywhere in that town. It was like our bloody currency. It’s ever a wonder that Peavey got any attention for its pungent cheeses and grains. We should have been known for our manure-laced air and shit-caked shoes.

When I strolled into the house, Mum lowered her chin at me and regarded me with a disapproving stare under her short red curls. She’d been chopping onion. Deliberately she laid the knife on the chopping board beside the pile of onions and tried to make her stare menacing. Still I spied the sliver of a smile under her false exterior. My mum was always smiling. Even angry she’d have a smile hiding close to her surface emotion. “Renny…” she said, a quiet warning in her tone.

“Yes, Mum,” I said, batting my red eyelashes and giving her an innocent look.

“Did you give Dr. Simon the impression that your sister Lyza physically threatens you?” she asked and although I knew she was trying to hide her amusement, it was still prickling through. She really should have gotten better at acting. Would have helped us all out against the green-eyed monster, also known as Lyza.

From the back hall there were thunderous steps against the ancient wood floors. My sister blazed into the living area, coming to a stop next to my mother by the kitchen island. She threw a shaking finger at me. “He told Dr. Simon that I’ve made sexual advances at him.” Her face flushed into a ridiculous shade of red which clashed awfully with her severely straight red hair, pulled back too tightly in a high ponytail. “He said he’s caught me watching him undress and that I also stand over his bed at night. They think I’m at risk of being a pedophile!”

With a blank expression I shrugged. “Oh, is that how the good doctor misconstrued my words? Hmmm,” I said, stroking my chin. “That’s awfully strange.”

“Ren!” Lyza screamed at the top of her lungs. “You knew damn well what you were doing!”

“Lyza,” Mum said in a low tone. “Please lower your voice and refrain from using foul language under my roof.”

Lyza whipped around to face our mum, who had calmly resumed chopping an onion. “Lower my voice!” she screamed even louder. “I have sessions with Dr. Simon now.”

“I think I’ve just done you a favor, you do have an awful temper,” I said to my sister as I brandished a grin. “You’re welcome. A little anger management will do you a load of good. Might even make you tolerable, although I doubt it.”

“This isn’t fair!” Lyza yelled. “He has to be stopped. He brainwashed that doctor into thinking that I’m incestuous. That I’d harm my stupid baby brother. Now I’m on academic probation.”

Mum wiped her hands on her apron. “Oh dear, Renny,” she said, pinning her plump hands on her hips. “Are you really responsible for this? Tell me exactly what you did.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but before I had a chance Lyza wheeled in our mum’s direction again. “How can you be so calm? You know what your little psychopath is capable of. And now I’ve got to spend a revolting amount of time sharing my secrets with a damn Middling. Those people aren’t good enough to cook my meals,” she said, angling to the pot of boiling vegetables on the stove. “And now this revolting Middling will get to hear my thoughts. I’ll need real counseling after this,” Lyza said, the look of heartbreaking disappointment on Mum’s face not even registering with her.

With a calm resurgence, Mum threw her large shoulders back and raised her chin. A twitch of a smile touched the side of her mouth. “I think what you meant to say, Lyza, is that you misunderstand the Middling race, is that right?”

Too much patience. Mum always had too much patience for everyone. Me. Lyza. The bloody locals. She should have told us all to go to bloody hell ten times over. But she never did.

“No, that’s not what I mean, Mary,” Lyza said to our mum. She hadn’t called her “Mum” since she came into her Dream Travel gifts and realized Mum was a Middling. Lyza narrowed her eyes at our mother and then reached out and pushed the cutting board and the vegetables on it to the ground. Dozens of tiny diced onions sprayed onto the ground, sending a pungent odor through the small cottage. “What I mean is that if you don’t soon get a leash on your little Renny then that psychopath is going to cause real trouble, and not the kind that you can get the vicar to cover for. You may not see it but he’s trouble. He may be powerful, but he doesn’t need coddling. He’s in need of a heavy hand. When are you going to see that?”

“For all the king’s men,” my pops said, walking through the open door, closing it behind him. “I can hear you clear on the other side of Peavey. What’s got your knickers all mussed up this time, Lyza?” Tall and lean, my father made his way across the house in a few strides. Gently as ever he leaned over his daughter and touched her shoulder. She softened, but only slightly.

“Ren,” she said through clenched teeth.

Pops turned and surveyed me. Raised a curious eyebrow in my direction. “Ren, what have you done now?”

“All right, well, I might have told a fib about Lyza watching me bathe,” I said. “But to be quite honest I read her thoughts that one time and know she’s curious about the male anatomy.”

“Boys tell fibs!” Lyza screamed again. “What he’s doing is abusing his powers and you have to make him stop. He made Dr. Simon think—”

“That you’re an abusive little witch,” I said, cutting her off. “Was that wrong? Do you not throw Mum’s food back in her face every chance you get? Don’t you make side remarks to Pops about how he’s a prat for marrying a Middling? And don’t even try to play the innocent card by pretending you haven’t wanted a one-off chance with Jimmy even though he’s three years younger. That does make you a bit of a perve, doesn’t it? And isn’t it a bit hypocritical that Middlings aren’t good enough to make your food, but you’ll entertain the idea of snogging one?”

I knew that would do the trick and right on schedule Lyza lunged for me, but my pops, who was all arms, reached out and pulled her back before her claws caught me. “Now, now,” Pops chided in a soothing tone. “Lyza, I think you need to take a few steadying breaths.”

With her pale arms locked in his grasp she shuddered out tattered, angry breaths and regarded me with a cold stare. “You,” she snarled. “One day, I’ll make you pay.” Then she skirted her eyes around my features and her eyes perked up. “Actually, I won’t have to. For all your talents you’re still going to end up miserable and alone. I’m sure of it.”

Lyza had one gift as a Dream Traveler. She could see people’s fortunes. Or as in my case, destinies. Fortune didn’t sound like the right word, since I was sure she was right. I knew I’d end up alone.

“That’s fine,” I said, bolstering myself against my sister’s angry standoff. “I’d rather be alone than a part of a circus, which is the only place I see fitting for your type. You can tell Middling children how destitute they make the earth by living on it. What a glorious life for you. Then you can curl up with the fire-breathing man or whatever other serpent takes you in for breeding.”

She shook my father off her. He let her go, probably sensing she was retreating a bit. “Ren, one day, I’ll make you pay for this.”

“Ditto, dear Lyzie. Ditto,” I said, a calm superiority written on my face.

Chapter Four

“You don’t have to antagonize your sister, you know,” Mum said, kneeling down to scoop up handfuls of the onion Lyza sent to the floor and into various nooks and crannies. She’d flown out of the house in an angry rage, slamming the front door behind her, almost busting it off the hinges.

I crouched down and grabbed pieces of mushy onion from the floor. “No, I don’t have to, but it sure gives my life meaning,” I said.

“Reynold, how do you want to deal with this?” my mum said to my pops, who was standing and leaning, both his hands on the dining room table. With a grunt Mum stood from her kneeling position. Her back looked to be bothering her again. She pinned a hand on her lower spine and stretched, a grimace pressed onto her face.

“Well, I’ll talk to the vicar and the school, but honestly I think some counseling wouldn’t hurt dear Lyzie. Though she’s going to be on a real war path after this, worse than usual,” my pops said, turning and giving me a disappointed stare.

One might think my sister would cool off and find forgiveness for my naughty behavior. That stupid git would be wrong. Lyza wasn’t the forgiving type. She also wasn’t the “cool off” type. That hotheaded redhead took all anger, stuffed it inside, and let it simmer. Then one day when her hostile emotions had broken the boiling point she’d deposit a bucket of manure in my bed. That’s what she did to me for my last stunt. In retrospect, I thought the whole thing was quite entertaining. It must have been absolutely awful to carry that mess all the way from Gretchen’s farm. But the idea that my poor mum had to clean it up was absolutely infuriating. Lyza probably realized our mum wouldn’t allow me to risk getting sick cleaning up such a mess. It was a win-win prank for my sister.

For spreading the lie that she was a pedophile Lyza would simmer for a long time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to exact her revenge on me. I guess I never realized how scarring that particular trick of mine was on my poor sister. It must have been a big deal for her to later risk manslaughter charges.

“Renny, what are we going to do with you?” Mum said, chunking another handful of onions into the waste bin. She looked at a complete loss, like any option she was considering was ridiculous. And it was. My parents stopped trying to punish me a long time ago. It’s not just that it didn’t work, but also that it seemed to pain them. Usually they shrugged off my antics and assigned me more bible studies. They were absolutely convinced that if their faith remained steady then one day I’d atone for my past misdeeds and live a life of purity.

And shockingly, half the time I think they were slightly proud of my behavior. My parents were boring people who lived boring lives. Sometimes they actually looked relieved when they heard about one of my stunts, like they finally had a bit of entertainment after all these lame uneventful days. I pictured it gave them something to chat about in front of the evening fire.

One time my father told me that people were who they were and trying to change them was futile and only caused unnecessary heartache. That’s probably why they didn’t try to change Lyza and make her not be such an evil bitch. And it definitely explains why they never guilted me or gave me long lectures for creating chaos in Peavey. I’d get a heavy sigh and a slight smile. That was the extent of my punishment from them. However, my tricks were getting elaborate enough that now the town was trying to punish me. But so far my mother had persuaded the townspeople to keep my punishments to counseling sessions with Dr. Simon. This worked for me because I found psychoanalytics rather fascinating. Psychoanalysis is a useful tool and who better to learn it from than a psychiatrist.

Mum knelt down to grab more onion that she’d just spied lying under the toe kick of the cabinet. Pops laid a hand on her shoulder, making her rise. “Let me, Mary,” he said, scooping the three pieces into his hand. He was the same age as Mum, but since he was a Dream Traveler he aged a bit slower. My parents had Lyza and me later in life. When I was fifteen, my parents were in their sixties, but Mum looked ten years older than Pops. Gray streaked her vibrant red curls and she wore quite a few more wrinkles than her husband. Pops still had mostly brown hair, although it was starting to thin in places.

Mum mopped her hairline beaded with sweat. She was cool as a glacier during confrontations with Lyza but afterward her true nervousness came out. Never would Mum allow Lyza to spy her hurt and disappointment. She gave the air of not caring that her only daughter detested her for the simple fact that she was a different race of people. And even though half that blood ran through Lyza’s veins, it didn’t matter. Lyza was incredibly brilliant at poor logic.

“Why don’t I take you both to McGreggor’s pub for dinner?” Pops said, wrapping an arm around my mum’s shoulders, probably sensing her state growing slightly more fragile.

“That would be lovely, Reynold,” she said, casting a disappointed glance at the empty cutting board.

“Well, then it’s settled,” he said with a wide smile. “And Ren, you can invite Jimmy to join us.”

We never went out for a meal. It just wasn’t something people in town did too often. Probably because we were all poor as shit. My father could have made more than a meager living, but he chose to live in a town that had no economy.

The food at McGreggor’s wasn’t something I’d classify as edible. Old farmers mostly went there to drink. That’s what people who live in the holy pits of hell do. The wealthy and successful drink to celebrate. The people in Peavey drank to forget they made the wrong decision to live in the backwoods of England. But that’s not what kind of people my parents were. Actually they were neither losers nor winners. They were just simple people. That’s it. All logic fails to explain why they did half the things they did, but they weren’t losers.

“Firstly, Jimmy can’t go to dinner and secondly neither can I,” I said, not looking forward to the disappointment I knew was about to plaster itself across my mum’s face. And it showed up only seconds after I finished my sentence.

“But Renny, you have to eat dinner,” she said, her Irish accent suddenly more pronounced. It always got stronger when she was upset. Even after all those years of her working to hide it, it still flared up, especially when she was tired. And by the look in her pale green eyes, she was growing more exhausted by the minute.

“As a member of a first-world country I’m proud to say I actually don’t have to eat at every mealtime. I’m not hungry and definitely not at risk of wasting away,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I was neither skinny nor fat. My body compensated for my ridiculous hair and eye color. I was exactly average in height, weight, and build.

“Oh, but you could still join us, couldn’t you?” Mum said, her voice bordering on hope. “You wouldn’t have to eat.”

“Yeah, but the thing is I don’t like to watch other people eat,” I said.

“Since when?” Pops said, giving me a skeptical glare.

“Since now,” I said, returning his look with my own stubborn one. The truth was that I might have used mind control to convince the bar maid, Sally, to mess around with me behind the old, dirty pub. One of the many problems with having telepathy linked to touch is that it usually spoils most foreplay. Girls just can’t keep their thoughts neutral. They always have to be thinking about the future and babies and marriage. I ended things with Sally a bit prematurely and had been avoiding her ever since. I was fairly certain she wasn’t going to take a polite “thanks, but no.” The thing about people is they love being rejected. They are always begging for more.

“And how come you already know that Jimmy can’t join us?” Mum asked, obviously not wanting to drop this. “Maybe if he joined then you wouldn’t mind watching us eat. Or maybe you’ll get hungry and change your mind.”

See, people love being rejected. Dodging these questions was getting me nowhere. I gave a long, fake yawn. “I’m not changing my mind because I have other plans. And Jimmy can’t make it because his old man usually gets drunk about right now. He’s probably knocking old Jim around presently which means he can’t make dinner,” I said plainly.

Mum’s red curls swayed on her head when she shook it, exasperated. “Oh, Renny, I really wish you wouldn’t make such bad jokes. They aren’t funny.”

From the cracked expression on my pops’ face I think he disagreed. Unable to control it, he finally burst out laughing.

“Oh, Reynold, don’t laugh,” my mum said, slapping him gently on the arm. But then she too let out a small chuckle.

“It’s just that he delivers these lines with such coolness. It’s almost like he’s telling the truth the way he says these things so blankly,” Pops said, hooking his long arm around my neck and affectionately pulling me into him. He ruffled my spiky hair with his knuckles. “You’ve got that deadpan routine down and I love it.”

I was telling the truth. I never lied to my parents. Not once. But they mistook my eloquent style for humor. And since I didn’t want to spoil what would probably be a nice meal for them, I didn’t tell them otherwise.

“You said you had other plans,” Mum said, not asking the question that was piquing her interest.

“I did,” I said, shrugging off my father, who was one of few people who I didn’t mind touching and hearing his thoughts. There wasn’t much to them. Nothing nefarious. Nothing interesting. Just regular thoughts. I strolled for my bedroom at the back of the house.

“I think your mum was curious what these plans are that are keeping you from dinner,” Pops said to my back.

“I gathered that much,” I said, continuing my trek.

At the door to my room I turned and faced my parents, who were still staring at me, unreadable expressions on their faces. “Oh, fine,” I said with a tired sigh. “I’m popping off to Jamaica for the night.”

“Now?” Mum said, eyeing the clock on the wall. “It isn’t even close to bedtime.”

“Right, well good thing I can dream travel no matter the time. Have a nice meal,” I said, shutting my bedroom door behind me.

Chapter Five

When I was growing up we never went anywhere. Ever. Not to London or Sussex or Hampshire. I’m pretty certain crossing the English Channel would have been out of the bloody question. It would have been likened to taking a rocket to the moon. My father, as a Dream Traveler, could go anywhere in place and time but I sensed he probably didn’t use our God-given talent too much. He preferred to sleep. Just plain old sleep, like a Middling. I think he honestly felt guilty. He didn’t want to go off having adventures my mother couldn’t enjoy. I think he preferred to believe that one day his dreams would link with Mum’s. And hell, they could have. Anything is possible. Dream interaction happens way more frequently than most people realize. That’s right. That lovely lady you dreamed about who tore off your clothes was also dreaming about you. I firmly believe there are a lot of one-night stands going on in dreams but most can shrug the whole thing off as “not really happening.”

Here’s the thing, folks. Listen up, because I’m not repeating this. Dreams are real. For Dream Travelers they’re absolutely real. We can do and go anywhere when we sleep. But even for Middlings there’s lucid dreaming. And what happens in a Middling’s dream can affect their physical body and mental state. That sounds real to me. Still, with all the cool potentials I can obtain with my dreams I find pure dream travel to be the best.

After hearing the door shut, and knowing for sure my parents had continued with their dinner plans, I laid myself out on my brand new mattress. I closed my eyes and allowed my conscious mind to direct my path. This is the skill that connects me to my other gifts of mind control, hypnosis, and telepathy. It’s harnessing the consciousness of dreams that allows for Dream Travelers to have higher-functioning brains.

There are a lot of laws that govern dream travel and not all of them are firm, but there are a few that I know are. The first is that the experience of dream travel is the same for everyone. One closes their eyes. Keeps their thoughts focused on a time and location. And with a firm intention the Dream Traveler will fall into what in essence is the delivery device. It’s a silver tunnel. A worm hole. If the Dream Traveler gets this far then they can sit back and relax. The tunnel does all the work. It’s the fabric of human consciousness. There’s only one. One mind. One consciousness. It creates this universe. And the dream travel tunnels are its pathways. They can deliver a human’s consciousness to Morocco or a random cornfield in Nebraska. And they aren’t linear so they also have the dimension of time built into them. I have the privilege of watching any point in history and catching every sunrise in the last century.

However, for that night’s adventure I stuck my consciousness in the present. What most newbie Dream Travelers learn the hard way is that time travel is riddled with potential threats. Going too far into the past kills brain cells. If a Dream Traveler goes back in time to watch Christ walk on water then they will wake up a vegetable, if they wake up at all, that is. And if a Dream Traveler goes into the future then they can create splits in the folds of time. Most know them as déjà vus. They happen because some imbecile decided to spy on the future and created holes. And a real idiot will try to make changes to events that have already happened or affect events that will happen. We can thank those assholes for earthquakes and a whole host of other natural disasters. That’s right, mess with time and the earth destroys itself. It’s called a built-in fail-safe. God thinks of everything.

Thankfully most buffoons don’t do something so severe that it messes with the whole ecosystem. Most just create schisms in their own consciousness with past or future self-interaction. Why people supposedly as intelligent as Dream Travelers think they can go back in time and spy on their younger selves continues to elude me. And these first-class morons are the ones who travel into the future to spy who they become. Imagine their surprise when they find their future selves in a catatonic state, drooling on their paper nightgown. They wonder how they ended up in a mental hospital. Well, dumbass, the trip you just took to the future is responsible for zapping the life right out of your body. Yes, some of these laws can be flexed but there’s hardly ever a good enough reason to chance it. I’m way too brilliant to risk a single brain cell.

The silver tunnel was full of twists and turns as I made my way for Jamaica. At the age of fifteen, my consciousness was used to dream traveling and managed it easily. My toes touched down on the sand of a beach. The sun was just setting on the horizon. Tourists strolled by, some holding hands with partners, some in groups. They couldn’t see me. In dream travel form I was there and then I wasn’t.

I could affect my surroundings but usually I didn’t. That trick got old fast. Watching a Middling freak out because their drink just levitated was fantastic the first thirty times but then it grew predictable. They would scream and then jump to a fighting stance, or they would flee, not daring to whip around and witness what they thought was a poltergeist. And after I got tired of this I moved on to more aggressive tricks like actually throwing the drink or book or whatever object in use at the Middling.

I’m fairly certain I’m responsible for most supposed ghost sightings in the 1980s. That’s when I started dream traveling and I did spend several years terrorizing innocent Middlings. Truth is ghosts usually can’t move objects. But Dream Travelers can. We can move objects, write on chalkboards, and make quite the mess in the physical world while dream traveling. There are two things we can’t do: We can’t interact with those in the physical realm. Our presence passes through them. And we can’t remove objects from the physical realm. It must stay in that dimension. There is summoning, but that’s a whole other beast.

I settled myself on a canvas beach chair. I was utterly exhausted from skipping school and using mind control on the old shrink. I’d spent that morning not with my fellow classmates, but rather scamming a few tourists who were passing through town. Our petrol station was the only chance for commuters to fill up for thirty miles, so it usually got some out-of-towners. These were people who didn’t know better than to stay away from me. By the time I was fifteen, most people in Peavey knew that interactions with me left them confused, broke, and at a loss for a chunk of their memory. Most had learned to keep their distance from me. That was fine by me since the townspeople of Peavey were a bunch of inbred fools.

So I turned my attention to growing my piggy bank scamming commuters and tourists who pulled over to fill up. I was only going to grace this town with my presence for a little longer, but to get out of Peavey I needed money. Cash. And a lot of it. I could have gotten a job like Jimmy, plowing hay and cleaning horse stalls. I could have actually earned my money, but that was as likely as me snogging with the town’s prized pig, Darla. People like me don’t have jobs. We don’t need them. Other people have jobs. They make money and when we decide to, people like me “encourage” these hardworking Middlings to fund our brilliant ideas and “destined for success” ventures.

Actually, the idea of serving in a position that did more than serve me appealed at times. I had talents that if employed for good could change the world. But I didn’t care about the world. Most people are self-serving. I saw no reason to be any different. And why save a population of people who are a sad example of what the frontal lobe can be used for?

I blinked away the thoughts of other people, their money, and how it was going to get me out of Peavey. A giggling couple took the lounge chair beside me on the beach. The sun had set in Jamaica and the beach was empty. The couple thought they were alone. If I had any class then I might have dream traveled to a different location and given the frisky man and lady some privacy since I knew for certain what was coming next. Class isn’t really my style. I settled back in my chair just as the woman peeled off her bikini top. Nothing better than a great view and free entertainment.

Chapter Six

May 1988

Unable to stomach school and tired of skipping it, I decided to graduate a year early. I didn’t graduate early because I was an exceptionally good student or test taker, but rather because my teachers were easy to manipulate into thinking that I was exceptional. They weren’t alone in this opinion.

By that time I’d saved up enough of other people’s money to make the big move to London. Mum was utterly heartbroken by the decision, but I had warned her it was coming. Pops thought it was a mistake, but this was the same man who’d confined me to Peavey for all my life. I can’t say many things bad about my parents, but they were a bit squeamish when it came to new experiences. They said they’d done enough prior to starting a family and now they preferred the quiet life. Later, much later, I’d come to agree with them. I’d understand their making this decision. But at the age of seventeen I was ready for a loud life, full of bright lights and ladies who wore too much makeup and had weak minds.

My pops was also all too aware of how I was funding my venture to London. Mum probably too, although she never would have spoken directly to me about it. Pops had asked me to consider a more honorable way of earning money, but I shrugged off his concern. I told him I never took all of the money of the people I scammed, and I mostly stole from the wankers who had that shifty look in their eyes. Pops knew at the end of the day that I wanted out of Peavey and that I was going to do anything it took to make it happen.

“What do I tell people when they ask what my son does for a living?” Pops asked right before I left for London.

“Tell them to mind their own bloody business,” I said.

“Ren, people will be curious. They’ll want to know how my son maintains living in an expensive city like London.”

“Tell them I’m a venture capitalist,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I steal money.”

Pops didn’t respond, only gave me a small disapproving look.

I did regret leaving Jimmy behind. His father had lost his job at the mill which meant that he was even more bad-tempered than before. Jimmy never stood up to his father. Not once. He always said his father didn’t know any better and the abuse made him stronger. He probably thought he deserved it. He didn’t.

Jimmy dropped out of school the year I graduated early. He landed a full-time job as a cook at McGreggor’s pub. Jimmy couldn’t cook, but at that establishment that didn’t matter. Dropping a basket of chips into hot grease isn’t really cooking, but it’s all he had to do most of the time. I did everything I could, short of mind control, to convince him to join me in the city.

“Ren, how am I going to support myself in the city?” Jimmy asked. We were sitting on the roof of farmer Gretchen’s barn. We moved a dozen hay bales out of the barn to create the makeshift ladder. No sooner had we made the climb up those bales than a persistent mist started. I pulled my cap down low over my eyes to shield my face, but there was no help for the hay. Damp hay is ruined hay.

“I’ll cover your expenses until you find a job,” I said to Jimmy. “It’s a city. There’s loads more job opportunities.”

“This is all about you trying to be my sugar daddy, isn’t it?” he said, a genuine look of offense on his freckled face.

“Only if you put out,” I said, trying to lighten his sour mood.

“I don’t want your charity,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “I’m not going unless I can pay my own way, and there’s no way I can do that on the wages I’ve saved up.”

“Then help me run a few scams,” I said, eyeing the grease burns on his hands and wrists. “We can split the profits.”

He stared off at the rolling hills and seemed to consider it for a minute. “Naw, that won’t work either. We both know you run those scams. I’d be fooling myself if I thought my involvement made a lick of difference.”

“I could concoct a new scam. Something elaborate where I needed another player. You,” I said.

From his jacket pocket he pulled out a cigarette and offered it to me. I grabbed it and threw it off the roof. “Smoking? Really? You’ve taken up smoking? God, you really are going to get yourself killed if you don’t stick with me.”

His scowl wrinkled his long forehead. “Oh, come on now. Those things are expensive,” he said, throwing his arm in the direction I tossed the cigarette.

“Save your money then and bank it for London,” I said.

“Oh, fine,” Jimmy said, resigning a bit of his sudden anger. “But I can’t leave yet. I’ve got to work more. I’ll join you once I’ve saved up more money.”

“All right, I’ll accept that. Now give me the rest of that pack of fags,” I said, holding out my hand.

Jimmy eyed my hand and then me. A few seconds later he gave a defeated sigh and reached into his pocket. He placed a wrinkled pack in my hand.

“You almost smoked the lot of these,” I said, inspecting the pack quickly before catapulting them through the air, hitting a dumb goat in the head.

“Work has been stressful,” he said.

“Well, get a different job. A better-paying one. I expect to see you in London before the summer’s over.” I stood up, holding my chin high, allowing mist to hit my face straight on.

“When you leaving?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, since you’re too much a git to join me I don’t see any reason for delaying,” I said. “I’ll be in London by nightfall.”

“Tonight?” he asked in astonishment.

I blinked down at him dully. “Yes, tonight.”

“How you going to get there so quickly?” he asked.

“There’s a machine that Dream Travelers use to generate our body. You dream travel to it and it brings your body through the physical world to where your consciousness is on the machine. It’s called a GAD-C and there happens to be one in London.” I said the whole thing like it was the most boring piece of knowledge ever.

“Like a teleporter?” Jimmy asked.

“Sure, whatever,” I said.

“But you won’t have anything with you,” Jimmy said.

“I’ll have a wad of cash and my brilliance. That’s all I need.”

Jimmy stood and flashed me an envious grin. “You know, I’d do just about anything to be you.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

Chapter Seven

The city was as fantastic as I thought it would be. I’d dream traveled to London so many times that I actually knew the city better from the nightly exploration than most of its longtime residents. I could thank my photographic memory for my intricate knowledge of London. I knew the name of every major street, the pubs with the prettiest ladies, and the perfect places to scam tourists.

And when I generated my body and stepped onto the slick streets I realized how much better it was being in the city in physical form. Steam rose from the road and actually clung to my clothes. Smells of pollution and sweaty people and the spices of an Indian restaurant all wrestled for the attention of my olfactory center. I’d never smelled so many different things at once because I didn’t have that sense while dream traveling.

People jostled by me on the busy street, most all of them invading my personal space. I was standing stock-still on the pavement in the middle of Regent Street. It was half past eight in the evening and the streets of Piccadilly Circus were jammed with people. Back in Peavey the townspeople would be drawing drapes. The pub getting ready for last call. I held out my arms, like in an attempt to embrace the city. Pedestrians knocked into me.

What’s his problem?

Dude, move.

I’m hungry.

The thoughts of the various people brushing past me streamed through my consciousness when I inadvertently touched them. It was overwhelming. It was exhilarating. I was finally alive. I’d arrived.

I opened my eyes wide and swung around. People had now moved away from me, giving me a bit of space. “London, you are so bloody lucky. I’m finally here!” I boomed, my lungs bursting with excitement.

And then something likened to a bull rammed into my shoulder and I was knocked forward.

“Move it, kid,” a bloke said as he barreled past me.

I’d forgotten that I was a kid still. I had a bank account larger than most working-class professionals, an impossibly high IQ, and a more thorough knowledge of the world than ninety-eight percent of the population. But I was still a kid and that was everyone’s first impression of me, which was an obstacle in some ways. I needed to change my appearance. I was a badass but now I needed to look like one. Relying on my detailed knowledge of the city, I headed for a high-street clothing store.

***

I only had money and the clothes on my back when I moved to London. Many had immigrated to this city with the same as I did but most didn’t land as firmly on their feet as me. I leased a flat, had a closet full of suits, and had doubled my bank account by the end of that first week. There were a lot of things I loved about London, but most of all I loved that the people had lots of money. The tourists had money. The locals had money. And all of them were perfect subjects for my scams. People will tell you that money doesn’t buy happiness. They’re bloody right. It buys experiences and power and influence and that’s a whole lot better than stupid happiness.

I had been in London for a month when I got the call.

“Hello,” I said, sticking the wireless telephone receiver to my face.

“Renny, this is your mum,” she said.

“Mum, you don’t have to tell me it’s you. I already know. You’re the only one who calls me that,” I said, pacing to the windows on the other side of the flat. From there I had a penthouse view of Hyde Park.

“I have news,” she said, and I made notice of her Irish accent flaring in her words.

I stiffened. She had bad news. “Is it Lyza?” I said, an ounce of hope in my tone. “Has something happened to her?”

She paused. “Actually I wouldn’t know. I haven’t heard from her since she left for Oxford.”

That rotten bitch still hadn’t returned any of Mum’s calls. Our parents’ money was good enough for Lyza to take to fund her university years but she couldn’t even answer her bloody phone. All logic failed to explain why my parents kept footing her damn bills. Pops said I’d understand unconditional love one day when I had my own kids. There were too many ridiculous things in that one sentence. Unconditional love. Understand. Kids.

“It’s Jimmy,” my mum said on the other side of the phone.

I cast my eyes on the door to the spare room ready for him. I’d already taken the liberty of stocking it with high-end furnishings. I was going to tell him the flat was fully furnished when I moved in. It wasn’t. I bought everything in it.

“He’s been in an accident,” my mum said, her voice trembling.

I sat in the plaid armchair and pressed the receiver more firmly into my ear. “What happened? Did his father do something to him? Is he all right?”

“It wasn’t his father,” Mum said. “We had a storm last night and a gale rushed through here. He was walking home from work and a large branch broke off a tree and hit him in the head. It knocked him out.”

I shot into a standing position. “What? Is he okay? Did they take him to St. Paul’s?” That was the closest hospital, three towns over.

“No, Renny,” my mum said, her voice cracking. “Jimmy is dead.”

I dropped the receiver. Raised up my foot and stomped down on the phone. The plastic cracked under the weight of my force. Again and again I slammed my foot down until wires and broken buttons and a sharp antenna were sprayed all over the parquet. Even later after I cleaned up the destroyed phone pieces the reminder of the call was still scratched into the floor. And if that wasn’t a constant reminder then there was Jimmy’s room. Stocked and ready for him. We were going to rule the streets of London together. But just as I always joked, without me around, Jimmy went off and got himself killed.

Chapter Eight

June 1990

I was twenty when I realized I’d wasted all my life scamming people for money. There were better ways. Smarter ways. There was gambling. I’d never thought of using mind control to put the odds in my favor. I was too busy playing trivial pranks on innocent people and scamming old ladies. And yes, before in Peavey I only scammed shifty wankers, but then I realized that old ladies were the shiftiest people out there. They just wore better disguises than the rest. People saw them as feeble or sweet or unassuming. Excuse me, but these creatures had a large bank account because they’d made a man work for it and then sucked out his health, ending his life ten or twenty years before hers. There’s a reason men die before women. Because the beast with the Y chromosome knows how to kill us through annoyance.

Monte Carlo opened its doors to me with a welcoming embrace. On my first trip to the casino, I stepped around the doorman, taking in the squeaky marble under my ostrich cap-toe shoes. Gold columns with intricate crown molding flanked the casino entrance. Chandeliers dripped with jewels hanging overhead. Fuck the Seven Wonders of the World. That casino was utterly gorgeous. The only thing more breathtaking was me. My new Armani suit was a dark forest green. Some think gingers aren’t attractive with our freckles and unearthly red hair, but there was nothing more striking than my green eyes and what they could do to every single woman in that casino. And this new lucrative venture into gambling had freed up considerable hours in my schedule. I found with only minimal weight lifting I’d already sculpted my freckle-covered muscles. One lucky woman in that place was in for a treat. Then I smiled to myself and thought, Hell, why limit myself to only one tonight?

But before pleasure, papa needed to make some money. I strode past a few tables until I found the perfect one. Choosing subjects is highly important when gambling. It was foolish to walk up to any table and exert my influence on just any player. Some people are easier to control than others, although everyone can be controlled.

Lonely people. Distracted ones. Uneducated Middlings. They’re the easiest. And in a high-security locale such as Monte Carlo I needed to be careful how I played my tricks. I’d made a lot of money and I planned to make a whole lot more. My bank account would never be large enough.

I picked a table with only two players playing Texas Hold’em. I didn’t really care for the game. Hell, I hated cards altogether. I wasn’t there to play cards though. I was there to play people. I took an empty seat between the two players, both with their heads down. One was an Asian man about my pop’s age. He was wearing a suit that wasn’t as nice as mine, but close. He had a suave confidence that I would have admired except that it was slightly irritating. I’ve never admired anyone. Instead I’ve observed and copied worthy attributes, adding them to my repertoire. Everything is a competition. Everything. And those with the best skills win every time.

I nodded at the Asian when I took the seat. He didn’t return it. On my other side was a woman. She wore a backless red dress that clashed awfully with my orangey hair. That was fine because I had no interest in her keeping it on. I was there to take the Asian’s money and then the woman’s dress off of her. I love one-stop shopping. I didn’t grace the woman with a look. Actually I pretended as if she didn’t exist and for the time being she didn’t. Business before pleasure.

The dealer, a bit older than me, dealt me in when I laid my chips on the table. I folded the first three hands hardly looking at my cards. The Asian took two hands. The woman who had absolutely no idea what she was doing got a weak win. Even losers win every now and then. She reminded me of the popular girls in school. No talent but a spark in her eye that somehow garnered her people’s favor. She was newly married by the look of her unscuffed wedding band, not yet welded to the engagement ring. I bet they got married there at the Monte Carlo. But I wondered where the groom was. Probably making the money to afford that four-karat atrocity on her finger.

On the fourth hand I played. My cards were shit. I didn’t need good cards to win. Mr. Asian-Businessman had a good hand by the glint in his brown eyes. Plucking a chip off the table, I twirled it through my knuckles. Again and again the chip glided over knuckle, under finger, and then back across. Again and again. He’d caught the hypnotic gesture. Luckily he was the only one. I doubled the bet.

“You going to play?” I said to him, a calculated control behind the words.

His eyes were still on the chip gliding nimbly over my fingers. He nodded, not breaking out of his trance. “I’m going to play,” he said in a robotic voice, pushing his chips forward.

The river came and I didn’t have a hand. He did though. I was certain of it. I doubled the bet again. He was still fixed on the chip making a rapid motion through my fingers. He eyed it and then me.

“Are you going to fold?” I asked, as more of a statement. An alluring inflection on the last word. A commanding one. This was how my hypnosis worked. Rhythmic actions and forceful words. Combined, they got me anything I wanted.

The Asian nodded again, pushing his cards forward. I dropped the chip and as I pulled in my bounty a small clarity returned to his eyes. He seemed to want to grab for the cards he threw away but refrained. I knew I’d have to play this guy fast. I used the same hypnosis on him on the next hand. Mrs. Legs beside me folded immediately. I put in half my chips before the river. Ten grand. The man had that and more but I didn’t want it all. No need to be greedy. And I couldn’t have him go all in with the shit hand I had. Never play the cards.

To my relief he called after the river. Now the game would begin. I threw in another ten grand. The man’s confidence had considerably waned. From the corner of my vision I knew his eyes were back on me. Again the chip began its dance through my fingers. I flicked a sudden menacing gaze at him. He almost flinched. I had him right where I wanted him.

“Fold,” I mouthed silently. Immediately he pushed his cards forward. He stood from the table, taking his remaining chips with him. I didn’t have to hypnotize him to win those hands, but it was a choice. I could have used my mind control. And although mind control was easier to hide, it was also more taxing and I’d planned to save it for the lovely lady to my right.

For the first time since I sat down, I turned and looked directly at the woman. She was in her mid-twenties. Her brown hair cascaded over her slender shoulders.

“How about I buy you a drink?” I said, angling to my chip stack. “To celebrate my wins.”

She regarded the chips and then me, a look of bewilderment on her face, like she wasn’t sure what had transpired over the last few minutes. Finally she shook her head. “I’m married.”

“So that means you don’t drink?” I said with a condescending tone. “You must be dreadfully dehydrated.”

A small smile quirked up the corner of her red lips. “You’re British,” she said.

I hadn’t even turned on the mind control yet. Being rich with an irresistible accent made this whole game much easier.

“I like your accent,” she said.

Yes, they all do. Too many times I’ve heard, “Say my name, Ren. I want to hear it with your accent.”

I always obliged. Whatever it took to have them screaming my name later.

“And you’re American,” I said to the woman. “The east coast, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, I don’t like your accent. It’s detestable,” I said.

A look of sudden offense jumped to her face, wrinkling her forehead.

Oh, now this was going to be real fun. Where’s the challenge if I didn’t first turn her off.

“So that drink? How about it?” I said.

“Are you out of your mind?” the woman said, pushing back from the table and giving me a snobbish glare. “And don’t you remember that I told you I was married?”

“I briefly recall you mentioning it. Never mind then. It was lovely to meet you Mrs.…?” I extended a well-manicured hand to her.

She eyed it and then me. “Mrs. Davenport,” she said, taking my hand and wringing it softly. Her shake was loose, too flimsy. And now I knew where Mr. Davenport was. He did get pulled away for an emergency meeting. On their honeymoon. And Mrs. Davenport was so pissed she was throwing away his hard-earned cash with lousy hands and no skill. Now that my curiosity was satisfied it was time to close this deal. I could control people using hypnosis, influence them by suggestive speech, or I could just get inside their head and place a well-crafted thought and image. For this newlywed, I was going to employ all three tactics, just for good measure.

Mrs. Davenport stood from the table. “Well, I must be going,” she said, her nose high in the air.

It was at precisely that moment that I pushed the idea of an obsessive attraction for me into her simple mind. The working of her mind, I could sense, was less complex than that of a chimpanzee. She had turned away from me and then turned back suddenly, completely struck by the thought I placed in her head. Her eyes roamed over my face and hair and then unabashedly she let them trail over my shoulders and down my suit. I pushed my chair out, giving her a full view of me, and regarded her with a hypnotic grin.

“I bet you really don’t want that drink now,” I said.

She shook her head and bit down on her lip. Mind control works with a well-crafted idea, but it’s strengthened with images. I was inserting them into her mind one after the other. A red flush rose up her neck and around her chest. She fanned her face and blew out long breaths.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Davenport?” I said, a sly smile on my face. “You look flustered.”

She stepped back toward the table. Toward me. “I just had the strangest experience.”

When I stood I was only inches from her. Her chest rose and fell suddenly like she was out of breath.

“Maybe you should lie down,” I said and followed the statement up with some pretty provocative images I sunk into her head.

“Yes,” she said half in a daze, her attention obviously distracted by the visuals flashing across her cortex.

“I would be more than happy to escort you to your room,” I said, running my finger along her porcelain jawline. She shuddered under my touch.

“Your room. Take me to your room,” she said, looking like a fruit ripe and ready to be picked.

“Of course,” I said, offering her my arm. She took it without hesitation and we left the casino, my pockets full and my mind steadily supplying her with thoughts which ensured I’d have a satisfying night.

Chapter Nine

October 1995

It was an oppressive autumn evening when I got the steady knock at my door. Cold winds were howling against the windows and I was curled up reading, as I did most nights. I’d been in London for nine years and I knew who the knock belonged to. I cringed visualizing the blonde bimbo who was responsible for the racket. The problem with bringing ladies back to my flat was they then knew where I lived. Often they would pop over whenever they wanted what only I could give them: the best lay of their life. My telepathy linked to my touch ensured I knew what every woman wanted. And as a kind and charitable man, I was willing to give it to them.

I could have gone to these women’s places but it would have been covered in their germs and their inadequate furnishings. My place was immaculate. The Russian cleaning lady I hired made sure of it every day. She thought that cleaning so regularly was a bit unnecessary when I contracted her, since I was a fairly neat individual who lived alone. However, the woman worked for money and I paid her well. Anyone who laundered my knickers should be paid better than most.

Cindy knocked for a full minute before I couldn’t take it anymore. The last time I let her go a whole five minutes. And the only reason I opened the door on any occasion was because Cindy didn’t like to talk, unlike most girls. She liked to take off her clothes. And after she peeled off everything but her stilettos I didn’t really care if she did talk. I wouldn’t be listening.

I pulled the door back and regarded her with a vicious stare. “What?” I growled.

Cindy trotted past me and into my flat, smacking her gum louder than a jackhammer. She scanned the living room like she was certain she’d find someone. Probably another girl. “Good to see you too,” she said, whipping around to face me.

“I’m sure it is,” I said, shutting the door, irritation in my every movement.

She was wearing a miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a blouse that showed the perfect amount of her wide cleavage.

“I got tickets to see Dahlia at Royal Albert Hall tonight and guess what lucky man gets to escort me?” she said.

“If you say me, then we need to discuss your use of the word ‘lucky,’” I said, strolling past her.

Her pink lips shot straight into a pout. Oh, she had the most practiced pout. “But Daddy got me these tickets and I’m dying to see Dahlia in concert.”

“Look, I don’t really do pop music,” I said. “And I definitely don’t do huge venues with screaming teenagers.”

“Oh, but we have a private box. No lines. No other people. And total VIP access. And just think of all the things we can do in that balcony box,” Cindy said, walking up to me and swiping a hand down my shirt. “Please,” she begged. “Be my date. Anyone would die to go to this concert and I picked you. Tickets to see Dahlia are expensive and go fast.”

There were few female vocalists who could get away with only having one name and being iconic. Cher. Madonna. And Dahlia. Even as removed from pop culture as I made myself I was still aware of her superstar status. But what convinced me to accompany Cindy to the concert wasn’t a chance to see a famous vocalist. It’s where Cindy rested her hand while I considered the proposition.

***

Once in the VIP booth I was grateful for the seats. They were away from the crowd of sweaty teenagers down below. Cindy was just trailing her hand up my leg when Dahlia took the stage. I’d seen her face on billboards but it didn’t do her justice. It wasn’t the sequined dress that caught my attention. I didn’t think she was beautiful because of the ridiculous amount of makeup on her face. She was beautiful despite it. Dahlia was my age, mid-twenties, but she had a confidence that people as young as us never have. I only knew of one person with that kind of poise and I had the honor of waking up to stare at his reflection every morning.

The stadium of fans rose to their feet and cheered, a deafening roar of voices. Cindy’s hand was to my mid-thigh and then Dahlia opened her mouth and belted out something that was instantly captivating. I didn’t listen to music and I had never heard one of her songs, but suddenly I was assaulted by inspiration. Words and vocals and instrumental music weaved together creating perfect symmetry. I had one immediate thought. She’s a Dream Traveler.

I rose to my feet, blocking Cindy’s attempt to get closer to me. I found myself at the edge of the balcony. The entire concert I spent hanging over the railing trying to get ever closer to the magnificent angel hovering on the stage in front of me. I had a clear mission now. I was going to meet Dahlia and break this bubble of sorcery. No one was as perfect as she seemed. No one should have this effect on me. What she was doing to my heart made me feel like I actually had one. That was unacceptable. She was a vixen. Medusa. A siren. I’d prove it and then I’d add her to my list before leaving her satisfied and exhausted, and all before morning.

“Does VIP come with backstage access?” I asked, turning my attention to Cindy. She was still sitting. Smacking her gum. Looking bored.

“Of course it does, but I was hoping that we could—”

I snatched her hand and pulled her toward the exit. “The concert is almost over,” I said, half dragging Cindy behind me. “Let’s get down there.”

Of course I could have gotten backstage without a problem but any time I could save the strain on my mental prowess was good. Those powers aren’t cheap and I thought I’d need the stamina for getting into Dahlia’s head.

The bouncer’s eyes lingered a touch too long on Cindy’s rack when we flashed our “all access” badges. Maybe he’d take the bleached blonde off my hands. I made Cindy go grab us drinks while I stationed myself by the back entrance. The bartender chatted Cindy up while I waited.

Like all good divas, Dahlia made us wait. It was worth it. When she strolled through the door I realized what had kept her. She’d removed the show makeup and as I suspected she was more beautiful without anything to obstruct her natural beauty. Her topaz blue eyes contrasted with her dark brown hair, which flowed over her shoulders and hung in loose curls at her chest. She wore a simple black cocktail dress and a row of diamonds hung around her neck. When our eyes met she paused. As if connected by a cord we both seemed tethered in our stare. Politely she pushed her shiny hair behind her ear and refocused her attention on the snotty teenager asking for a dozen autographs.

Cindy had just returned with the drinks and pushed a dry martini into my hands. I didn’t drink because it obstructed my powers, but I never turned down an alcoholic beverage because it led to questions.

“I can’t believe we’re about to meet Dahlia!” Cindy said too loudly. It caught an ounce of Dahlia’s poised attention on the other side of the room. Her eyes roamed over me and then to Cindy at my side. In an instant she’d studied us. Gathered information. I knew it. And I just knew she was a Dream Traveler. We’re a rare race and I had only met a handful since my time in London.

I turned to Cindy. “Go on then,” I said.

She blinked at me, confused. “What?”

“To the loo,” I said, waving her away.

“What? I don’t need to go.”

“But you just said you couldn’t hold it any longer,” I said, pushing the firm intention behind the words.

On cue she crossed her legs like trying desperately to hold the pee in. “Oh, that’s right. I’ll be right back.”

Cindy had been gone for less than a minute when Dahlia excused herself from the fans and strolled in my direction.

All right, witch, let’s figure out what kind of voodoo you use, I thought to myself.

Dahlia was used to people falling all over her and lavishing her with praise. That wasn’t what she was going to get from me.

She stopped a few feet from me, a strange intrigue in her eyes. “Hello,” she said in a voice that made me pause. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how for a few seconds.

“Hi,” I finally managed in a voice that wasn’t mine. It was too low. I extended my hand to her. “My name is Ren Lewis,” I said.

“A pleasure meeting you, Ren,” she said.

I wrung her hand and then the most startling thing occurred: I didn’t hear her thoughts. Nothing. Not a single, tiny thought.

“Are you thinking anything right now?” I said, realizing it was a ridiculous question, but I had to ask it. Humans are always thinking, even the stupid ones. Their thoughts are just dumb.

She raised her perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. “What do you mean?”

I slipped my hand from hers. “Nothing,” I said, trying to cover my suddenly flustered state.  Never, not once, had I met someone whose thoughts I couldn’t read when I touched them. And I touched a lot of people, mostly women.

I had thought I’d simply shake her hand and figure out her secrets. I reasoned it was a mistake. I’d just have to find a way to touch her again. That shouldn’t be too hard, I thought, smiling inside.

“So the concert, did you enjoy it?” she said. She was American. West coast judging by the lack of a noticeable accent.

I shrugged at her question. “It was okay,” I said. “I missed part of it when I dozed off.”

The usual look of offense I was used to didn’t sprint to her face. Instead an amused smile. “Oh well, my voice is quite hypnotic. I can put people in a trance. You’re probably mistaking your nap for that,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. Is she telepathic? I wondered. Had she gotten in my head and knew my gifts? This was not going the way I intended and that was thoroughly unacceptable.

“I’d love to meet your girlfriend,” she said, angling her head to where Cindy left to. After such a long concert she was probably standing in a major line. “But unfortunately, I’m famished and have to cut this meet-and-greet short.”

I slid my full martini onto a nearby table. “She’s my cousin actually,” I said. And now was the time for me to turn on the mind control. I opened my mouth to start the persuasion, but Dahlia cut me off.

“In that case why don’t you join me for a late dinner?” she said in a convincing tone. Not really asking.

I hadn’t even done a single manipulation on her and she was asking me out. Dahlia. Dozens of her fans were standing around, their attention on her, patiently waiting their turn, and she had her eyes deeply focused on only me. I was then convinced that she was a Dream Traveler, intent on getting me alone so we could talk. It was so rare for the races to find each other. But I knew Dahlia was a Dream Traveler and she knew I was too.

I finally answered her by saying, “I’m not hungry.”

“Then watch me eat,” she said and again she made me pause.

That witch has to be in my head. That was the only explanation.

“Oh, fine,” I said, offering her my arm. When she took it her hand touched mine. Again nothing. I didn’t spy a single of her thoughts.

She said a gracious goodbye to her fans and we retreated with her bodyguards behind us.

Chapter Ten

“So what’s your gift?” I asked, swirling the Bordeaux around in my glass. Dahlia stared back across the table, half her attention on the menu in her hands. I hadn’t wasted any time getting to my burning question. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity regarding who she was and what she was capable of and then I planned to leave. I really didn’t like to watch people eat. Most ate like Darla the prized pig in Peavey.

“Gift?” she said, laying the menu down and staring at me blankly “What do you mean? You mean my talent?”

“Sure. Whatever your lot calls it. Power. Skill. Gift,” I said, eyeing the brooding bodyguard standing a few feet behind her. We sat in a private room in the back of the restaurant. A complete wait staff was reserved to wait on just our table. There was way too much attention on us.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” she said, angling her legs out from underneath the table and crossing them.

“No,” I said, not daring to allow my eyes to drop to the long legs begging for my attention. “Irritatingly, it is not obvious.”

“My gift is my voice, of course,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “No, quit playing games. What’s your psychic gift?”

A small line formed between her sky blue eyes, marking her sincere confusion. “Uhhh…what?”

I sighed, growing impatient. She might have been dreadfully attractive, but I didn’t tolerate thick people. “Okay, well, I’m running out of ways to phrase this. Let’s give it one more go. What’s your dream travel gift?”

“My what? What’s dream travel?” she said.

I scratched my head. I was fairly certain that was the widely known name for our race in the English language. “You know, dream travel as in the thing Dream Travelers do. You know, the race you belong to. Or whatever your version of it might strangely be called,” I said, not so much irritated as actually intrigued that we had such a divide based on semantics.

She stared at my undrunk glass of wine and then at me. “What are you talking about?”

I leaned down low over the table. Brought my voice to a whisper. “Your power to go anywhere with your consciousness when dreaming. Dream Traveler. Got me now?”

She then leaned down low. Matched my volume. “Are you on drugs?”

The reality unfolding before me was all wrong. Dahlia was most certainly a Dream Traveler. She had that soulful look that only Dream Travelers have from years spent traveling and not sleeping. She had that grace that sparked the hint of a psychic power. “Dahlia, are you seriously telling me you aren’t a Dream Traveler? Or is this a prank for your own amusement?”

“What’s a Dream Traveler?” she asked, angling her head to the side, looking curious.

I rolled my head in a circle and dropped my shoulders with defeat. “A race of humans who uses their consciousness to go anywhere while sleeping. Making real things happen. Experiencing real places and times.” I said the whole thing in one long bored sentence.

She then busted out with genuine laughter. “Oh, that can’t be a real thing. You’re not serious.” Then she paused her laughter. Dropped her smile as she took in my stone expression. “Oh no, you think you’re one of these people. You’re being serious. That’s your race? Are you a Martian too?”

I blinked at her dully. “I am a Dream Traveler.”

“Prove it,” she said, putting both her elbows on the table, folding her hands together and leaning forward in a challenging stance.

I considered this. Usually I’d tell someone to sod off. Jimmy was the only Middling I told about my powers. There wasn’t anyone else who I ever had the inclination to share this information with. But there was something to this girl. And I also didn’t like that she was staring at me like I was a lunatic.

“Fine,” I finally said and picked up my fork and began spinning it across my hand and thumb. I did it again and again, increasing the speed with each spin. It was a hypnotic trick I usually did with a pencil. She looked at it suddenly but after twelve rotations she didn’t show the telltale signs of going into hypnosis.

“That’s how you’re proving it?” she said. “That you can do a clever hand trick? Wow, what a stellar race you belong to. Can you juggle also?”

“That didn’t work?” I said, placing the fork back on the starched white tablecloth.

“It depends on what you mean by work. It confirmed that you’re insane,” she said.

“Wait, you’re not the least bit hypnotized by that?” I asked.

“Do you mean hypnotized by the ridiculousness of this all? Yeah, I totally am,” she said.

This didn’t make any sense. Everyone could be hypnotized. There must be something I was missing. I rolled my eyes, boiling with irritation. “Take off your sweater,” I said, putting the force of my intention behind it. That’s all it ever took. But Dahlia didn’t peel off her cashmere sweater. She simply blinked back at me.

“What?” she said, looking half offended. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Take off your sweater,” I said with more force, putting a vivid image in her head. Most girls would have done what I said before my sentence was finished.

“Seriously, are you on drugs?” she said.

“That also didn’t work on you?” I frowned, simply at a loss to comprehend what was happening here. Nothing seemed to work on her. Sometimes people were resistant to my influence but it always worked in the end. None of my telepathy, hypnosis, or mind control worked on Dahlia. She was immune to all my powers.

I flagged down a waiter. He trotted over dutifully. “Hey, chap, would you do me a favor and tell me if you think this is a good trick?” I said to the boy. And again I picked up the fork and began spinning it through my fingers. The dumb waiter was instantly hooked. His eyes glassed over and I knew he was locked on my movement and unable to look away. After thirty seconds he began to sway. And I knew from catching Dahlia’s expression that she was spying the trance I was putting the waiter into. Several times she flicked her eyes to the spinning fork and then to the waiter. When he toppled over backwards she gasped and bolted forward to help him. He’d passed out. That’s what people do if I don’t interrupt the hypnosis. I signaled to the maître d’ and he ran over, concern and embarrassment covering his face.

“I think this man has been dipping into the cooking wine. He’s drunk,” I said, not having moved from my seat. Dahlia was hunched over the passed out waiter, but she backed away when two other waiters bustled over and dragged the boy away. I watched the whole thing with satisfied amusement.

“Ren, you did that to him, didn’t you?” Dahlia said, standing, hands on hips.

“Naturally,” I said, reclining in my chair. “On everyone but you I have certain controls. You just witnessed my hypnotic gift.”

She threw herself back into her chair and leaned over the table, throwing her fist onto its top. “But that poor boy will probably get fired now,” she said angrily. She was even more attractive when she was mad. I almost didn’t want to calm her down. “You made up a bold-faced lie about him after making him pass out.”

“He probably will be fired. Then maybe he’ll return to college and finish his anthropology degree,” I said. “I did him a favor.”

“Wait. How do you know he was in school for that?”

“He touched my hand when he handed me the wine,” I said.

She looked at me blankly. And now I was enjoying this way too much. I let a few seconds roll by.

“If I touch someone then I usually always read their thoughts,” I finally said.

“Oh, so earlier when we shook hands…” Her voice trailed away as a violated look took over her features.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m not sure why, but you, Dahlia, appear to be the first person who my gifts can’t work on. I touch you and don’t read your thoughts. I tried to hypnotize you to prove I’m a Dream Traveler and you simply looked away when people are never granted that right. And my ability to control your mind is absolutely missing. This all completely baffles and irritates me.”

“You can control minds?” she said in astonishment.

“Oh, how cute,” I said, drawing out the last word. “Did you think that millionaires’ daughters like Cindy just regularly date men with obnoxious red hair?”

“Wait, you mean the girl from the concert? The blonde? You said that was your cousin.”

“I lied,” I said without remorse. If the fact that I’d just ditched my date offended Dahlia then her face didn’t give it away.

Her eyes roamed over my spiky red hair. “Ren, I happen to like your hair,” she said flatly.

“Are you quite certain you don’t feel some presence that isn’t yours in your head telling you to be devastatingly attracted to me?” I asked.

Dahlia seemed to think for a moment. “No. But with all the thoughts that I know are mine I do think you’re devastatingly attractive. You have a thing about you. An aura. I saw it when I first spied you. It makes it so it’s hard not to look at you.”

With a ruminating look I reached out and offered my hand to her.

She stared at it with a skeptical expression.

“Take it,” I said, a sharp, bitter edge to my voice. “I have to see for certain that my gifts don’t work on you.”

“But if they do then you’ll read my thoughts,” she said, her voice rising with worry.

I huffed. “And then you can join the club with the billion other people.”

She hesitated briefly and then laid her silky hand in mine. There was a small jolt. Like a shock. I expected it to be followed by a barrage of her thoughts, but all I heard was our steady breaths. My gaze rested on her bright blue eyes.

“Well?” she finally said.

A bit hesitantly I released her hand. “Nothing. Nada. Not a trace of a thought.”

“And I’m the first person your powers don’t work on?” she said with a skeptical glare.

“The very first.”

“So all your life is that what you’ve been doing to people? Reading their thoughts? Hypnotizing them? Controlling them? Is that how you’ve gotten by?” she said, but she didn’t sound nearly as insulted as most would have upon learning all this.

“Oh, you’re one to talk. You open your mouth and people shell out big bucks. You’re just as manipulative as me,” I said, wagging my finger at her and enjoying the look of offense jumping to her features.

“I trained my whole life to have this talent, to be able to sing and entertain,” she said.

“And my talents were bestowed upon me at the age of ten with no effort on my part because of the simple fact that I’m a Dream Traveler. Life isn’t fair, luv,” I said, snapping at the maître d’ again and then mouthing the word “coat” at him.

“You’re leaving?” Dahlia said in disbelief. “What about the check?”

“I figured you’d get it,” I said to her.

“Oh, are you done here because your witchcraft doesn’t work on me?”

“Exactly. And I’m excusing you of my presence so you don’t have to let me down at the end of the night. You’re welcome,” I said, my eyes resting on the burgundy carpet.

“You think people have only ever liked you because you made them, don’t you?” she said, her eyes narrowing from her clever observation.

“No, Dahlia, I know it. I caught your eye tonight because you thought my head was on fire and I had monster green eyes. It’s not attraction, it’s called intrigue. You stare at my pale face and pointy bicuspids long enough and you’re going to figure that out. So let’s say our goodbyes while you still have what you call ‘attraction’ for my features,” I said, throwing a seething glare at her, one she didn’t deserve. “Congrats on being the first person to make me feel normal. I’ve never known what that feels like.” I stood when the waiter brought my camel hair coat and shrugged it on. “Feeling normal is absolutely awful. I hope to never feel like this again.”

“But Ren,” Dahlia said, standing suddenly. “You can’t just leave. We just met. And I…” She trailed off. The girl was absolutely breathtaking and nothing I could do worked on her. She probably stole my breath because she was fatal to my ego and therefore the essence of my being.

I shook my head at her. “Oh, but I can just leave and I’m doing so now. Cheerio, luv. Have a nice life,” I said and then turned and stalked away.

Chapter Eleven

A small deliberate knock sounded on my door the very next day after the concert. It wasn’t Cindy’s usual incessant knocking. I was sure she’d come stomping over to tell me off for ditching her the night before. In my defense I had a better offer. Just turned out not to be the offer I thought it would be.

I ignored the first knock. A minute later it came again. “Go away,” I said from my armchair. My feet were propped on the mahogany coffee table, Brave New World opened and nestled in my lap. I detested being disturbed when reading. Hell, I detested being disturbed period. Some people have a preference for being alone most of the time. For me, it’s more of an absolute necessity. I reasoned it’s due to the fact that I’ve spent so much time in other people’s heads.

Another knock at the door.

“Go. Away. Now!” I said.

“That’s not nice,” Dahlia’s unmistakable voice chimed through the door. “Now open up already.”

I jumped to a standing position, first disbelief and then horror clouding my thoughts. I hurriedly tucked my button-down into my slacks and checked my hair in the mirror. Of course, I hadn’t been expecting company and I definitely hadn’t thought Dahlia would be calling on me.

Arranging my face into something classified as apathetic, I pulled the door open. Dahlia stood in front of me, her appearance doing something strange to my chest. I think the heart I didn’t know I had palpitated. I didn’t like that at all. She was flanked by two bodyguards. They both wore black suits, ear pieces, and had necks thicker than my thigh.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her. “How did you find out where I lived?”

“I have my ways,” she said, batting her long dark eyelashes at me.

“You realize this borders on stalking?” I said.

“Does it?” she said coyly. “Well, since I’m here, can I come in?”

I stood back and waved my arm wide. “By all means,” I said, careful to keep all nervousness out of my voice.

“If you don’t mind, my guards will just need to check your place before I can come in. Just to ensure it’s safe,” she said.

I tied my arms across my chest and sighed heavily. “You sneakily found out where I live and show up on my doorstep and your guards need to determine that you’ll be safe here.” I gave her a skeptical glare. “I think my safety should be the concern presently.”

She lowered her chin and offered me a convincing smile. “Oh, come on, Ren. I just want to chat with you.”

I rounded on the guards and waved them forward. “Fine. Go peeping around my flat, but don’t touch anything with your dirty hands.”

One guard stood next to Dahlia while the other scuttled about my place. We remained completely silent. Dahlia stared at me curiously and I stared at the ceiling, doing my best “annoyed” act.

“All clear,” the guard came back and said a minute later.

“Did you check under the bed for the boogie man?” I said to the buffoon. “I’m certain he’s under there, but I can’t build up the gumption to look for myself.”

A small amused smile lit up Dahlia’s face. “Leave us, boys,” she said, talking to the guards, but her eyes still hinged on me. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. It made me feel different. Affected.

The guards both exited the flat. Just before one pulled the door shut I said, “Don’t go far, boys, I might need your protection.” This didn’t produce a single reaction from the meatheads.

“Oh, you know I’m harmless,” Dahlia said, taking off her fitted trench coat and handing it to me. She was wearing a lavender dress that I pretended not to notice was perfectly tight.

“Actually, I don’t know a lick about you,” I said, flinging her jacket on the chair in the corner.

“I was kind of hoping you’d hang that up,” she said, that amused expression on her face again.

“Were you? And are you also hoping I’ll offer tea and biscuits, because you’re wasting your time. I’m an awful host, so if you’re looking for hospitality then you’ve come to the wrong place, luv,” I said.

Not a single reaction registered on her face. She simply strolled through my flat, admiring the furnishings. Studying them. Dahlia then stopped in front of a painting over the sofa, and blinked with sudden disbelief. Her hand raised and she pointed at it. “Is that a real Van Gogh?”

I sighed, walked over to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantel. “Do you take me for the type who would have a forgery? Of course it is,” I said, disgust heavy in my voice.

“Do you appreciate Van Gogh because you’re both misunderstood redheads?” Dahlia said, turning to gauge my reaction to the question.

She was crafty. Played a game that most didn’t dare to play with me. For some odd reason people have always been intimidated by me. Usually my abrasive nature keeps these cowards at a distance, but Dahlia didn’t seem deterred. She wasn’t putting up with me like Cindy did, she was volleying with me and it was actually quite intriguing.

“So do you regularly hunt down people who attend your concerts and barge into their homes?” I said.

Dahlia took a seat on the leather sofa, crossing her legs in front of me. “You’re the first.”

“By all means, please have a seat,” I said with an exasperated groan. “Make yourself at home.”

“It appears I have,” she said, a smile in her eyes.

“You apparently didn’t get the hint last night when I left you at the restaurant, did you?” I said.

She was studying me again, not even daring to hide the way her eyes were trailing over my features. I worked hard to keep my hands still, to remain completely frozen inside and out. Her gaze shouldn’t have had that type of effect on me, to make me feel fidgety.

“Do I need to put out a bowl of water for your meatheads?” I said to break the silence.

An all wrong, satisfied smile spread on her ruby lips. She patted the place on the sofa beside her. “Come sit. I want to learn more about who Ren is. That’s why I’m here.”

I strolled over to Dahlia and peered down at her with a menacing stare. “Can’t you figure that out the same way you learned where I live?”

She looked up at me, holding my gaze with a determination I’ve rarely seen. “I want to learn about you, from you. It’s more fun that way.”

I brushed past her, my trousers touching her bare legs, and then I took up residence in my plaid armchair. Taking my time I made myself comfortable, crossing my ankle over my knee. Then I propped my elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled my hands in front of me. Only then did I flick my eyes at her. She had been watching my every move with her sparkling blue eyes.

“Why?” I finally said.

She blinked at me in surprise. “Why what?”

“Why me? Why did you come here to learn about me?” I said, wondering if this was a strange dream. It was starting to feel like one. The way she was threatening my rough exterior couldn’t be real.

She crossed her long-fingered hands in her lap and her eyes fell to the coffee table, finally giving me some relief from her penetrating stare. “All my life I’ve felt too big for the spaces I entered. Not physically, of course,” she said. “My energy always seems to overwhelm a room. Most people don’t understand that though. But last night when we met, you had that power. If my observation is correct then I think you feel exceptional in an ordinary world. When you enter a space, do you own it? Command it without meaning to?”

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned loudly. “I can read minds and control them, obviously I’m extraordinary.”

“But your powers don’t work on me?” she said, staring at me again.

“Your point?” I said.

“Well, you probably think that you have that commanding presence because of your gifts, is that right?” she asked.

I held my fingernails up and pretended to be inspecting them. “Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the diva a gold star. What’s your bloody point?” I said, still not looking at her.

“My point is that your gifts don’t work on me and I’m absolutely captivated by you,” Dahlia said, not a hint of nervousness in her voice. All confidence.

I wanted to look at her, but I was afraid to. This was taking a path I wasn’t sure how to navigate. I had always known how to steer a conversation. I’m a fucking master at strategy. But not with Dahlia. “You are probably intrigued by my gifts. I can’t blame you. I’m sure I’m like a circus act to you.”

“Oh no,” she said matter-of-factly. “I had this reaction before I knew what you were capable of.”

Unable to resist a moment longer, I brought my eyes up to meet hers. “If you’re trying to get me to take off your clothes then all you have to do is ask,” I said with devilish grin. “I’m easy. Ask around. Everyone will tell you it’s true.”

She cocked her head to the side with a smile. “Tell me how this dream travel works.”

“So you don’t want me to take off your clothes?” I said, angling a raised eyebrow at her. “I could have sworn that’s where this whole ‘I’m obsessed with you’ thing was going.”

Dahlia held my gaze, amusement playing on her face.

“Fine. Fine,” I said, slouching down in the chair. “We’ll talk some more, but it might kill me, just so you know. I’m not really the ‘talking’ type.”

“So you can really go anywhere with your dreams? And the experience is real?” she asked.

“Yes, I close my eyes and make an intention and my consciousness soars through space and time. It really explores real places as they are. I can’t affect those not dream traveling, but I can affect the physical realm,” I said in a monotone voice. “It’s all very fascinating for Middlings, I’m sure, but you grow rather bored with it when you’re me.”

“And I’m a Middling? Because I can’t dream travel and have no gift?” she asked.

“That’s right, luv. You have no psychic gifts and your dreams are confined to whatever your subconscious serves up,” I said, enjoying too much the way her eyes scanned without seeing as she processed this all.

“So when you touch anyone besides me, you always hear their thoughts?” she asked, a speculative look making her look beautifully intelligent.

“Right again,” I said, my voice bored.

“Has that made sexual experiences weird?” she said, her face angled to the side and curiosity in her eyes.

Dahlia’s boldness was absolutely attractive. I was afraid my attraction for her was starting to slip out of me, displaying itself on my features. “Well, it isn’t weird for the other person since I know exactly what they want and how they want it,” I said. “And usually I’m all too happy to give it to them.”

I spied a small shiver run over her shoulders. I had just made her flustered. It was about time. “But for me, it’s quite irritating. The last thing I want to hear is other people’s thoughts when shagging them,” I said, hoping to spy her grow even more uncomfortable.

Instead a sly smile spread on her large mouth. “Well, then just imagine how perfect the experience would be with me.”

Something lodged itself in my throat. I hoped she didn’t notice me strain to swallow past it. “Is this when you take off your clothes?” I managed to say with the perfect degree of disinterest.

She stood and walked around the coffee table, her nude heels making note of each of her steps. Dahlia then paused two feet from me. She extended her hand. “This is when I ask you to take me to lunch.”

I considered her, her outstretched hand. “Oh, fine, I guess I do have to eat,” I said, taking her hand as I stood. And again I felt the touch of human contact without being bombarded by someone else’s thoughts. It was utterly better than I ever imagined the experience to be. I was finally living in the moment. Experiencing touch as it was intended. I should have realized right then I was a bloody goner.

Chapter Twelve

I hadn’t gone on many dates, not until that first lunch with Dahlia. I didn’t need to take girls out and listen to them ramble to get what I wanted. And I got that some people went on a date for other reasons than to score at the end. Companionship is a thing. I knew that. But I’ve always enjoyed my loneliness. People annoy me and I’d rather be alone than annoyed.

However, Dahlia didn’t annoy me like other people did. Most people irritate me with their stupidity and lack of imagination. That didn’t describe Dahlia in the least. During lunch she worked to find my buttons and then she commenced to push them over and over and over again. And strangely I liked it. More than that I liked the things Dahlia said when she wasn’t straining at the seams to get under my skin. At first I had mistaken her confidence to be a result of her global success. I was wrong. Dahlia wasn’t bold because she was famous. She was famous because she was bold.

Lunch ended too early and I found I had more I wanted to ask her. More I wanted to say. I had only ever met one person I enjoyed being with and he was dead. And then God sent Dahlia into my life. She marveled at my skill as Jimmy had and she wasn’t constrained by a boring conscience. Oh, and she was a whole lot better to look at than Jimmy.

“I want to see you use your mind control on someone,” she said as we walked down the street after lunch. We weren’t going anywhere and neither one of us was making an attempt to end the date.

“I’m not a bloody show pony,” I said.

She spun around in front of me and halted, making me halt too. “Oh, you’re not? Too bad because I would have loved a ride.”

I stared down at her with a sinister look. Even in her heels she was six inches shorter than me. The perfect height. “I’m sure you would have,” I said, strolling around her and veering into Hyde Park. I took a seat in the middle of a grassy knoll as far away from a blasted tree as possible.

Dahlia’s buffoons kept a safe distance from us. She sat beside me, her legs tucked to the side. She was probably not too comfortable sitting on the ground in a tight dress.

“What exactly do you want me to do with my mind control?” I said, my arms on my knees.

“Make that girl do a cartwheel,” she said, pointing at a teenager who was hanging with a gaggle of other obnoxious teenagers.

“What if she doesn’t know how?” I said.

“What do you mean?” Dahlia asked.

“Well, I can’t make someone do something if they don’t know how to do it. If they can’t play a piano concerto then all the mind control in the world won’t work to make them perform one.”

“That’s interesting,” Dahlia said, staring at the girl. “But she’ll know how to do a cartwheel. Everyone knows how.”

“I don’t know how to do a daft cartwheel,” I said.

“What? You don’t?” she said in disbelief.

“What use did I have learning such nonsense?”

“Oh, you’ve missed out,” she said, shaking her head at me. “First you make her cartwheel, then I’ll teach you how.”

“You’re going to cartwheel in a dress?” I said.

She shrugged. “The worst that will happen is you’ll see my panties.”

“Right, and I’m going to see those anyway. On my floor,” I added a tick later.

She shook her head and shot me a simmering look but there was a smile under it. “Go ahead, Ren, make an innocent girl embarrass herself in front of her friends,” she said, pointing to the group.

I shot a single look at the girl and directed a visual and a well-crafted thought. Dahlia watched and then her mouth popped open when the girl whirled around and did an impromptu cartwheel, but she didn’t do just one. I made the teenager do it again and again until she’d done five in a row. She would have done six but dizziness took over her and she fumbled to the ground. Her friends sprinted over, doubled over with laughter and only a smidge of concern for their almost passed out friend.

“Ren!” Dahlia said, grabbing my forearm. A huge grin spread her mouth wide. “You did that!” she said in astonishment.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t believe me until now,” I said.

“Ren,” she said, her face going completely slack with seriousness. “I didn’t believe you had mind control until now.” She turned her attention back to the group. The girl had recovered and was sitting up but still looked winded. Her friends, though, were inspired now and a few of them were attempting to do back to back cartwheels, seeing if they could beat the girl’s five in row.

Dahlia laughed. “And you didn’t have her do just one. Were you showing off for me?”

“No, but now you can show off for me,” I said, pointing at the grass in front of us. “Show me your pants. I mean, teach me how to cartwheel. But I’ll warn you I’m an awful learner and might need you to demonstrate numerous times.”

“You know how you seem to be heartless about making unknowing people do things?” Dahlia asked.

“Yeah,” I said without too much consideration of the question.

“Well, I have the same thing with lying,” she said. “I don’t mind doing it a bit.”

My mouth popped open with disgust. “So no cartwheels then?”

“Nope,” she said, kicking her heels off and springing to her feet. “But tag, you’re it,” she said, poking my shoulder and then sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Oh no you didn’t,” I said with disbelief, shuffling to my feet and chasing after her. I heard her giddy laughter as I closed the distance between us. I would have been laughing too but I was having a hard time computing this “play” that I’d willingly entered into. And I was enjoying it. Something had put a halt on my apathetic nature and I was actually having a rare experience. I was having fun. And as I neared her a rough breathless laugh escaped my mouth.

I grabbed Dahlia’s shoulder and wrestled her gently to the grass. We rolled until she ended up on top of me, as I intended. Her hair fell vertically around me and she looked down with a mischievous glint. I pinned my hands on her hips and she moved down closer to me. We were both winded from running but I liked the way her breath caressed my warm cheeks. I encouraged her closer. Without restraint she leaned into me, sliding a hand down my jaw, not pouring any of her thoughts into my head with the touch.

“Come here,” I encouraged, grabbing her chin and angling it toward mine.

Dahlia moved in as someone simultaneously called out. “Look! That’s Dahlia!”

She jerked upright with a look of pure horror on her face. I angled my head to the side. A group had gathered twenty yards away and were gawking at us, some pulling out their cameras and snapping shots.

I whipped my head in the other direction. Her guards were double the distance of the hoard of fans who were moving closer, increasing with speed every second.

“Come on, Dahlia,” I said, shooting to a standing position and grabbing her hand. “We have to get out of here.” The group of fans was now between us and the guards. I shot a look in the opposite direction. It was clear. “This way,” I said, pulling her away.

I could control two to three minds at once but I couldn’t control a mob of hormone-crazed teenagers. Barefoot and breathless, Dahlia raced beside me, easily keeping up. We sped out of the park and I knew the asphalt must be hell on her feet. But she didn’t even grimace as we sprinted. She only whipped her head around to catch the distance of the fans trailing us. Running from them only seemed to incite them more, like this was a game. I had no idea what they’d do if they got ahold of her. People are crazy to the ones they love.

We rounded a corner and she reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me into a tourist shop full of souvenirs.

“Are you insane?” I said, spinning her around. “This is an awful place to hide.”

She stepped up close to me, a mock threat in her eyes. “And hiding is impossible with your unmistakable red hair. We need a hat and shoes pronto.”

I raised an impressed eyebrow. “So disguises, eh? That sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, and if these fans are like most they’ll spread out and search this area,” Dahlia said.

“What do they do if they corner you?” I asked.

“Sometimes they throw their arms around me and beg for me to sign various body parts. But they always talk to me. A lot,” she said.

I grimaced. “Sounds horrible.”

“It is. I hate the public,” she said through clenched teeth.

A satisfied smile spread across my face. “Dahlia, you may not be so bad after all.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me deeper into the tiny shop. “I’m amazing and soon you’ll admit it.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” I covered my giddy smile. This girl had the effect on me to make me giddy. I had a simultaneous urge to kiss her and strangle her. Ren Lewis didn’t do giddy.

We exited the shop two minutes later. I had a bowler hat pulled down low over my hair and dark shades covering my emerald green eyes. Dahlia had tied her long brown hair into a bun and tucked it in a cap. She also had on a Hyde Park sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops.

“Where to?” I said, peering out of the shop. Without abandonment she grabbed my hand and pulled me down the pavement. She didn’t release me after she chose a direction, just kept my hand in hers. Several kids from the mob were searching the streets inspecting the various people passing by. To my relief they didn’t give us a second glance.

“Let’s go take a ride on the Underground. I’ve always wanted to,” she said.

I regarded her with a long annoyed stare. Too bad she probably couldn’t see it under my dark glasses. “Firstly, how have you not been on the Tube? And secondly, I didn’t realize you wanted to get a staph infection.”

She laughed easily. “My guards would never allow me on the Underground. Too many security risks. They’re going to kill me when they find me after all this,” she said.

I flashed her a smile. “That would make them the worst bodyguards ever.”

I led her to the nearest station, her hand still in mine. “After we ride on the Tube, do you want to go to a hostel? I’m sure we can find one with fleas and then you’ll feel like a real rebel.”

She nodded. “Yes to a dirty hostel, but only after you do some tricks on various people on the Underground. I want to see a homeless man chunk his only shoes at a rail and an honest woman flash some school boys.”

I paused, turned, and regarded her like she was a centaur or gnome or some other mythical creature. “You just said all that like you honestly want me to make people do those kinds of things.”

She blinked at me. “Of course I do.”

“But most people would think that kind of thing was cruel,” I said.

She gave me a slight sheepish look. “Oh, do you think those things are cruel?”

“Yeah, but they’re also highly entertaining.”

“Good. I thought you’d say that,” Dahlia said. “Oh, and who cares what other people think. Their opinions are almost always wrong.”

I stared down at her, pretty certain that she was a figment of my imagination. No one could be so incredibly perfect.

She stepped forward and pulled down slightly on the front rim of my hat. “I told you we were a lot alike. I could just sense it.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at her with a heated look.

“Come on,” she said, lacing her fingers in mine. “Let’s go create some headlines.”

We rode the Tube for hours and actually ran out of people to manipulate with pranks before we ran out of pranks. Dahlia’s tricks were usually clever and detailed. I was impressed but hid it. However, it was hard to hide the drain all that mind control and hypnosis did to me. We ate dinner in a small pub by my building and thankfully our disguises held up the whole day. Dahlia walked me to the entrance of my building and as she expected her guards were there waiting for her.

“They’re predictable dogs, aren’t they,” I said.

One was holding her heels and the other her purse and coat. They’d probably been standing there all day.

She cast them a single look before turning to look up at me. “Are you going to invite me up?”

I squinted down at her. “What? Do you want me to?” I said, unable to hide the disbelief in my voice.

“No, I just asked that question so I could reject you and make you look like a fool,” she said with the perfect degree of snark in her voice.

I didn’t grant her a response, just stared at her. I’ve found that my stares are usually more effective than speaking. They have a nice punishing quality to them.

“Of course I want you to want to invite me up,” Dahlia finally said. “But I get that you’ve been trying to prove to yourself all day that I don’t really like you and that there’s no way you’d ever fall for a girl. Not with powers like yours. Not when you can cut the dreadful companionship crap and just have sex. But you can go ahead and drop the act you’ve been trying to keep up since we met. It’s cute but getting old.”

“Where did you come up with all that?” I said, wondering if she had duped me and was in fact a Dream Traveler with telepathy.

“Since I met you, I sense things about you,” she said plainly, like she wasn’t shattering my very existence. “For some reason I see things about you so clearly, like I know what you’re thinking at times.” And she just shrugged. Like she’d said nothing of consequence.

I studied her. “You sense things about just me or other people too?” I said.

“Just you.”

“Dahlia?” I said, a gruffness in my voice.

“Yes,” she said.

“Would you like to come up?”

“No,” she said through a fake yawn. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

I narrowed my eyes at her and hoped that they felt like punishment by fire.

She pushed me in the chest, her face cracking with a giant smile. “I’m kidding. Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and pulling me in the direction of the entrance for the building.

I gave the doorman a curt nod when we entered.

“That guy, the doorman, he didn’t give you any trouble this morning when you barged into the building?” I said to Dahlia when we rode up to my flat. One guard had taken the lift before ours. The other one would take the next one.

She looked at me with an exasperated gaze. “I’m Dahlia,” she said, like that was a sufficient excuse.

“I’m Dahlia,” I said in a mocking tone.

She laughed. It was hard to believe I’d just met this girl. It didn’t feel like it. Actually it felt all wrong, like I’d always known her and her me. I was too comfortable with her and she was absolutely right, I didn’t want whatever this was, but I needed it. And that boiled my insides with anger. I had never needed anything.

“Are you coming?” Dahlia said, staring back at me. She’d already exited the lift and was holding the door open for me. I didn’t meet her eyes as I stalked past her.

“You’re doing that brooding thing again,” she said, hurrying her footsteps to catch up with me. “Were you just thinking about how much you don’t want to like me, but can’t resist?”

I spun around and shot her a fuming look. “If I find out that you’re a telepathic Dream Traveler who’s been lying to me then you better move off the grid because I’m coming after you with vengeance.”

“So I’m right, aren’t I? That was what you were thinking,” she said with a triumphant smile. “And what happens when you realize that I’m not and I’m just this connected to you?” she said, watching for my reaction. When I didn’t give her one she plucked my keys out of my hand and trotted off to my flat. She pulled off the cap as she walked and let down her hair with a shake of her head.

Damn, this woman is going to be the death of me, I thought as I stalked after her.

Her guards stayed stationed outside my flat when we entered. I took my keys back from Dahlia and dutifully hooked them on the wall. When I turned around she had peeled off the enormous sweatshirt she’d been wearing and smoothed down her lavender dress. We stood staring at each other for a long few seconds.

“Come here,” she said and I finally knew what it was like to be one of my mind-controlled victims. I felt forced to move forward. I couldn’t resist her command and I also didn’t want to. I halted when I was right up against her. The fabric of her dress bristled against my shirt.

She brushed her hand against my clean-shaven face. “How does it feel not to hear thoughts right now?”

And I decided to be honest since there didn’t seem to be any way to hide anything from this girl. “Like a gift,” I said.

She took her other hand and slipped it around my neck. The experience was so surreal. I’d never been this close to someone without having forced them.

Everything about that moment was so freeing. I didn’t dare move. I was frozen under the realization that Dahlia was touching me because she wanted to. Then she stood up on her tiptoes and paused a breath away from my mouth, regarding me with wide open eyes. She tilted her head and pressed her mouth against mine. Her lips brushed my lips gently, but only once before I unleashed a kiss bursting with a desire I was tired of smothering. She pushed back into me with a heavy passion. Her hands found the button to my suit jacket, undoing it. Our mouths still locked on each other’s, she slipped her hands under my jacket and began exploring. I was leaning over her when I felt her step back from my force. Steadying her with one hand around her waist I then locked my fingers into her hair and gently tugged. A satisfied groan escaped her lips. My mouth started a fervent path along her jawline.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking right now, Ren?” she said through heavy breaths.

“No,” I said, trailing kisses under her ear, down her slender neck. “I think I already know.”

“It might actually make you blush though,” she said, leaning back, inviting me to continue exploring her with my mouth.

“I’ve heard it all, luv,” I said, rising up tall and regarding her under hooded eyes.

Dahlia slid her hands up my chest and wrapped them around my neck. “You haven’t heard this because you can’t read my thoughts.”

“Then please, do tell,” I said, my mouth only an inch from hers.

“I was just thinking that without hearing my thoughts you’re still giving me exactly what I want and how I want it,” she said.

I didn’t blush. But her words did send a rush of heat through my stomach. Without a single warning I whipped her off her feet, cradling her in my arms. A surprised gasp escaped her mouth, but then she grabbed my face and her lips were on mine, demanding and spilling with a frenzied passion. I kissed her with my eyes wide open as I marched us both across the flat and straight into my bedroom. My lips didn’t disconnect from hers until I laid her down in my bed, a deliciously heated look in her eyes.

Chapter Thirteen

November 1996

Being with Dahlia was harder than I would have expected. It should have been a luxury. She traveled incessantly and was always busy. We hardly ever saw each other. Only on rare nights could we spend more than a few hours together. And this was precisely the unbelievable reason it was difficult. I missed her. Wanted to see her more times than I was granted. Most times I could dream travel to one of her nearby locations and generate my body using a GAD-C, but even then some travel was involved for me. And since my “work” was flexible I could have stuck by her side as she asked numerous times and given up my place in London. But that was never going to happen. I wasn’t going to be a touring diva’s boy toy. I had my own life and my own ways of doing things and I wasn’t giving that up for anyone. Even for someone I actually cared about, for the very first time ever.

We settled for the evenings when I’d travel to Los Angeles, where she spent most of her time. I’d shack up with her until she had to depart. I’d then join her in New York or Hong Kong or Morocco. It was exhausting and it was also absolutely worth it. I couldn’t stop touching her. Even after I’d committed myself to her for a whole year, my fingers were magnets to her skin. Before Dahlia I’d never experienced the freeing feeling of touching someone without being pressured by their thoughts. It was such a treat. And her skin seemed to simmer under my touch, like it also had a freeing effect on her.

“Do you wish you could read my thoughts?” she said to me one autumn evening, a full year after we’d met.

“Not even a little bit,” I said with an unhampered smile. Of all the thoughts I could read, hers probably wouldn’t make me barf. Dahlia wanted fame, riches, and me. And she had it all. She didn’t want to bodge up her life with breeding. Like me, she thought kids were repulsive but she didn’t mind taking their money, or their parents’ money, as it were. Dahlia was perfectly selfish and smart. And her affection was all I wanted, well besides my own loads of riches.

On a rare occasion, Dahlia had a show in London and had blocked off a few extra days to spend with me. She wanted to see some sights around London but I convinced her they were all tourist traps and that we should just lock ourselves in my flat.

“The Tower of London is a tourist trap? It’s like a thousand years old,” Dahlia said. Her head was resting on my stomach and we were laid out on the rug in front of the fire.

“It’s crawling with snotty Europeans and uptight Americans who will constantly stop you to ask you to take their picture. I promise it’s not worth the dreadful effort,” I said, combing my fingers through her silky hair.

“You know I’m not a Dream Traveler who’s had the opportunity to see the world without crowds. I have to see things like a lowly Middling and sometimes I even have to wait in a line or two,” Dahlia said.

I shivered with disgust at the idea. “You’re Dahlia. If you really want something you can have your people do stuff. Hell, you could probably make a few calls and have St. Paul’s Cathedral shut down for a private tour.”

She turned over suddenly, propping herself up on my chest, a jazzed look in her eyes. “That’s a great idea. If I do it, will you go with me?”

I regarded her like she was a sad, naive orphan. “Oh no, dear Dahlia. I’m not allowed in holy places. They make my flesh burn. I literally have a reaction. I think it’s God’s way of telling me I’m going to hell.”

She lifted herself and climbed onto me, leaning down so she was looking directly at me from above. “Well, I’m going with you. It’s going to be more fun there anyway,” Dahlia said.

I smiled up at her. “Yes, we’ll harass the hell out of the sinners down there.”

Still straddling me, she moved in closer. “Well, you don’t have to go on tourist treks with me, but you are going to escort me to the Grammys.”

“We’ve been through this and no, I’m bloody not. Get one of those guys from Front Street Boys to take you,” I said.

She burst out laughing. “They’re called Backstreet Boys.”

“Whatever,” I said, pinning my hands on her hips, hinging her in place.

“Please, Ren,” she said with a pout.

“You just want me to go so I can make Madonna grab someone’s boob on stage,” I said.

Dahlia hopped a little on my abdomen, knocking the air out of me. She gave me a mischievous grin when I coughed out an irritated breath.

“Hey, why’d you do that?” I said.

“You know I’m not with you because you can entertain me with your gifts, right?” she said.

“Oh no?” I said, rolling over suddenly, throwing her on her back and taking up the spot she just had on top of me. I pinned her hands beside her. “Well, are you with me because I’m a recluse who steals money from innocent people?”

She fought my restraints with a giggle. “Is that why you won’t go with me to the Grammys? Are you afraid people will ask questions and dig into your nonexistent past?”

We had been very careful to keep my interactions with Dahlia as secret as possible. The last thing I needed was a bunch of paparazzi snooping around and figuring out I was a millionaire without a job to speak of. I’d been able to create a full persona to fool the Crown, but if a hungry reporter got motivated they’d grow suspicious. I had zero collegiate experience, had never held a single job, and yet I had a portfolio to put Donald Trump to shame.

“That’s part of the reason and also because of the whole people make me sick thing,” I finally said. “I don’t think I could stand a bunch of cameras in my face.”

“Well, have you ever thought of a profession?” Dahlia asked, looking up at me. “You know I’ll love you no matter what. Criminal or not.”

I looked away at the use of that word. Love. Dahlia often confessed her love for me but I’d never returned the sentiment. Wasn’t sure how to.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I get bored scamming but it’s so easy,” I said.

“What do you think you’d like to do if you could?” she asked, angling her knee in a curious place.

I smiled as I thought for a minute. “I’d stop people like me. It’s the only thing I think that would actually offer a real challenge.”

Her face lit up. “I can just see it. Bad guy turns good guy because he knows all their tricks,” she said in an announcer-type voice.

“Yeah, but I’d still have to do naughty things on the side. I couldn’t stand being a goody-goody,” I said.

“Well, and I definitely don’t want a superhero boyfriend,” Dahlia said.

I leaned in and growled against her throat. “Oh, I know all too well that you like villains.”

Just then the phone rang. I ignored it as I always did, but Dahlia turned her head to the phone on the table. “Aren’t you going to get that?”

“Does it look like I’m going to get that?” I said, nuzzling my nose against her neck.

“But what if it’s important?” she said, wiggling her hands out of mine and then twisting to the side.

“It’s not,” I said, a little put off by her moving away. I sat up a bit and looked at her. “It’s my pops. He calls every day and leaves numerous messages.”

She sat up fully, bucking me off her. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

I sat back on my knees, combing my hands through my hair. “He just wants to harass me about my choices. The last few times I spoke to my pops he couldn’t stop berating me about scamming for money,” I said.

The phone rang again. It was the third time.

“He might be calling for a different reason,” Dahlia said, standing. The phone went to the answering machine.

“What are you doing?” I asked her as she marched to the phone.

“I’m intervening,” she said.

The answering machine picked up.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, an angry edge in my voice.

“Because I sense I should,” she said as the beep to the machine sounded.

“Ren, this is your pops,” my father’s voice came over the machine. “I need to tal—”

Dahlia plucked the wireless phone off its cradle. “Ren Lewis’s phone,” she said, not looking at me. Probably knowing I was throwing an angry stare at her.

“Hi, Mr. Lewis,” she said after a moment and then paused.

“Yes, I’m a friend of Ren’s,” she said, daring to look at me and wink. “My name is Dahlia.”

She paused again, listening to my pops.

“Yes, I’ve totally heard her music,” she said with a guilty smile. “It’s great… ”

My pops had probably just said there was a famous vocalist by the same name. “Well, you probably want to talk to your son. He’s right here,” she said and handed me the phone.

I pressed my lips together and shot a scathing look at Dahlia as I ripped the phone from her hands. “Hello, Pops,” I said, whipping around and strolling to the window.

“Ren,” he said on the other side of the line. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for months.”

“I’ve been busy,” was all I said. I braced myself for his questions and critiques. Ever since I moved to London he’d been on my case about my choice of work. He apparently thought my scams were okay before I came of age but now that I was a man I needed to grow up.

“Ren, I was going to drive up there to see you soon if I couldn’t get ahold of you,” he said, a breathlessness in his voice.

“Pops, you do realize you’re a Dream Traveler and can just dream travel to the GAD-C in London and generate your body, right?” I said.

“Sure, but that’s not the point. Ren, I’ve been trying to contact you for all these months because you need to come home.”

I turned and looked at Dahlia. She was watching me, a concerned expression on her face.

“Why, Pops? What is it?”

“It’s your mum. She has cancer. She’s dying, son.”

And again I dropped the receiver. But I didn’t crush it like I did when I heard about Jimmy. I simply walked to the front door and left that very same minute.

Chapter Fourteen

Dahlia had naturally chased after me. I gave her a few clipped explanations and then left her in London. I arrived at my old home in Peavey just before nightfall.

“Why isn’t she in a hospital?” I said to my father when he told me my mum was in her bedroom waiting to see me.

“She doesn’t want to be in the hospital anymore,” Pops said. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “The doctors say she doesn’t have long and she wanted to be here. She’d been in the hospital for a long time. It’s not been a comfortable place for her and now that they can’t do anything else she wants to die at home.”

I slammed my fist into the wall. It stuck through the old plaster. My father just watched as I wrestled my hand back through the crumbling wall. He probably thought I was angry that my mum was dying. I was, but I was livid that I’d ignored his calls for all those months. “You should have tried harder to get ahold of me. I should have been with her,” I said, my words fuming.

“I did try, son,” he said, staring at the hole in the wall. A reminder of my blinding anger.

“You could have left a more detailed message on my machine.”

He shrugged. “It didn’t feel right and honestly she didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want to worry you at first. She thought she could beat it.”

I shook my head at my dad. “And how do you know she can’t!” I screamed.

“We’ve tried everything. The cancer has taken over,” Pops said, every word seeming to pain him to say.

“Why does it sound like you’re giving up?” I said through clenched teeth.

“Ren, she’s been through so much. So much pain,” he said, shaking his head. “Your mum doesn’t want to be put through any more.”

“Then we have to save her,” I said with conviction. “I’ll find a healer.” A Dream Traveler with the gift of healing had saved me when I was born. If I couldn’t find that person then I’d find another healer.

“It won’t work,” Pops said, shaking his head, undeniable defeat in his eyes. “They can’t help her. The cancer is too far spread. Healers’ powers don’t work on cancer. Not like this. I’ve already tried.”

Of course I should have realized Pops would have tried everything. He would never easily give up on Mum.

Cancer was a damn Middling disease. I fucking hate cancer. What a bloody prejudiced disease. It attacked Middlings by the millions, but didn’t exist for Dream Travelers. That was unfair. I knew some Dream Travelers who needed to shake hands with cancer.

“It’s worth trying again,” I said, convinced we could fight this. “Call a different healer. I’ll find the very best. How long do we have?” My words were irate, coming out in rapid succession.

Pops shook his head as I spoke. “No, Ren. It won’t work. Healers can’t save her. Nothing can.”

“Then what’s the fucking point?! What’s the point of any of this? What’s the point of having powers if we can’t use them? What’s the fucking point of having one another if we’re just going to allow each other to die when the time comes?” Spit flew out of my mouth, hot from the anger boiling my blood.

“I understand you aren’t used to not having control, son. But you can’t control this situation. Your mum is going to die. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

***

I hadn’t been back home in several years, too consumed with my wild antics and selfish ways. When I pushed Mum’s bedroom door back I almost didn’t recognize her as she lay in bed. Her red hair had grayed and dulled considerably. She was bone thin. Her face sunken in like she’d aged twenty years in the last three.

“Mum,” I said, slowly making my way to her bed. “I’m here now.”

“Renny,” she said in a frayed whisper. Her green eyes sparkled with a life I needed her to keep. But she wasn’t going to. I saw that as soon as I neared. Her eyelids drifted closed and didn’t part for several long seconds.

My pulse raced. Mum had always been strong. Working all day, never taking a break. She tirelessly looked after everyone in the family. And she put up with Lyza’s abuse, shouldering it like a seasoned soldier. But on her deathbed she looked tired and conquered by her years of service. And it made me utterly enraged. People like her didn’t deserve to wither away to a bloody disease. They deserved to grow older than an ancient oak tree and pass in their sleep on a fine summer night, not having felt a single pain in their body.

“Are you comfortable?” I said, looking around at her bed and the many bottles of pills on the nearby table.

She didn’t look the least bit comfortable when she spoke, but her words contradicted my observation. “I’m fine, Renny. Especially now that you’re here.”

“I am here and for as long as you need,” I said and just then I felt something strange in my throat. It was followed by the strangest prickling sensation behind my eyes. I blinked it away. “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked, when I felt my voice was steady enough. It was a daft question but I didn’t know what else to say. An apology for being such an arse would have been a good start but that hadn’t occurred to me.

“Well, I wanted you here, so that’s the best thing you can do for me. Seeing my son’s face feels so good. It’s been too long, Renny. You’ve changed. But you are in your early twenties now, not a boy anymore,” she said, and the whole series of sentences took too long for her to say. Each word followed by a strained breath. But still I stayed listening, focused on her. “You look well, son.”

“Thank you, Mum,” I said and bowed my head. I wanted to punch another wall. I wanted to inflict pain on myself for having deserted my mum and pops for all these months. I didn’t know she was sick and that was not even a good excuse. It was just the truth. I would have known if I’d picked up the bloody phone when it rang, but my ego prevented it.

“And there is something else you can do for me,” Mum said, her voice scratchy like she was talking with sandpaper in her throat.

“Yes, whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I said, kneeling down beside her bed. A bitter smell hit my nose and I fought the urge to pull away from my mum’s bed. It was the smell of death. It was the smell of a person who sweated in a bed all day, waiting to die. I knew my father cared for her in those final days. Washed and cleaned her, but nothing could ever clean away the smell of death. It was in her, waiting to rot her bones.

“Renny, will you please get Lyza? Ask her to come and see me. I want to see her before it’s too late. She won’t answer your dad’s calls, but maybe she’ll talk to you,” Mum said and heat flared in my head. I’d been the ungrateful child who didn’t return my pops’ calls for months. And then there was also Lyza. My parents didn’t deserve such horrid children. They deserved children who came to call on them on Sundays and enjoyed an evening meal and gave them grandchildren. Instead they got us and we were heathens undeserving of their love and unwavering affection.

I bit down hard on my lip. “Yes, of course, Mum. I’ll bring her here straight away.”

“But Renny,” my mum said, laying her withered hand on mine. I instantly knew that she didn’t want me to make Lyza come here using mind control. She only wanted to see her of her own accord. My mum gave me these thoughts with such a raw determination behind them. It was beautiful the way she communicated to me using my gift. She was the only person I ever allowed to do it.

“You understand, my son?”

I nodded. “Yes, completely.”

I left her to lie like a prisoner in her bed and called Lyza right away.

My mum said I couldn’t use mind control to make Lyza visit her, but she hadn’t said that I couldn’t use it to get the witch on the phone. “You have to come home. Mum wants to see you,” I said to Lyza when she picked up after only one ring.

There was silence following my sentences. “Ren, this is why you called me?” my sister said, sounding annoyed. “To tell me our reject of a mother wants to see me? Did she put you up to this?”

“Lyza, she’s dying. She doesn’t have much longer,” I said.

A long silence followed.

Finally Lyza said, “Ren, she’s a Middling. Of course she’s dying. Middlings are weak. Die young. And now you expect me to drop everything I’m doing to see some lowlife who I’ve never really liked.”

“She’s your mum,” I said, straining to keep my anger in check. The seams were close to bursting. “You wouldn’t exist without her.”

“If it wasn’t for her then I wouldn’t be half Middling. Imagine how much more powerful I’d be if Father had mated with a Dream Traveler,” Lyza said.

“I’m more powerful than any Dream Traveler I’ve ever known, so your reasoning is faulty,” I said.

“You need to get out more because I’ve met a Dream Traveler who puts you to shame,” my sister said in her snotty tone.

“Let’s set a date so I can meet this fucking pansy. But first, you’re going to come home,” I said, my anger seeping through the cracks.

“No, Ren, I’m not. Let the old bag die. I don’t give a damn,” she said and then the line went dead.

After I put another hole in the wall I went back to my mum’s room and stood in the doorway. I wanted to tell her that Lyza said she wouldn’t be coming, but I couldn’t. I gave a false smile. “Lyza is on her way,” I said, and that was the first and only lie I ever told my mum. “She’s taking the next train.”

She raised her mouth, but it didn’t quite form a smile. “I knew she’d come around. You always had a way with people, even when you weren’t controlling them,” she said. “I always wanted you to see that on your own. You’re more powerful without your powers, dear Renny.”

My mum shouldn’t have been laid out in that bed. She should have been up and doing the normal chores that made her hum and smile for no obvious reason. She should have been up. But for a fault that belonged to God she was confined to a bed. Her body had given up on her. Given up on her prematurely because of the race that she was randomly assigned to. It was all wrong and with every moment it was making me too irate.

“Renny,” Mum called out, too much strain in her voice.

“Yes, Mum.”

“Lyza probably won’t make it here fast enough,” she said plainly. “But I’m grateful that she’s made the effort.”

I nodded, although I wanted to throw my head into the doorframe.

“Please pass along a message for me, would you?” Mum asked.

I regarded her for a long moment that seemed to etch my soul with black. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

“Tell her that I know I was never who she wanted me to be, but I loved her for everything that she was. Tell her she’s exceptional, and capable of incredible things. Tell her that I will always watch over her,” my mum said, with a fondness that my sister didn’t deserve.

I swallowed. “Of course, Mum,” I said, nodding my head. “I’ll tell her verbatim.” Those words would never come out of my mouth and Lyza absolutely would never hear them. She’d hear the opposite. She’d hear what her blackened soul deserved to hear. But she wouldn’t be granted love that she’d throw away. She didn’t deserve our mother’s love. Not when she was hatched and not now.

“And also, I need you to know something,” Mum said, her voice so tired and slow. “It’s nothing much but I want to pass it along to you.”

I clung to the doorframe like it was a bloody pacifier. “Yes?”

“Second chances don’t ever, ever come along. You go and seize them,” she said.

“Why are you telling me that, Mum?” I said. “That’s such a strange thing to say out of the blue.”

“Because you, Renny, I know with all the faith bestowed upon my heart, will need so many second chances in life. It’s hurt at times to think of the road God gave you when he made you so powerful. It’s not your fault,” she said, shaking her head against her pillow. “And still the burden is absolutely yours. I’m sorry, my dear son. If I could have one wish in all these seventy years then it would be to take away my son’s powers so he could be happy. And yet I know that wish will never come to pass. Your battle is to find happiness after being who you are, a greater being than most. I’m sorry, son. I know it hasn’t been easy to find happiness with a mind that can do what yours can.”

I looked down at her, wanting to open my heart to her and also knowing it was impossible to do it. There would be no tears. There would be no counseling. I wasn’t deserving of those things. “You must be tired,” I said. “I’ll let you rest.” I turned and headed for the main room.

“What I didn’t say,” she said in an almost whisper. I turned and regarded her with a half glance. “Is that even though I can’t guarantee my son’s happiness, I want him to know he’s given it to me. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve given my life meaning because the occasions have been too numerous. As a baby you smiled and that was enough. But then you became a child and your acts of selflessness were incredibly inspiring. And you came into your gifts and I felt like a goddess to have been your mother. You, Reynold Lewis, have been a true joy to raise. Most won’t understand you. Most will be afraid of you. But the ones who embrace you will understand what I saw on the day I stared at you after thirty-six hours of being in labor. You, Renny, are more than exceptional. You are unique. There will never be another Ren Lewis. And that’s why God gave you such impossible talents. Because you were meant to do things humans shouldn’t. I’m sorry, son. That is your talent and your curse.”

I walked forward until I was at her bedside. Then I kneeled over and pressed my lips against her forehead. “I love you, Mum,” I said in a hoarse whisper.

“I love you always, Renny,” she said, pressing her eyes closed.

I turned at once and left, closing the door to her room. In the morning she was dead and I didn’t say a word for that whole day.

Chapter Fifteen

Dahlia was by my side at my mum’s funeral. It was the first time a celebrity was in Peavey. Probably the last. After that she offered to halt her tour but I refused to allow her. I told her what I really needed was space and time to process. I sent her back to London and stayed in Peavey for a few weeks to help Pops sort through Mum’s stuff. He didn’t want to do it at first but I knew that having her possessions staring him in the face every bloody morning wasn’t going to help him mourn. He was seventy and would live another thirty or forty years easily. It’s another reason why Dream Travelers rarely pick a Middling as a partner. We are guaranteed to outlive them by a few decades at the very least. And now my father had a lifetime to live without the love of his life.

During my time in Peavey I considered my relationship with Dahlia. It was the best part of my life. The only portion of my life that wasn’t somehow marked with greed, deceit, or disappointment. And being with her was easy, even from the beginning. We’d been together for over a year and I firmly believed that to wrap my life around hers and enjoy many years together was a very real possibility. Each year that I committed myself to Dahlia would lace a noose more decisively around my spirit. And when she died before me, as I knew she would, then I’d be gone too. But I’d also still be forced to walk this earth. Without her.

I’d been in London for only a week after my stay in Peavey when I made plans to meet Dahlia. I told her I needed to have an extended holiday with her. I told her that it would help me heal after my mum’s death. She canceled a month of tour dates and agreed to meet me at a resort in the Swiss Alps. It would have been a simple trip for me. I’d only have to dream travel there and generate my body using a local GAD-C. There would be a short car trip, but that’s all. Dahlia took a twelve-hour flight from Los Angeles to Switzerland, and then she drove a few hours after that. It wasn’t a short trip, but she thought it would be worth it because we’d be together for three long weeks.

I’m not sure how long she waited at the resort before she realized something was wrong. The calls came in a day later. She sent people to my flat, as I suspected she’d do. I ignored it all. I never had any intention of joining Dahlia for an extended holiday. I’d stood her up. And I knew she’d hate me after this. That was exactly the point. If you tell people to leave you alone then they become more obsessed with you. You’re the forbidden fruit. However, if you’re wicked and cruel, then they stay as far away as possible. I’m a master of relationships. It just happens that I know how to both make people love and hate me, and I prefer for most people to do the latter.

Two days after our scheduled rendezvous in the Swiss Alps Dahlia knocked at my door. “Open up, Ren,” she yelled through the door. “I know you’re in there.”

The very last person she’d sent to my flat I’d told off. I told them to quit following Dahlia’s orders and leave me alone before I called the authorities. Word would have gotten back to her that I was home and ignoring all her attempts to find me.

I unlocked the door and then strode for my armchair. By the time I sat down and crossed my legs Dahlia had entered and marched through the flat, and stood only six feet from me. She pinned her hands on her hips and considered me with a terrible look. Her hair and dress were perfect as always, but she’d obviously had a rough couple of days judging by the circles under her eyes.

“Ren, what is going on? Are you all right?” She sounded half angry and half concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said with a bored sigh. “And I think it’s obvious what’s going on.”

“Not to me. You stood me up in Switzerland. You don’t take my calls. You send my guards away with a series of insults. I get that you’ve had a rough month, but why all this?” she said.

I picked up the glass of Chianti on the side table and took a long few swallows. The stuff tasted repulsive. No one actually likes wine. They just like being snotty about what they choose to get drunk on. “I changed my mind,” I finally said.

“About going to Switzerland?” Dahlia said, eyeing the glass of wine with a strange expression.

“No, I changed my mind about us,” I said and drained the rest of the wine.

“What are you doing?” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “You don’t drink.”

“I’ve decided to start. It’s a nasty habit, don’t you think?” I grabbed the bottle on the table and filled the glass almost to the brim. “Don’t I look like a pisshead to you? You can tell me if you think I look repulsive. I can take it.”

She knelt down by my knee, daring to put her hand on it, a compassionate look on her face. “No, you look like someone who has been through a big ordeal and now you’re acting out. You don’t have to. I want to be here for you.”

“Look, I’m not a toddler throwing a bloody tantrum,” I said, and threw her hand off my leg. “I’m a man who is giving you a very direct message.”

She stood, failing to hide the scornful look on her face. “Ren, this isn’t you.”

“Really, Dahlia,” I said, taking a casual sip of wine, my head already starting to float from the effect of the poison. “I’m the one who gets into people’s heads and makes them yell obscenities in public. I’m the one who forces rich men to give me their money. I’m the one who has seduced, through mind control, hundreds of women to shag me. This is me. I’m heartless. Greedy. And not this person you think I am, or otherwise you wouldn’t have come here.”

“So this is how you’re attempting to break up with me?” she said, an actual laugh spilling out of her mouth.

“No, this is me actually breaking up with you. I’m bored, Dahlia. We’ve had a good time, but we’re done now,” I said and almost gagged on my next swallow of wine.

“You can’t do this,” she said each word with a deliberate force.

“What you are too obtuse to understand is I can. I have,” I said, setting the glass on the table.

“Ren, I’ve never been in love in my entire life. And then I met you. I won’t ever feel this way about someone else. Don’t do this.”

“Dahlia, of course you’re in love with me. I’m incredible. And I’m incredible in the fact that I can make anyone love me. Why would I settle for just being with you?”

She gave a frustrated sigh. “Because I’m incredible too and you know it. We’re incredible together. And you don’t have to make me love you, I do of my own free will. And I love you not because you’re powerful, but because you’re gorgeously flawed. You are magnificent in your rebellious nature. Please don’t push me away.”

I looked at Dahlia. Considered her words. Everything about her was glorious, so much so it was too much at times. The angle of her jaw captured my attention in a way that felt wrong. The contours of her cheeks and shoulders. The shiny luster of her dark brown hair. The shade of her blue eyes. It was all too perfect. Like angels were incinerated and their ashes used to make her elegantly flawless form. And her voice. I’m certain it was ripped straight from an angel, leaving their vocal chords tattered and frayed. She was so perfect it was wrong.

“Have I ever said that I loved you?” I said finally.

She blinked in astonishment. “Well, no, but you do. You don’t have to say it for me to know.”

“I’d go and get a check-up on your instincts because they’re defective. I don’t love you.”

“Yes, you do, Ren. Don’t lie to me.”

“No, I don’t, because what you fail to see in your disillusioned head is that I’m incapable of love.” There, I said it. Finally. I’d thought it enough times, but it felt good to finally say it.

“That’s not true. Ren, you loved your mother.”

“Everyone loves their mother,” I said. “Even people with despicable mothers love them. It’s programmed into every mammal’s hardwiring.”

“But you really loved her, not just because she was your mother but because you felt close to her.”

“Not loved,” I said, my temper flaring. “I love my mother, but all of this talk doesn’t change the fact that you and I are done.”

“Why? Because I’m a Middling and I’m going to leave you just like she did?!” Dahlia roared, tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks.

I stared at her with what I hoped looked like quiet contempt. It’s not at all what I felt for her right then, but she couldn’t read minds.

“Yes, Ren, I see too clearly what you’re doing here. In your delusional head you’ve decided that if we make a life together, that one day you’ll bury me just as your heartbroken father has had to do with your mother. And you’ll go on to live a miserable forty or more years alone.”

“That’s not what this is about. So many things are so inherently wrong with what you’ve just said. Firstly,” I said, holding up a single finger, “just the phrase ‘make a life together’ makes my skin crawl. People like me don’t make a life with other people. Secondly,” I ticked off another finger, “I will probably outlive you by way more than forty years. That is the thing here, Dahlia. You are a Middling. Did you think you really had a long-term future with a Dream Traveler? You will never understand me. Never enjoy my freedoms and powers. There’s a reason lions don’t mate with alley cats. They don’t belong together.”

“But your parents made it work,” she said, her tone pleading.

“No, they didn’t. Don’t you see? My mum is dead. My father lives on. That doesn’t work. And he gave up so much to be with her. But she was worth it, and you, Dahlia, are not.”

And there it was. The final blow. To force out that lie stole a piece of my blackened soul but it’s what she had to hear. Her eyes widened with disbelieving heartbreak. Her lips mashed together, pressing away the tears watering her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stalked past me without a single look. I sat there for a long time after I heard the door slam.

I thought that would be the end of that but of course, not for Dahlia. She had a stubborn nature to match mine. For three days she returned to my flat, beating at my door and leaving messages on my machine. She saw through the lies I was telling her. Dahlia saw why I’d pushed her away, and like an unstoppable crusader she was intent on breaking through my lies and making me accept her flawless case. Yes, we were perfect together. Yes, I loved her. And yes, one day I’d outlive her, but we would have had a happy life together. She would have broken down my walls as only Dahlia could do. She would have made me see this and accept her back. That’s why I did it. That’s why I made the final decision. I packed a single suitcase. Locked up my flat and left on a train to Paris. And I would not return to London for many decades. I left no clue to where I’d gone. I simply disappeared. Dahlia had no choice but to let me go. I was all but dead to her.

Chapter Sixteen

December 1996

Lyza was living in the south of France. I’d promised myself that I’d deal with her once I’d dealt with Dahlia. So a month after running from Dahlia, I lured my heartless sister to Paris using the one thing that I knew would work. Money. I told her that in Mum’s last will and testament she gave a sizable fortune and antique jewelry to Lyza. I told her that I’d hand it off to her if she met me in Paris. The part about having Mum’s jewelry was true but I was never going to turn it over to her.

Lyza met me in a cafe on Boulevard Saint-Germain. To my surprise she’d brought her “friends” with her. After university she’d fallen into a crowd of Dream Travelers. One might think that after not seeing each other for almost a decade we as siblings would hug when reunited. That person would be wrong in the case of Lyza and me. I simply lifted the corner of my lip in a sneer when I approached her table. She returned my expression with a similar one. She hadn’t changed in demeanor or appearance. Her hair was slicked back in a low librarian bun and she wore a starched white blouse with a blazer.

“Give me the money, Ren,” she said, extending her hand when I halted beside her table. Her British accent was gone.

I pulled out an empty chair and turned it around and straddled it. I took my time leaning on the back of the chair, not an ounce of my attention on my sister. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” I said, my eyes locked on the girl on Lyza’s right. She was young, not yet twenty. Her long black hair contrasted with her polished pale skin. Her eyes were large like that of a doll and almost obsidian black. She wasn’t breathtaking like Dahlia. She was stunning like the sun. It hurt to look at her and yet I couldn’t look away.

“No, Ren. You weren’t invited to join us,” Lyza said, her hand still extended. “Give me my inheritance now.”

“My name’s Ren,” I said, extending my hand to the girl. “I’m nothing like my sister at all. I’m loads of fun.”

“Ren, I’m warning you,” Lyza said, but her friend ignored her.

“I’m Allouette,” the girl said, extending her hand to me. She had a high-pitched voice and a thick French accent. After taking her hand I knew three things about her: She knew I was telepathic when I touched someone. Lyza had warned her. She also knew how to guard the thoughts I had access to. And lastly, she wanted me to touch her more than just this once.

A smile peeked at the corner of my mouth. “A pleasure meeting you, Allouette,” I said her name slowly and she smiled back, no doubt enjoying the way her name sounded with my Estuary accent.

Lyza shot a fuming look at Allouette and then at me. “Ren, I don’t have the time for this. I want what belongs to me. Give me my inheritance.”

I looked at her briefly. And sharply said, “No.” Then I turned my attention to the man on the other side of my sister. “And who might you be?” I said.

The man was regarding me with an amused glare. I don’t have a homosexual bone in my body, but if I did then I would definitely jump that chap’s bones. His jet black hair was slicked back and he wore a suit that complemented his broad shoulders. He blinked at me slowly, his crystal blue eyes taking me in.

“I’m Chase,” he said in a silky voice.

“Pleased to meet you, Chase,” I said, extending my hand to him. His eyes fell on it but he didn’t take it.

“You as well,” Chase said. I knew then that Chase and Allouette were powerful Dream Travelers. What I didn’t know then, and what I learned later, was I’d just met the only Dream Traveler in the world more powerful than me. Chase knew from my sister what my powers were, but a quick perusal into the working of my mind told him that he might have found someone to finally rival his skills. I felt him there. It was a strange sensation. It’s what I’d done to people a million times, but most never felt my invasion. I sure as hell sensed Chase in my mind though. I’d never had the trespassing done on me and it felt dirty. It was the technique I used on someone to determine how their mind worked and how to control them if I wished. But Chase wasn’t planning on controlling me. He was sizing me up.

I stood from the table, flipped the chair around, and sat back down. Then I leaned across the table, daring to put inches between me and Mr. Gorgeous. “I think you should buy me a drink before you do that again. It’s only fair,” I said.

A slow smile spread on his face. “Well, I’d invite you to explore my mind too but I’m certain you won’t get through my guards,” he said in a smooth alluring voice, no accent.

I narrowed my eyes at him and quickly learned he was bloody right. I couldn’t get into his head. It wasn’t like it was with Dahlia, where my powers didn’t work on her. I suspected that my powers would actually work on Chase but there was a giant steel-like door that was blocking me.

“Ren, you may think this whole thing is entertaining, but my friends don’t like antics like yours,” Lyza said. “So save yourself the embarrassment and give me my money.”

From the way Allouette was dragging her toe up and down my leg under the table I think she was enjoying a lot of things about me. I quickly learned that I could get into her head but it didn’t appear I’d need to work very hard to get her to take off her clothes later. I wasn’t over Dahlia. I’d never be over her. But I was a man and I had a stone wall between emotions and sex.

I turned my focus on my sister. “You probably think I’m going to drag this out. That I’m going to make you sit through an hour or two of me abusing you with long diatribes because you were a bitch to our mum our whole lives,” I said, casually lacing my fingers together before resting them on the tabletop and continuing. “You might think that I’m going to berate you for not granting a dying woman her last request. And then you might think that after I’ve said my piece I’m going to hand over your inheritance. The first part is absolutely going to happen. I have a few hundred insults I want to throw at you. But guess what, Lyzie? When I’m done you’re still not getting a fucking pound.”

“What?!” She slammed her hand on the table. That’s when I spied a gaudy engagement ring on her bony finger. “You can’t keep my inheritance from me,” she said, her eyes bulging. Beside her Allouette and Chase were watching this with all amusement and zero sympathy for my sister. Real friends for sure.

“Thing is, Lyza, I can. I can do anything I like. Isn’t that marvelous?” I said.

Her nostrils flared. “Ren, give me my money.”

“There’s no money,” I said with a satisfied smile. “I lied. Sue me.”

“What?!” She stood from the table, leaning both hands on it and looking like she was about to reach across and strangle me.

I pulled out a silver pocketknife, extended the blade casually, and began cleaning my nails, not the least bit flustered. “Sit, Lyza, and I’ll make you a deal.” I flicked my eyes up to her. “I’m really so very fair, aren’t I?” I said.

Lyza was shaking as she stared down at me.

“I zink you should hear him out,” Allouette said, her words hard to understand covered in her thick French accent.

“Your friend is smart. You should listen to her,” I said, returning my focus to cleaning my nails. I hadn’t figured out how I was going to exact my revenge on Lyza. I wasn’t going to fulfill any deal with her but I needed to figure out the best way to hurt her one last time. Finally she sat back in her chair.

“What’s the deal?” she asked, her voice trembling with anger.

“Mum did leave you all her antique jewelry. There’s several expensive pieces, as you know. And I will give them to you.”

“If…” she said.

I raised a pleased eyebrow at her. “You know me so very well.”

“Unfortunately I do,” she said.

Lyza didn’t have powers like me or her companions. She could never support herself without other people’s money. And I knew she was seriously going to consider any proposition I offered. I also suspected Lyza needed a serious chunk of money to buy a wedding gown or book an expensive reception or buy plastic surgery so she didn’t look so bloody awful.

“I will hand over the jewelry to you if you travel to Peavey and apologize to Pops,” I said.

“What?! Why would I do that?” Her hands were shaking on the table. Chase extended his hand and laid it on hers. She gave him a grateful smile.

“Because, Lyzie, you’ve made his life hell. Blimey, you make everyone’s life hell just by your existence.” I gave Chase a look. “You’ve been warned. You should know that my sister is a soulless bitch who will drain you of the very spirit in your soul.”

“Ren, shut your mouth,” Lyza said.

Chase patted her hand before leaning back in his seat. He was a powerful man, I could tell by the way he held himself. “I’m all too aware of Lyza’s shortcomings,” he said. “But as you’re probably aware I have many methods of making people behave in ways that please me.”

“I am aware,” I said. “And I’m also aware we share this method of making people cooperate with us. And maybe your mind control will make it so you can stomach my sister, but you know you could still do much better than her.”

“Ren!” she screamed so loud people at other tables jerked their heads at us. “That’s enough. We are leaving,” she said, looking at Allouette and then Chase. From where Allouette’s foot was resting in my lap she didn’t look like she was going anywhere.

Chase’s gaze was firmly on me. “Yes, I could in some ways do better than your sister, but in other ways I can’t. She’s all too aware that I’m with her because she has pure Founders’ blood in her.”

“Come on, let’s go,” she said, grabbing Chase’s arm, a look of terror in her eyes as she pulled at him. He did rise with her.

“Founders’ blood?” I said. There were only a handful of Dream Travelers who had pure Founders’ blood. The pure lineages of the first Dream Traveler race. Founders were exceptionally powerful. “You’re right that Pops has Founders’ blood,” I said as Chase pushed in his chair. Lyza was desperately pulling him away, a look of horror in her eyes. He turned to leave with her as I yelled out, “But our mum was a Middling.”

Chase halted.

Oh yes, as I knew I would, I’d found my way to exact my revenge on Lyza. It actually was too easy. She had always lied about everything. I should have known she was lying to get through life then.

Chase turned and regarded me for a full five seconds. “What did you just say?”

Beside him Lyza had her mouth pinched and a look of murder on her face.

“Oh, you thought that Lyza was a pure blood?” I said, a sneaky grin on my face. “Hate to break it to you, but your fiancée is a mutt. Hope that’s not an issue.”

Chase turned and looked at Lyza. “Is that true?” he said, and her bottom lip quivered.

“I have half Founders’ blood. That’s what you want, right, is to marry someone with Founders’ blood?” she said, her voice desperate. Her eyes panicked. My sister was utterly vibrating with anxiety. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

“No, I want to marry someone with pure Founders’ blood and you know that. And you’re half Middling?” he said with disgust. “That’s unacceptable.” Chase yanked Lyza’s hand up and grabbed the ring off her hand. The action was a little brutal but nothing my sister didn’t deserve. “Get out of my sight,” he said.

“But Chase,” Lyza pleaded. My sister for as lousy a gift as she had, was still practiced at keeping her thoughts guarded. This was probably the reason Chase, the mind invader, didn’t know her half-Middling status until I revealed it.

He lowered his voice and when he spoke the hairs on the back of my neck actually rose. “If I ever see you again then I will make you hang yourself, is that clear?”

Lyza nodded, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

“Now you probably want to tell your brother off but that’s not going to happen,” Chase said in a slow deliberate voice. “You are going to quietly turn around and leave this cafe.” She stared at him for a few long chilling seconds. “Now,” he said in a harsh whisper.

Dutifully Lyza turned and walked out of the cafe. To my surprise she didn’t once whip around to stare at me with disgust. Right then I knew my sister was madder at me than ever before. I had succeeded in ruining her. It didn’t feel good, but it also didn’t bring me a smidgen of remorse.

Chase turned when she was gone, a brutal look in his eyes. Allouette erupted with a loud cackle when he took a seat. Her foot was still bouncing in my lap. “Zat was zee best show ever. Ren, you a simply perfect!” she said, clapping with glee.

I regarded her like she was a new species. “Wasn’t she your friend?”

She laughed again. “Oh, I don’t have friends. I have people I use and zen I allow to use me,” she said, nestling her toes deeper into my lap. “I’m a mutt too. It’s vhy Chase von’t have me.”

“You just exposed your own sister. That was quite heartless,” Chase said, looking impressed.

“As I said before she’s a soulless bitch,” I said simply. “I wouldn’t so much as offer her an ounce of food if she were starving.”

“So you were never going to give her the jewels, were you?” Chase said, a proud smile on his face.

“Of course not. I only came here to find a way to punish Lyza, which was incredibly too easy. My sister is really an idiot if she thought I’d make an out of the way trip to help her,” I said.

“Well, I’m grateful that you had the plan for revenge, because you saved me from breeding with a half-blood,” Chase said. “I would have had to strangle those children.”

“You sound like excellent father material,” I said dryly.

He regarded me for several seconds. I felt him skimming my mind, but I had it mostly locked down then. Still Chase was searching me. Measuring me up. “So, do you want to join our society, the Voyageurs? I’d have a job for you,” Chase said, folding his hands on the tabletop.

“What do the Voyageurs do?” I’d heard of them, knew they were a secret society of Dream Travelers and that Lyza had just been kicked out of their ranks, but that was the extent of my knowledge on them.

“We use our powers to manipulate people,” Chase said.

“I already do that,” I said, tucking the pocketknife away.

“You take people’s money, but what we take from them they can’t get back,” Chase said plainly.

I raised a curious eyebrow.

“We take their very life force. Their consciousness,” he said in an even tone.

“What do you do with it?” I asked, even more curious.

“Convert it to power,” Chase said.

“What do you do with this power?”

“Whatever we want,” Chase said with an arrogant shrug of his shoulders. “Make ourselves younger, more beautiful, or increase our skills.”

I ran my eyes over his face that was flawless in every way. His nose was the perfect size. His eyes the perfect distance apart and the most striking shade of blue. Then I switched my focus to Allouette. She appeared young, but she had a confidence that made me think she was much older. I grabbed her foot in my lap and tossed it to the side. A Cheshire cat grin spread on her face. And then her toes were back, dragging their way up my trousers. This girl wouldn’t be easily dissuaded.

“We also do other things,” Chase said, regaining my attention. “We fight wars against battling societies. Take things we want to ensure our society remains the most powerful. And pretty much create chaos and anarchy. It’s really the only satisfying existence for people with powers as great as ours.”

“And this job you have for me? Is it stealing life force?” I asked, pretty certain that that didn’t sound like a very appealing idea to me. I was soulless, but I wasn’t a murderer and that’s the inevitable result of stealing consciousness.

Chase shook his head and knocked his knuckles on the tabletop. “No, it’s more up your usual alley. I need someone with your powers to do something for me.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” I asked, because I knew we had mostly the same powers.

“I can’t. The people I’m after are too attuned to my energy and how to keep me out of their heads, but not you. You could work with Allouette on this job and in return I’d train you,” Chase said.

I balked at him. “I don’t need your training.”

“Look, you know how to control minds, hypnotize, and read thoughts, but can you create an illusion?” he asked.

“An illusion?” I said, not sure if I was hearing him right.

“Yes, an illusion. Both in the dream travel realm and the physical realm,” he said.

Now this guy had my full attention. “You can do that? You can teach me that?” I said, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. Not many things made me excited. Nothing really. But the idea of being able to create illusions was a dream I didn’t even know I had.

“Yes and yes,” Chase said simply.

“I’m not sure I believe you, and me believing you is critical to my answer,” I said, tethering my prior excitement under skepticism.

Just then a duplicate projection of Chase flickered until his solid form sat in the seat Lyza had been sitting in. Only a few people noticed the twin who magically appeared out of thin air. The illusion looked almost identical to Chase, but there was something off about him that my photographic memory would determine later. The illusion of Chase then spoke. “Believe me, Ren, when I say I can create illusions. Help me and you’ll be able to as well. Only people with powers like ours can create an illusion in the physical realm and I expect you want to know how to do this,” the projection of Chase said.

Hell yes I did.

The illusion vanished the same way it appeared, flickering first.

“Well, do you believe me now?” Chase asked smugly.

“I think I’d have to be daft not to,” I said.

“Then what’s your answer? Will you join us? Will you take on this job for me?” he asked.

I considered this gorgeous man’s offer. Chase was definitely powerful, couldn’t be trusted, and was absolutely dangerous. These Voyageurs didn’t sound like wholesome people. They sounded like a cult of power-hungry lunatics. But there was much I thought I could gain from an alliance. I had lost everyone but my father. Jimmy. My mum. Dahlia. I knew there was no real life left for me. How could I sink any lower?

“Sure,” I finally said a little halfheartedly. That one decision was the worst one of my life. In that moment I created a path that I’ve been trying to undo ever since.

Chapter Seventeen

“Very good,” Chase said, displaying a full smile that had no joy in it. “You will work with Allouette. She has concocted a plan and I trust it will satisfy what I want done. I will be training you in two weeks.” He stood with a grace that I knew would be hypnotic on most, but not me. He swiveled his head to Allouette, who was still playing footsy with me under the table although I kept shoving her off. “Take him to the Grotte and start work immediately. We’re running out of time,” he said to her.

She lowered her chin and regarded him through long black eyelashes, a sinister look in her expression. “Ve are not running out of time,” she said in her childlike voice. “I know exactly vhat I’m doing.”

“Well, it’d better work,” Chase said with a hostile edge.

“It vill and zen you vill be zo happy vith me. I promize,” she said in a breathy voice.

Chase didn’t acknowledge this last statement, he simply turned and walked away.

Allouette slowly, like a cobra turning to its prey, spun to face me. “Are you ready to have zome fun, little tiger?”

“What does this plan of yours involve?” I said, pushing back from the table, out of her toe’s reach.

She winked at me, a heated determination in her eyes. Then she clicked her tongue three times. “Oh, you are very eager. I like it. But ve vill not discuss zis here.” She stood and I saw now that she was tiny. Barely five feet tall. And her waist was impossibly small, especially in comparison to her rack and hips. She had the perfect hourglass figure. She snapped at me and then pointed toward Boulevard Saint-Germain. “Follow me,” she said, whipping around and taking several steps.

When I didn’t get up and follow, Allouette turned around, her long black hair spraying out with the movement. “Follow me,” she repeated.

“I don’t take orders,” I said, leaning back in my chair, pinning my hands behind my head.

“Everyone takes orders from zome one,” she said, an amused grin on her bright red lips.

“Not me.”

“Vell, ve can fix zat. You just need zee proper motivation,” she said.

“Look, if you want my help then stop the bullshit. I’m not a puppet. There are no strings on me. And I can’t be manipulated with your little games, which I suspect you love to play,” I said.

She dropped her head like she was suddenly ashamed. “Of course. I’m just not used to vorking vith zomeone with your intelligence. My zincere apologies,” she said and raised her head and batted her obsidian eyes at me. “Vould you follow me?” And a half second later she added “S'il vous plaît?”

“Where are we going?” I said, standing and still regarding her with narrowed eyes.

“To the Grotte,” she said, sounding proud. “You vill absolutely love it. It iz a marvel.”

***

“This is what you call a marvel?” I said with disgust.

Allouette and I stood in a huge cave room. We had dream traveled to this cave in the South of France and generated our bodies using a rundown GAD-C. The cave where we stood had a hole in the roof, at least one hundred feet up. The sunlight streaming through it provided the only light, illuminating the dank and dirty area. Puddles of cave water stood in various places and the only thing that made the cave seem somewhat civilized were the paths clearly etched on the slick stone under my feet. It created an even surface for walking or otherwise the journey through that room would have been slippery with constant uneven footings.

Allouette cast a giant look of offense at me. “Zis iz our headquarters.”

“It’s a cave,” I said wryly.

“It isn’t just a cave. It’s been constructed to protect us. It’s zo zecretive that even God doesn’t know about it. And it’s been designed to enhance our powers,” Allouette said, scanning the room with a proud gaze.

“You people don’t really live in a cave? You realize that makes you cave people, right?” I said.

“Ve are zee most powerful society of Dream Travelers, which makes us zee most powerful people in zee vould. Zat’s what living in a cave makes us. You vill zee,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest, enlarging her cleavage.

I strolled behind her through the cave, managing my path around the puddles of water. There were tunnels on both sides of the main room. Allouette led me to the closest. I had a hard time not focusing my attention on her hips as they swayed back and forth as she walked, her leather miniskirt making the feat of looking away almost impossible.

“Zere’s only a few rooms zat are available but I have zee perfect one for you,” she said and I just caught the hint of mischief under her expression.

Once in the caveway my eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark tunnel lit only by fire torches on the wall. “Please don’t tell me that this rock house of yours doesn’t have electricity,” I said, eyeing the torches that let off an awful heat.

She whipped around and laughed, a high-pitched squeal. “Of course ve don’t have electricity,” she said like any other idea was preposterous. “Vhy vould ve vant to poison our brains vith zat?”

“Right,” I said, drawing out the word. “Because you’re obviously so mentally stable.”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you?” she said, nearing me. She dared to lay her long-fingernailed hand on my chest. “You, poor Ren, have been creating interference with your powers by being near electricity your entire life. Now zat you are here, you vill experience your pure power, unobstructed as it vas intended to be.”

I peered down at the hand on my chest. She closed her fingers into a fist around the material of my shirt, wrinkling it in her hand and tugging me closer to her. Surprisingly, for how tiny she was, she was powerful. “I imagine your powers vill be mind-blowing now and I can’t vait to vitness them firsthand.”

A chill I couldn’t fight ran through my body. Allouette had that crazy look in her eyes. This wasn’t the kind of girl you took home to mum and pops. This was the kind of girl sane men who wanted to preserve themselves stayed as far away from as possible. I’ve never thought of myself as one of those kinds of men. I leaned down low over Allouette, brushing my lips against her ear. “I think we can arrange that.” Then I moved to the side and walked past her.

She was fast, like the flame of a match being struck. Instantly she was beside me, walking, almost a skip in her step.

“There was electricity powering the GAD-C,” I said as we walked deeper into the intricate arrangement of cave tunnels. “Is it in other rooms?”

“No, just zat one,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I seriously doubt that,” I said, following her as she turned down a different caveway. There were stone doors set into arched doorways. The place was eerily quiet and water dripped in various places.

Allouette skipped ahead of me and then twirled in an impromptu dance. She was humming. This girl was certifiably insane. She waved in a presenting manner at a stone door.

“For you, puppet,” she sang.

I narrowed my eyes at her before turning to the door. “Is there a magic word to open it?” I said, staring at the flat door, absent of a knob.

“No, zilly.” She slid in front of me, absolutely brushing harder against me than was necessary. “You just press into it,” she said, pushing her hands into the door, and then she hitched her hip to the side, hitting me as she did, and glided the door back. The door slid on a hinge into the cave wall. Allouette turned around and stared up at me. “Genius, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s called pocket doors. They’ve kind of been around for ages,” I said and stepped around her into the cave room.

I came to an abrupt halt. I’m not sure what I expected as far as accommodation from cave people, but this wasn’t it. The firelight on the wall showed a twenty-by-twenty room with low ceilings in places. A small cot was tucked against the far wall. There were several puddles of water in various places on the stone ground. A drip of freezing cold water assaulted me from overhead. I whipped it off my forehead as I spied green beady eyes staring at me from under the cot. The rat didn’t move and for only that reason I didn’t stomp its life right out of it.

“What do you zink?” Allouette said in a mischievous tone.

“I think you people need to come to terms with reality because these types of living quarters are insanely inadequate. I’m not a bat or reptile. There’s a reason Neanderthals don’t exist any longer and if you continue to live in squalor such as this then you’ll become extinct too,” I said.

“Oh, vell, it’s all ve have available. I’m zorry you don’t like it more,” she said matter-of-factly.

“There’s a bloody rat under a straw-filled cot,” I said, my voice rising.

She laughed shrilly. “I zought you’d vant the company.”

“You don’t seriously live in rooms like this, do you?” I said.

Allouette rocked back and forth on her heels, her hands clasped behind her, and there was an evil spark in her eyes. “Zis is zee nicest cell vhere ve keep prisoners and vhile you’re not one, it’s all ve have available. Of course if you do stay here you can pretend to be my prisoner. It vould be a fun game, don’t you zink?”

I stalked past her, unable to stomach the smell of rat piss any longer.

“Vhere are you going?” she said, catching up with me.

“To the Ritz Carlton.” I made my way for the main room. I felt Allouette on my heels the entire way. I turned suddenly and she ran into me. “Why are you following me?”

“I’m going vith you,” she said simply, like we’d already discussed it.

“Why?” I growled.

“Because you’re my pet now,” she said.

“But you’re the one following me around. Doesn’t that make you my pet?”

“I’ll be vhatever you vant,” she said, taking a step closer to me.

“But they have electricity at the hotel.”

“I’ll get over it,” she said with a shrug.

I turned and walked off. “Whatever,” I said over my shoulder.

And that was the day I met the devil. I wish I could say I met the devil and conquered the beast. That’s not what happened. I fell for the devil. People think the devil isn’t real. Oh, she’s real, and she’s a tiny French girl who will make you sorry you didn’t die at birth. She wears a mask, not to hide her heart but to hide the fact that she doesn’t have one. No one would approach a heartless beast, much less trust their heart with them. But she wears a mask that deceives. And it’s persuasive and I only know that because I stole that mask and wear it to this day. I didn’t fall in love with the devil. One can’t love a soulless monster. I became infatuated with the devil and it was only later that the spell was broken and I awoke in a daze. But it was too late then. The devil had done enough damage to tear a dozen lives apart. And I had been her puppet.

Chapter Eighteen

“Here’s vhat I need you to do,” Allouette said, perched on top of the desk in the penthouse suite I had reserved. Her legs were crossed and her hands pinned behind her. She had her neck draped back and was staring at the elaborate chandelier on the ceiling with contempt. “You’re going to bore into a voman’s brain and make her believe she’s in danger. Zat zomeone is going to kill her. You’ll do zis over zee next few months, also planting in her mind a strategy to escape zis almost certain death. You vill make her believe zat going to a specific place at a specific time will keep her zafe.” She said all this in a breathy rehearsed speech.

“And this place you’ll have me plant in her head, it’s where you plan to actually kill her, right?” I said from my place propped up on the oversized bed.

“You are zo very smart,” she said, bringing her heart-shaped face down to gaze at me.

“Well, this sounds too easy. I could have her go there now if you want,” I said.

“Oh, it vill prove much harder zan you zink,” she said, wagging a long fingernail at me. “Zhe’s a powerful Dream Traveler and vill feel your presence in her head if you aren’t careful. You need to be extra stealthy vith zis one, using multiple techniques to lay zee groundwork. Get into her dreams. Vhisper zreats to her consciousness.”

“Who’s this girl?” I asked.

“Zhe’s a powerful and a well-protected Lucidite,” Allouette said, switching the cross of her legs in an awfully unladylike way. I pretended not to be eyeing her.

“A who?” I said.

“Zee Lucidites are a society of Dream Travelers in the South Pacific. Zey are zee most repulsive of people and zey currently have zee girl under zeir protection. Zat is another reason you can’t just slip into her head and make her do vhat ve vant. Zey suspect Chase vill try somezing, but zey do not know about you. Zo over zee next six monzs you’re going to plant a false reality in her mind. Ve only have one chance to lure her away from her protector.”

“Who is?” I said, growing a little bored with all these details.

“His name is Trey Underwood. He’s zee Associate Head of zee Lucidite Institute and also her husband.”

“Oh, come on, really?” I said with a frustrated sigh. “You have me going after some politician’s wife?”

Allouette ignored me. “Trey is an extremely powerful man who vill spy if his vife suddenly shows signs of mind control. Zo you’re going to follow my instructions to zee letter, and if you do, zen vhen zee time comes she vill valk straight into our trap.”

“And now you must realize I’m going to want to know why Chase wants this woman dead,” I said.

“To satisfy zat curiosity of yours you’ll have to ask him. I’m not at liberty to zay.” Allouette then levitated herself off the desk, through the expansive room, and straight over to the bed where I was lying. She laid herself down like a hovercraft landing.

My pops was telekinetic and as a pure blood he was exceptionally talented, although he rarely used his gift. But he didn’t stand close to Allouette’s skill. She could telekinetically move herself. That took a level of skill I could hardly fathom.

Upon landing, Allouette had turned herself over so she was perched on all fours in front of me, a hungry look in her eyes. I’d never been afraid of a girl, especially one sitting on my bed, but she actually terrified me. And as a person with few thrills left in life I found that I actually enjoyed the feeling of fear. I didn’t know if she was about to come at me with a passionate kiss or an assault. I reached out and ran my finger along her jawline and then I smiled inside. According to her thoughts, this time I was safe, but that wouldn’t always be my experience with Allouette.

After that first night, Allouette was by my side most of the time. She had a strange charm about her that my instincts told me to resist, but my body decided not to. Allouette didn’t have mind control over me, but she knew how to play a mind game and I’d lost it without even knowing I was playing.

***

A fortnight after the day I met Chase, he began training me. He was pleased with the progress I’d made with the girl I was assigned to brainwash. So far I’d inserted many messages into her head and according to his investigations, none of the Lucidites were suspicious. I had done as much research as I could on this society. In comparison to the Voyageurs, the Lucidites were bloody saints. Whereas the Voyageurs were corrupted by their powers and abused them at every turn, the Lucidites used their gifts to help the world at large. They stuck their noses into Middlings’ and Dream Travelers’ affairs, trying to find solutions to things that weren’t their bloody business. They were the superheroes of the Dream Traveler world.

I was completely ambivalent about the idea of a society like theirs. And although I didn’t condone what the Voyageurs did, I also didn’t care much. Usually I ignored it and solely focused on the task assigned to me. It was better that way. What did it matter to me what the Voyageurs did to unknowing Middlings? How was I in a position to judge? And I felt the same about the Lucidites. If they left me alone, then I had no reason to hate them. But it did irk me that Chase was intent on destroying a girl who was aligned with a society that as far as I could tell was harmless.

“This girl you’re making me brainwash,” I said to Chase during one of our training sessions. “What does she matter to you? Why are you going after her?” We’d been practicing in the main cave room. It was open and provided enough space and light.

Chase had his hands clasped behind his back. He strolled around me, making a complete circle. When he stopped directly in front of me, he leaned slightly over me and said, “Because she betrayed me. I will go to any length to torture and kill those who betray me.”

I made a silent, mental note. Don’t mess with this guy. Few people have ever intimidated me. Actually, only ever one. And it was the man who stood before me, Chase Bane.

Chase stepped back a few paces so there were several feet between us. I made a note that he rarely ever put his back to anyone. “We were supposed to be married and she ran off with another man. Married him,” he said, anger flaring on the last word.

“You must have really loved her to be going after her like this,” I said.

“Don’t patronize me, Ren,” Chase said, with a bite to his words. “You know as well as I that life isn’t about love. It’s about conquering and her little stunt cost me greatly. She thought she could ruin my future and I wouldn’t ruin hers, and that’s where she went wrong. That’s where she underestimated me. And she made me look like a fool. I want to be the bigger person in this situation, but she’s left me no choice.”

Unlike most people, Chase wasn’t motivated by hurt or fear. He was motivated by anger, which was a thousand times worse. And his hostility simmered under the surface, marking his every movement and word. This bird had deceived him. And although most don’t deserve to die, she had known Chase well enough to know what he was capable of when motivated. I made up my mind that she was dumb and therefore deserving of the fate Allouette would deliver to her.

“Are you ready to continue?” Chase asked, his gaze on me. It was like a beam of sun and burned at times.

I wasn’t ready to continue our training session, but I couldn’t say that. My brain felt like bread pudding, but I pushed past it and nodded. “Yes,” I said. I’d been trying to create the illusion of a cup of coffee. Something common was apparently easier than a specific projection, like a duplicate of yourself.

“You will find that when you stop trying to create something that doesn’t yet exist and instead pull from the energy already present, projections happen effortlessly,” he said evenly. “Everything is energy.”

I couldn’t stop the discouraged grunt that burst out of my mouth. “Will you speak bloody English?”

“You keep trying to create the illusion from nothing by just focusing on it,” Chase said. “You don’t have to do that. You know how your mind control works, how you go scavenging a mind first and use the tools already present in it to make things happen? You use the mind of a person to manipulate itself. The same theory applies to creating illusions. Try searching this space in the same way and then use the elemental energy here to create the projection.”

Now the chap was making sense. “Right-o,” I said, closing my eyes and sensing the large cave room around me. Chase was right. I could sense things about it the same way I could with a mind. I actually found that I instantly understood more about the space than I ever thought was possible. I connected with the air and knew it was a steady sixty-five degrees. I felt the life in the room. Mine, Chase’s, and some cave-dwelling bugs. The water in the ponds registered in my mind. The energy of the fire burning in the torches on the wall took shape in my mind on a whole new level. And the cave itself gave me its secrets. I then understood the significance of living in a place like this, which was so simplistic. I was never going to live in a cave, but I still had a new level of knowledge on it.

I snapped my eyes open. Pulling the energy from these elements I had just explored, I then focused it into a single thought supported by a firm visual. Only briefly a single ceramic cup with saucer and black coffee materialized on the rock in front of me. As soon as I allowed a moment of victory to enter my mind the coffee cup disappeared. I shot my eyes to Chase, waiting for his praise, strangely excited to get his approval.

“Next time, we will discuss shutting out the ego and desensitizing your emotions. Those two things will squash your ability to focus every time. We are done for today,” Chase said and stalked out of the main room.

Three months later I successfully created a twin illusion of myself. Unsurprisingly, it was easy for me to shut down my emotions. My ego was a different story.

Chapter Nineteen

July 1997

For six long months I followed Allouette’s every instruction, lacing an extremely real reality in this woman’s mind, Chase’s ex-fiancée. I wondered at times if I even had the choice anymore not to do everything Allouette ordered. I was in my body and then not. My mind was mine, and yet my free choice almost seemed absent at times. Somehow, the influence of the Voyageurs had numbed me more than ever. Dahlia wouldn’t have even recognized me, although I looked the same. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t joke. I was a hollow man. A tool to the mind. I’d never quite felt human, but all of a sudden I was something completely new.

I hadn’t given myself many opportunities to think about Dahlia since I left her. Because her face was plastered on billboards all over the world, I knew that after our breakup she entered a dark period with her music. It didn’t matter though. She was a star no matter what she did. There was no way she’d ever lose that. She was bigger than the Pope. Dahlia’s dark period didn’t last too long. She was a fighter and would always rally. On a trip to Stockholm, Sweden, to complete the last part of my job with Allouette, I caught sight of a picture of Dahlia on a tabloid. She was signing autographs after a show and looked back to her old self. She’d moved on.

I stood in my hotel room, enjoying a rare break from Allouette, who was as demanding of my attention as a toddler. For months I didn’t have any real desires. Actually, I was hardly ever hungry or thirsty. But seeing Dahlia’s image had stroked a part of my emotional center I thought had been blotted out. With a keen focus I created a projection of the girl I deserted over six months prior. Dahlia’s form flickered at first and then solidified. The illusion looked exactly as I remembered her to be: strong, beautiful, and full of life. Her dark brown hair was pulled to the side and hung over one shoulder.

“You’re so perfect,” I said to the girl who was there and also not at all.

She smiled, as I intended her to do. I didn’t make her speak, because I couldn’t bear to hear her voice.

“Dahlia,” I said, realizing I was losing my mind as I was speaking to an illusion I created. “I’m not a man. You thought I was, but I fooled you. Real men don’t do the things I do. Real men aren’t cowards.”

She blinked back at me. I had thought that somehow this moment of closure would awaken the life inside of me that had drained out, but it just made me weaker.

“I’m not sorry for leaving you. And I don’t want you back,” I said, hearing a new strain in my voice. “But I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

The door behind Dahlia’s illusion opened and I tore the projection down at once. Allouette stood, staring back at me with a devilish glare.

“Who vas zat?” she said, her hands on her hips.

“My mum,” I said, turning and focusing my attention out the bank of windows at my back. Our hotel room overlooked the Baltic Sea, which was where I’d finish Chase’s mission. The girl I’d been brainwashing was close and my proximity to her made my controls on her more powerful.

“You’re lying,” Allouette sang, her voice light. “Zat girl vas too young to be your mummy.”

I was grateful that Dahlia’s back had been to Allouette or she would have recognized her right away. “It was just a girl,” I said in a tired voice.

Allouette slid in front of me, partially blocking my view of the sea. “Did you love her?”

“Of course not,” I said, letting my eyes close for a half beat.

“But you vere together, veren’t you?” Her eyes tapered into thin lines and I dropped my head with shame. It was ridiculous and yet, Allouette had this effect on me. She could shame me.

“Yes,” I finally said, my head low.

She grabbed my chin, her pointy nails piercing my skin. “I’m your girl now, isn’t zat right?”

I nodded, my face still in her grasp. Throwing my chin to the side, Allouette cackled loudly. “No more illusions of other girlz.”

I turned away from her, wondering where I’d gone. Where was Ren? Who was this guy? How had I lost myself?

“Now, it’s party time,” Allouette said. She walked over to her suitcase on the bed and withdrew a case of knives. They were sheathed in a leather satchel. She rolled them out and her eyes dazzled as they ran over the polished hilts. “Zis is going to be zo much fun,” she said, running her fingertips over various knives. Having catalogued her options, she withdrew a serrated blade with a rosewood handle. Yanking up her knee-high skirt, she slipped the knife into a holster strapped around her mid-thigh. I thought that would be it, but then she grabbed two more knives and fitted them into sheaths in her knee-high boots.

“You don’t need that many knives. It’s only one girl,” I said, and instantly flinched when she whipped around, giving me a punishing stare.

“I know vhat I’m doing,” she said, a vicious arrogance in her voice. “Send her to zee boat, Ren. Ve’re ready to end zis.”

***

Allouette and I waited in the hold of a ship. It was scheduled to sail out to sea, dispose of its “cargo,” and then return us to Stockholm. As instructed, I’d lured the girl to the ship. She actually thought she’d chartered it for a journey that would save her life. She was, as Allouette warned, fairly difficult to control. That’s why I had to be on the ship to ensure she didn’t change her mind and make the ship return prematurely.

“It’s time,” Allouette said, gripping my arm and pulling me toward the main cabin where the girl was stationed for the trip.

“I don’t need to go,” I said, realizing I’d never seen someone killed before.

“Don’t be such a coward,” Allouette said, probably having read the fear in my eyes. “If zomething goes vrong I vant you zere to help. Ve shouldn’t underestimate zis one.”

Dutifully I followed Allouette. When we arrived at the cabin door she pressed her ear to it, a curious look on her face. “Oh, merde,” Allouette said in a harsh whisper.

“What?” I said.

She didn’t answer but instead busted through the door. My eyes widened. Not because the woman wasn’t alone, but rather because she was in child labor. The first mate swiveled in our direction. His brow was dripping with sweat and in his hands he held a bloody baby covered in a towel. The girl was propped in a chair, her legs up, a blanket partially obscuring her bottom half.

“You vent into labor early?” Allouette said, shaking a disappointed finger at the woman. “Bad girl.”

The woman was pregnant! The one I had been brainwashing for six months. I’d lured a pregnant woman to her death. And Allouette was prepared to kill a woman and her baby. I stared disbelieving at the sight in front of me. Too much was going on. Too fast.

Panting rapidly, the woman yelped. The baby in the towel wailed in the first mate’s frozen arms. The man’s attention was only half on us as he tried over and over again to swaddle the crying bundle. “Good, I could use the help,” he said.

The woman yelled, “No! Keep her away from me!” And then she screamed out like she’d already been stabbed. She’d recognized Allouette and knew why she was here. And she continued to pant wildly.

“Oh, I von’t come near you,” Allouette said. “I’ll kill you from here and then your bebe.”

The first mate’s eyes rose up in disbelief and horror. Allouette withdrew the knife from her thigh. “I’m going to enjoy killing you and your child, Eloise.”

Again the first mate’s face swiveled around, like he was trying to figure out how to get out of this or was looking for a weapon. He held the now quiet baby against him in a protective stance. “What are you doing?!” he said, shock written on his face.

“Freeze the boy, Ren,” Allouette ordered me and I did it immediately. He stood like a statue with the bundle pressed to him.

The woman was still panting, a great deal of blood spilling onto the floor under her and soaking the linens around her.

“You had everyzing I vould have ever vanted, Eloise, and you threw it away. I’m not killing you just because Chase ordered me to, but because you are zuch a fool. You could have had him. You could have been Mrs. Chase Bane, but you made the vrong decision. I vould have done anyzing to be in your position and now look at you. You and your child are going to die for your foolishness,” Allouette said and the knife in her hand rose into the air, hovering there.

I didn’t wake from the haze I’d been in. Not then. But I did suddenly realize I’d been seduced into exacting revenge for the man Allouette truly loved. And that man wasn’t me. I’d been played.

“Please,” the woman said between breaths. “There’s another baby. I’m having another baby.” And again she wheezed in several short breaths.

And then I realized why the woman was still panting even after her baby lay in the first mate’s arms. She was having twins.

“Vhat?” Allouette said in sudden alarm. “No!”

“Yes, a girl,” Eloise said, shaking her head.

“Vell, she vill die too. I can’t leave any pure bloods alive on this boat. Especially a girl,” Allouette said and then a shrieking laugh erupted from her mouth.

Eloise’s eyes connected with mine. “Please, sir. Help me. Please,” she said through ragged breaths, and then she groaned loudly.

I was frozen, unsure what to do. Whom to assist.

“No one vill help you,” Allouette said and the knife flew through the air faster than I realized was possible. It was a bullet, with force behind it that spoke of Allouette’s vengeful anger. And before my eyes the serrated blade sliced across the laboring woman’s throat, spilling blood all down her front. She hadn’t even taken her last gurgling breath when Allouette spun to face the boy holding a wiggling infant.

“How about you die first and zen your sister,” Allouette said to the bundle.

I knew she was crazy from the beginning, but not until that moment did I realize she was a deranged psychopath. People thought I was heartless, but I had nothing on this woman. She, to this day, remains the darkest human being I’ve ever met.

Allouette slipped one of the blades out of her boot and spun around to face me. “Next time you von’t doubt my preparedness, vill you?” she said to me.

And she didn’t wait for my answer before she stalked over to the baby in the frozen boy’s arms.

“Allouette?” I said.

She whipped around, an impatient look in her eyes. “Vhat?”

“There won’t be a next time,” I said, and because she never suspected that I’d turn against her, I was able to dive into her mind at once and take control. She had deluded herself to believe I was her puppet and that I’d never cut the strings. Under my control she stood as frozen as the first mate. I released him at once.

He shook his head slightly as he came out of the daze. His head swiveled to the baby in his arms. I stalked forward and pulled the child away into my own arms. The first mate was scanning the scene around him with terrified eyes. He shuffled back with urgency when he saw Eloise lying with her throat slit on the other side of the cabin.

I snapped my fingers at him. “Don’t think about it right now. There’s another child in that woman. You have to get her out right now,” I ordered, a strange sternness in my voice. “The child is half out, but you’re going to have to pull her the rest of the way since her mother can’t push.”

The boy just stared in a daze.

“Now!” I yelled, making the thing in my arms squirm. I’d never held a child and the experience was as unenjoyable as I always imagined.

The first mate rushed forward and I turned my attention to a frozen Allouette. I regarded her dull doll-like eyes for only a second before turning her around and marching her out of the cabin. With the baby still in my arms I walked behind Allouette, who moved like a robot, each movement stiff and of my doing. I had a firm lock on her mind and although she tried to resist, I was properly motivated to fight her. I marched her to the bow of the ship. Then I made her climb over the railing. I paused her as she sat on the edge and I made her head turn to look at me.

“You, Allouette, are the worst human being,” I said, the disgust in my voice that had been begging to be let out bursting forth. “I consider it a great honor to rid the world of you.” And then I made her spring forth into the Baltic Sea and sink to the bottom.

That single day holds more regrets than any other. And the biggest one was that I failed to kill the devil. Maybe it was because Allouette still owned a piece of me. Maybe it was because my attention was distracted by the squirming mess in my arms. Or maybe it’s because I wasn’t as dark as I thought. I wasn’t a murderer. I released my mind control on Allouette prematurely, allowing God to decide what to do with the devil. And he decided not to kill his greatest adversary.

Chapter Twenty

It was simply unfathomable that I knew so much about this girl I had brainwashed under Allouette’s instructions, but that I never knew she was pregnant. For some reason I didn’t sense it when I was in her mind. It was hard for me to realize that I was so thoroughly responsible for a woman’s death, a mother-to-be. What would my own mum think if she knew I was to blame for taking away two children’s mother? She always said there was nothing I could do that she wouldn’t forgive, but what I’d done was unforgivable. I’d gone along with Allouette’s plan, knowing the result. Knowing a girl would be murdered. But everything in theory sounds much easier than it is in reality. To think about someone being killed and then watching it happen are starkly different. I will never forget watching Eloise be murdered during childbirth. It is the grossest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

With the images from that afternoon still playing in my head, I carried the two newborns through the streets of Stockholm. Being inside Eloise’s head for six months, I knew much about her. I knew her favorite ice cream was chocolate, that she loved poetry, and in the evening her husband would rub her swollen feet. I also knew her address.

The paranoia set in immediately. I knew Chase was going to come after me, I just didn’t know when. I whipped my head around constantly as I neared Trey Underwood’s residence. His children fussed in my arms and I had no idea if I was holding them properly or suffocating them.

I paused on the cobbled road outside his door and mustered a courage I never before needed. I’m not a man who has ever made any apologies. Actually, I’ve only ever made one, and it was on that day.

I had shuffled the babies around trying to free up a hand to knock with, but I couldn’t manage it. My elbow clumsily bumped against the door trying to make a knocking sound. A half a minute passed before a man pulled the door back. He had straight blond hair and a look of fear in his blue eyes. Of course, Trey knew his wife was missing. She’d abandoned him early this morning, as I had made her do under Allouette’s instructions.

Trey’s eyes scanned my face and then the wiggling towels in my arms. His eyes widened with a look of shock so horrifying my knees actually softened a great deal.

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I failed to save her, but I did save your children.”

“What are you saying?” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes sharpening with fury.

“Eloise is dead,” I said, my voice catching. “And it’s my fault.”

“It was you?” Trey said. I could tell then that he was a brilliant man and pieced together things very quickly. “You made her leave the house this morning, didn’t you?” He ripped the tiny, bloodstained babies out of my arms.

“Yes, I’ve had mind control on her for several months. I lured her away, but Allouette killed her. I didn’t know she was pregnant. I didn’t know so much,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “Chase and Allouette convinced me to do it. I didn’t know she was pregnant. I didn’t know what I was doing…and I can’t take back what I’ve done. I know I can’t excuse my behavior,” I said in a hoarse voice, my words rushed. They were all filled with panic. “If somehow I could prove to you that I never meant for this to happen then I would. I wish––”

And then I paused. Something suddenly appeared beside Trey. My eyes skirted to it at once. It was a girl who had just popped up. Not a projection, but a real girl. And yet I could see through her, like she was a ghost. And I knew at once she wasn’t actually a ghost. She was a Dream Traveler, in the other dimension. She was dream traveling, but somehow I could see her. I wasn’t supposed to be able to. The laws of the universe prevented it and yet I know for a fact that that day I saw a small blonde teenager staring back at me during my confession. Startled and shaking, I took a sudden step back. And then I realized that she couldn’t harm me. Driven by curiosity I stretched out my hand to the girl, wanting to know if I could feel her or sense anything about her. A look of shock blanketed her face then too. She realized I could see her and looked as perplexed by the happening as I was.

“Get out of my sight,” Trey barked, revulsion in his voice.

I snapped my attention on Trey, feeling completely disoriented. My eyes flicked back in the girl’s direction as I nodded slowly. “Yes, of course,” I said, looking from Trey to the girl, my brow knitted with confusion. I stepped back, at a loss and also wanting to ask the girl a question, wanting to say more to Trey, but before I could he slammed the door in my face.

I wouldn’t meet that girl in person for sixteen more years, but I would know her for all of her life.

Chapter Twenty-One

August 1997

For three weeks I lived in a constant vigilant state. I didn’t dare stay in any place for long. I hardly slept or dream traveled. Chase would come after me. I knew that. I had betrayed him. He’d warned me what he did to people who went against him. Torture and kill them.

Eloise had died, but I’d taken her babies and brought them to safety. I saw then that Chase’s master plan had been to ensure the deaths of Eloise and Trey’s offspring. He would have total revenge. And just as Eloise had done I’d betrayed Chase, knowing exactly what he was capable of. I had deluded myself into believing she somehow deserved to die because she’d been so foolish to go against such a powerful man. Then I went and did the same exact thing. And now my punishment for that was Eloise’s death etched into my mind.

I couldn’t use any of my bank accounts during those three weeks, too fearful that it would flag Chase’s attention. I knew he had ways of finding people. He had found Eloise in Stockholm, a place she thought she would be safe from him. Every night I was in a different city, every few days a different country. I had gone back to scamming after my six-month hiatus. I needed cash to get around.

I was running a scam in a coffee shop in Prague when I was finally caught. To my astonishment it wasn’t Chase who found me first. I bolted to a standing position, leaving the old woman who was about to invest in my venture capital idea in a state of confusion. There standing in the entryway to the cafe was Trey Underwood, the Associate Head official for the Lucidites. He was regarding me with a flat, unreadable expression. I knew he was there to kill me. Whereas Chase had zero reason to murder me, as I knew he wanted to do, Trey had every reason.

I was the reason his wife was dead. I ripped my mind control out of the elderly woman’s head and instantly shot the claw of control at Trey. And it was then that I realized I was as screwed as if I was facing Chase. Trey’s mind was also guarded from my penetration. I could have tried hypnosis but my adrenaline was making it impossible to concentrate. Since Allouette, I’d lost a piece of my cool confidence. It was like losing a kidney. I was still functioning with my partial confidence but not at optimal levels.

My eyes darted to the back entrance of the cafe. I immediately thought I should make a run for it. And just then something crushed a part of my remaining spirit. I was now resorting to lowly criminal behavior. I was no better than a Middling if I was considering running to get out of trouble. I’d gotten in over my head.

Trey stood assessing me, his hand fidgeting at his side. I wasn’t certain what his gifts were or what he’d do to me, but if someone had killed the love of my life I’d smash their head in. Slowly.

I took two steps toward the exit. Trey just watched, not having moved since he entered the cafe. His eyes were studying me, measuring me with a strange calculating look. Making an impromptu decision I kicked the table in front of me in Trey’s direction. It knocked into the old woman. A group rushed the scene to help her. I then darted for the exit. People jumped back as I barreled toward the alley. Behind me patrons erupted with complaints and I knew the path Trey would need to take was being partially obstructed.

I threw the exit door open and ran out into the alleyway. One side was blocked by a chain fence so I chose the other, which spilled out onto Jelení Street. I was halfway through the alley when I whipped my head over my shoulder and realized I wasn’t being followed. I turned back around. And then like a projection coming to life Trey Underwood sprang up from the bricks. I firmly believed it was an illusion meant to stall me and so I didn’t make the effort to dart around it. Besides, illusions in the physical realm aren’t solid. But to my horror I ran straight into Trey’s solid body. I fell back from the force of the collision, landing hard on the pavement. My hands came down to cushion my fall and my skin was instantly ripped off my palms. Trey, who must have expected I’d attempt to run into him, was jarred by the encounter but remained upright.

My tailbone instantly ached from the crash to the ground. A searing pain shot up my back, sending my face into a series of grimaces as I made to stand. I was a man and I was going to face what came next standing upright. But first I had questions and maybe they would buy me time. I wiped my bloody hands down my trousers.

“How are you solid?” I asked.

“You think I’m an illusion, but I’m not. I’m really here,” Trey said in a calm voice.

“How did you get…?” I turned and looked at the alleyway and then to Trey.

“I teleported,” he said.

My mouth fell open but nothing came out. Fuck, I thought. I know how to make badass enemies.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Ren,” Trey said, a diplomatic elegance in his voice.

I stared down at my raw hands and flicked a skeptical glare at him. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I apologize that you have been injured, but I couldn’t risk letting you get away,” he said, his voice strangely sounding sincere. “It’s been incredibly difficult to track you down.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “How did you find me?”

“News reports,” he said.

“What? I’ve made the bloody news?”

He shook his head. “No, my apologies. I meant the Lucidite news reports. They are confidential and only shared with Lucidites.”

Now both my eyebrows were raised, wrinkling my forehead.

Reading the confusion on my face Trey said, “We have a team of clairvoyants at the Institute. They’re known as news reporters. We use them to find future events of concern. Most times they find urgent events. Ones where we can intervene. Tragedies, natural disasters, you get the idea?”

I nodded.

“Well, I had my team hone in on events connected to you until I found this moment in time. It wasn’t their normal job but they’re trained well enough that they can usually find events related to certain people’s energies,” Trey said.

“Teleporters and news reporters who report on future events. Do you all fly too?” I said, pulling a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wrapping it around my bleeding palm.

“No, flying would be ridiculous,” he said, a lightness in his voice but none of it present on his face.

“So you wanted to find me. Here I am,” I said, holding my arms out in a presenting manner. “What exactly are you going to do to me now?”

Trey ran his hands through his short blond hair. The guy looked tired but he’d kind of been through a lot thanks to me. “I’m not going to do anything to you. I’m here to ask you a question.”

“How do I want to die? Is that the question?” I said, stretching my compressed back, which was now throbbing from my fall.

“No, I was going to ask you if you wanted a job,” Trey said.

I dared to put my back to this man and walked over to the brick wall. I leaned up against it, kicking one foot up behind me to support my balance. “I suppose you want me to go after Chase. I can’t take back what happened, but I’m off doing jobs for other people. I don’t want to get mixed up in love triangles gone wrong anymore.”

Trey swiveled so he was facing me straight on. “I don’t want you to seek revenge on Chase for me.”

“Allouette then?” I said. The bitch hadn’t died. Apparently God decided he would lose his followers if there was no devil to pray for protection from. I had seen her stalking me in Turkey a week prior. I hightailed it out of that country at once. She’d probably been able to dream travel to a GAD-C and generate her body before it drowned.

“No, I don’t want you for any revenge. Retribution doesn’t work. And it’s not what Eloise would have wanted,” Trey said, his voice catching on his wife’s name. “This job doesn’t involve hurting or lying or stealing.”

I shot him a look of mock confusion. “Well, what else is there?”

“There’s helping people, saving them, and preserving a safer future for everyone,” he said with a passionate conviction.

This guy sounded like he was about to start preaching at me. I didn’t do sermons. “How are your children?” I asked in an attempt to divert wherever this was going. This wasn’t a typical question for me, but I felt a strange obligation to care about this man and his children.

“They’re fine but I had to send them away and split them up,” he said, a new grief springing to his features.

“What?” I said, not having expected that answer.

“They’re being hunted. It was for their protection,” Trey said, and I saw the deep regret in his eyes. “They weren’t safe with me.”

“Oh, Chase, right?” I said, nodding, thinking of how he probably already had Allouette stalking the infants when she wasn’t after me.

“Yes, Chase, but someone else too. Someone as dangerous as him,” he said.

Damn, this guy makes enemies like I do.

“Ren, there are dangers in the world. Dangers that with skills like yours I could fight with greater success.”

“I’m responsible for your wife’s death,” I said, having a hard time with the sentence. “Why would you want to offer me a job?”

Trey blew out a long breath. “I don’t think you knew what you were doing, not until it was already done. Your power has made you calloused to the world around you. I think now you will see things differently. Make decisions differently. I regret that my wife had to be the mistake that made you change, but I think now you will,” Trey said. The look in this man’s eyes was strange to me. He was looking at me directly, and not flinching like most. And then there was something else in his expression. I think it’s called “sincerity,” but I didn’t think it was a real thing. I thought sincerity was a myth that didn’t exist in real people, only those in the bible and Santa Claus and my parents, of course. “I recognize that you’re incredibly powerful and intelligent and have abused that skill,” Trey continued. “I’m offering you a second chance to become something different than what you’ve been. I’m offering you a job to rid this world of some of its evils.”

A chill ran through my sore back at the mention of “a second chance.” The phrase reminded me of my mum’s words on her deathbed. I shook away the feeling. “Some of its evils?” I repeated. “Right, because it’s impossible to stomp out all of them,” I said with a cold laugh. “Trey, I appreciate your ‘make a better future’ mentality but the reality is there will always be evil. Yin and yang. Light and dark. God and devil. You can’t have one without the other.”

“Believe me, I know that,” he said and allowed an edge of the pain I knew he harbored to skip to the surface. “But another very possible reality is that one overtakes the other. The Lucidites clean up the messes, like things the Voyageurs do. In some cases we prevent it from happening. But the balance is wrong right now. And news reports are bleak about the future. Currently we are facing losing to evil but with your help we could have more of an impact. I don’t have anyone with skills like yours on my staff and it’s what we need at this point. You could help me save my children from this evil,” Trey said. This guy had a demeanor about him I’d rarely encountered. He was real. What he said he meant. It was a strange thing to witness after my time with Allouette and Chase.

I regarded Trey for a long few seconds. What would Dahlia think if I took the good guy role? Would she laugh and say it wasn’t me? I blew out a frustrated breath, furious that I was even caring what she’d think. “Look, buddy, I’m sorry about your kids and I’m even sorrier about your wife, but saving the world isn’t my style,” I said, kicking off the wall and strolling back to the cafe.

“So what, are you just going to keep scamming old women to make money and then looking over your shoulder for Chase for the rest of your life?” Trey said to my back.

I had walked off only a few paces. I turned. “How is it that I won’t have to do that working for you? I know crusaders get paid shit since it’s mostly charity work. And Chase or Allouette will find me sooner or later. There’s no safe place.”

“News reporters don’t just report on urgent situations. They also report future lottery numbers, winning horses, and stocks that will become lucrative,” Trey said matter-of-factly.

“So what does that mean for me?” I said, crossing my arms.

“It means I’ll pay you well.”

“Pay me well?” I said, doubt heavy in my tone.

“You’ll be able to keep your multimillionaire status.”

“You can afford to do that?” I said, still in disbelief.

“The Lucidite Institute is extremely well endowed. We have supporters with deep pockets and multiple opportunities for investments every day. What we do and how we live isn’t cheap, and even still we have more money than we know what to do with.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” I said.

“And if you took this position then you would be a full-time resident of the Institute and I can promise you Chase and Allouette can’t trespass our grounds,” Trey said, all confidence. “We have top-notch security and are protected from most invaders. Voyageurs especially can’t break in.”

Allouette’s plan did involve me luring Eloise out so I believed that, but this was sounding a little too good to be true. I’d be safe, make millions, and I would be stopping bad guys like me.

“Is there electricity?” I asked.

Trey gave me a look of surprise. “Of course. We live very comfortably.”

“All right, I’ll help you save the bloody world but I’m not wearing a cape or tights.”

Trey nodded. “One more thing though.”

“Of course there is,” I said with an impatient sigh. “Is this when you tell me I’ll have to start being nice to people and having manners?”

“No, you can treat people however you like. But I do ask that you don’t use your mind control on innocent people anymore. I can’t have you in the Institute if you’re going to pose a threat to our people,” Trey said.

“But I can insult them and maybe use a bit of hypnotism here and there, right?” I said, angling my head to the side.

Trey seemed to consider me. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. I just wanted to ensure you didn’t force any of our residents to do things they don’t want to.”

“Well, if you mean force them into my bed then you don’t have to worry. Consider me a monk as far as that goes. I’m done with women.”

He extended a hand to me. “Welcome aboard, Ren,” Trey said.

“You don’t want me to shake your hand,” I said flatly.

He let his hand fall to his side. “Right,” he said, probably remembering I have telepathy linked to touch. “I do have one last thing I want to say.”

“Fire away,” I said, realizing that was the first time I didn’t take an opportunity to gain covert information on someone by touching them.

“I want to thank you,” Trey said, his voice a little scratchy all of a sudden.

“Thank me?” I said in disbelief. “For what?”

He brought his blue eyes up from their resting place on the ground and looked at me. “Thank you for bringing my children to me.”

“Oh, well…” I said, scratching the back of my neck, although it didn’t itch. “It was nothing.”

He shook his head at me. “I actually know you sacrificed a great deal to do so. I realize you didn’t have to bring me my children and by doing so you put yourself in extreme danger.”

I didn’t answer, just lowered my eyes to the ground. Feeling good about something I did was weird. It was definitely going to take some getting used to.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In 1997 I became the first official Head Strategist for the Lucidites. I’d never had a title, much less a job. I knew Trey was right, that I’d be safe at the Lucidite Institute. The Institute was an underwater five-story facility protected by both technology and also psychic energy. And in contrast to the Grotte it was like being on a bloody spaceship. The walls were all a brushed stainless steel and the doors were motor operated. The Institute, also unlike the Grotte, was crawling with people. To my dismay they were all quite cheery, but most learned to leave me alone pretty quickly. I may have become a so-called good guy but that didn’t mean I was going to flaunt a toothy grin and a polite manner.

If I had designed my own compound where I trained the brightest minds in the world, it wouldn’t have looked like the Lucidite Institute. The place was cold and gray and reminded me too much of my soul, if I had one that is. If I designed my own compound it would have had fiery red paneled walls and carpet the color of my eyes. I wouldn’t have called it the Lucidite Institute either, but rather Ren’s Lair. And I’d even have scattered a bit of bad guy’s bones I’d defeated around the place. What’s the point in saving the bloody world and not feel like the king of the fucking jungle?

The Institute had originally been constructed using an underwater facility built by the U.S. government. During World War II it had been a testing ground for military warfare. Then after the war they converted it to a place to harbor consciousness and the skills associated with ESP and other Dream Traveler abilities. Of course, once a powerful and self-righteous Dream Traveler got wind of this, he sought to ruin the program. And using technology strong enough to melt all the minds in the White House, that’s exactly what Trey’s predecessor did. He fooled the government into thinking that not only was their project worthless, but also that abandoning the Institute was crucial. Maybe those officials thought there were still dangerous pathogens remaining in the facility from the earlier experiments. Whatever the daft scientists believed, they all loaded up and left. Later their minds were wiped clean and all evidence related to the Institute disappeared. That’s how the place I called my home of almost two decades became the property of the Lucidites.

During my time living in this underwater silver box, I was assigned executive housing in the residential wing of the Institute. It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton but it didn’t have any rats either. Actually what I missed most during my time at the Institute were windows. I missed sunlight that was invited to stream through a transparent surface. But what was a blighty like me really going to complain about? It’s not like I grew up in Peavey or London with an abundance of sunshine. Hell, I’ve never even had a sunburn.

I was also assigned my own department space which I called Scapes Escapes for no reason at all. I could be quite random at times. And I had a team of twenty young recruits all eager to do whatever I said. The news reporters sent urgent reports straight to our department. Then I decided how to use the talent at my disposal to intervene to create optimal results. It actually was more challenging than anything I’d ever done. I loved every second of it, but I hid it well.

“Billy, I want you to create a disturbance on flight 1212,” I said, pointing to a boy who sat at the conference table in Scapes Escapes. I’d been working for six months and had already made significant strides.

“My name is Larry,” the boy said. That’s what he always said. He hadn’t caught on yet.

“All right, Billy,” I said and he bristled with quiet anger. “The news report says the mechanics rush the repairs on the aircraft and that’s why it has engine failure over the Atlantic. I want you to make a ruckus when you board the plane. Throw a rotten tantrum. Chain yourself to the plane saying you’re making a stand against high airfare prices. Do whatever it takes to give those mechanics a chance to do the repairs properly.”

“But, sir, what if I get arrested? Will someone come and bail me out?” Billy said.

I stopped and regarded him with a long irate look. “I’m trying to save lives. I don’t have time to get your ass out of jail for being a stupid activist.”

He cowered, sharing a commiserate expression with the girl across the table.

“All right, next,” I said, swiveling my gaze to a girl halfway down the table. A dozen snotty prodigy kids with various talents were staring back at me. “Sally, you’re to travel to Budapest. There’s a terrorist attack happening there in twenty-one hours. Using your cryogenic skill, I want you to freeze the bomb hidden in a building and then tip off the authorities. The terrorists are going to get away but—”

“Shouldn’t I tip off the authorities first so they can catch the terrorists?” Sally asked in a dreadful, nasally voice.

I flung the rolling chair out from in front of me and plopped down in it. “I forgot that Trey gave you the job as the Head Strategist for the Institute,” I said. “I forgot you’re the one who’s in charge of this department. That you’re the one who makes all the bloody decisions. I forgot that at your discretion my ass could be fired and kicked out of the fucking Institute.” I then spun around three times in the chair like a kid trying to get dizzy. When I stopped I stared at Sally, whose eyes were wide with shock.

“I’m so-so-so sorry, sir,” she stuttered. “I didn’t mean to undermine your authority.”

“Oh no, you just think you know better than me. Get this, little girl. You can live another bloody lifetime and you won’t know better than me. I’m a master at strategy. Hence the bloody title. Got it?” I said.

She nodded, biting on her bottom lip. I could have said “boo” and she probably would have burst out crying. I considered it.

Instead I said, “After that I want you to stop into Café Du Monde in New Orleans. Order a dozen beignets.”

I paused until I knew she couldn’t help but ask her dumb, curious question. “What is that going to do, sir?” she said. “Will it delay an act that would lead to an accident?”

“No,” I said, sounding insulted. “Just bring them back here. I want a bloody pastry.”

***

I did as Trey requested and didn’t use my skills for any evil manipulations while in the Institute. Of course, evil is a relative term. What I think shouldn’t be considered sinister is probably a bit different than what most people would classify under that title. So I might have played a few pranks, hypnotized a few individuals until they passed out and verbally abused everyone I came in contact with. Trey didn’t seem to mind my antics since my small and efficient department was more successful than ever before. And I had to have a way to entertain myself by being naughty when I was tired of saving the fucking world and running from my bloody demons. And of course, the one thing I couldn’t get away from was the woman’s death I was culpable for. Trey forgave me and yet I found it impossible to forgive myself. I think that’s the very reason he made his children one of my chief responsibilities. In Trey’s well-meaning heart he believed I’d think I was atoning for my sins by protecting his offspring. I didn’t think that, but that’s probably because I’ve never liked the idea of being saved. Not in any sense of the word. I guess being damned sounds like a better approach. There’s nowhere else to fall to but down.

One of my main responsibilities, while at the Institute, was to check up on Trey’s children, who both lived at separate foster families to ensure their safety. A man more akin to a parasite was bent on killing them. He was almost as powerful as Chase and way more ambitious. Some years later, when Trey’s children were almost grown they’d enter the Institute and I’d teach them how to fight and survive evil. And his daughter went on to kill that parasite, saving humanity, but that isn’t my story to tell. It’s hers. She’s the same girl I saw on that day I delivered two snotty infants to Trey. His daughter would follow me around in some way or another for a good part of my life. I thought she was going to be the death of me. Turned out I was wrong. She’d be the one who freed me.

Trey’s daughter, who I ordered the first mate to pull out of her dead mother and give CPR to, would also go on, with the help of her brother, to kill both my adversaries. Chase and Allouette. I had barely dared to venture out of the Institute since I set foot there. Sure, I dream traveled, but rarely and usually only with Trey since I knew Allouette and Chase were always searching for my energy to pop up on the globe. And I can count the times I took my physical body out of the Institute on one hand. I always knew it was a risk and on my last trip Allouette actually caught me and almost succeeded in killing me. However, thanks to a Lucidite news report and the quick work of my agents, I was able to escape. Still, that experience confirmed for me that I was never safe outside the Institute as long as Allouette and Chase breathed in this world. I was free and also a prisoner for my entire time at the Institute. I thought it would take an act of God to rid the world of Chase and his devil, but it actually took the acts of a pair of twins who were born prematurely and had a vendetta against the two responsible for their mother’s death. Again, I’m not sharing the details of this story because although I’m involved in it, this is not my story to tell. For me to share those events would be like I was taking credit for them and I won’t do that.

The point is that it took almost two decades after I sought refuge in the Institute for me to be safe outside its walls. After eighteen years, a fortnight after Chase and Allouette had been ridded from this world, I packed a single suitcase and took the long submarine ride to the surface. I was ready to return to the world above the water. I’d matured during my almost two decades of service at the Institute. I’d mostly atoned for my sins. I’d done something that would almost make my pops proud, but now I needed to have a new adventure. And the threat of encountering Chase and Allouette had kept me hidden. I was ready for the world to see my shocking red hair and monster green eyes again. I was ready to return home, but I had one thing left to do.

Chapter Twenty-Three

September 2014

The Institute was as sterile as a prison and I’d willingly imprisoned myself in it. It was a fate I endured knowing I’d brought it on myself. And because I had nothing to spend my money on since the Institute took care of my room and board, I sent my checks to the church in Peavey, after I paid a few bills, of course. Money didn’t matter. Women didn’t exist. And although I had awoken after my ordeal with Allouette, I was still calloused to the world, as Trey suspected I’d always be.

I served Trey with a loyalty I had only for people like my parents. Trey Underwood was the first person I met with admirable skills that I wasn’t interested in copying and adding to my persona. I’d never be able to pull off the good guy act. I was a man with a monster inside me. That monster was born there and was never going away.

After eighteen years of working as the Head Strategist I took a demotion. For all of those years I’d sent agents out into the field to intervene and use their skills to stop tragedy. No longer concerned about Chase or Allouette finding me, I gave myself a new assignment, and this was a big one. A society of Dream Travelers in Southern Oregon were suppressing the gifts of rebellious Dream Travelers. I assigned myself the extremely difficult task of infiltrating the corrupt government and bringing down the power source behind the atrocity. All I had to do was get there, which would require some good old-fashioned Middling travel since there were no GAD-Cs in the piney state.

When I took that first step off the submarine onto the dock I realized what I’d missed without knowing it. Wind. It whirled over my cheeks and the backs of my hands. Like I did that first day in London, I raised my hands in the air with a welcoming embrace and sang out, “I know you’ve missed me, world. Ren’s back.”

The sun set over the western horizon, sparkling over the rippling Pacific waters. Sunlight. I also hadn’t seen real sunlight in eighteen years. But unlike the wind I knew I’d missed it. Its absence in my life was like missing a finger. You never forget that it’s gone. I pulled sunglasses out of my pocket, as prepared as ever.

I was halfway to LAX when I remembered the other reason that I’d willingly imprisoned myself in an underwater facility for so long. Stretched across a building and as beautiful as ever was an image of Dahlia. She was still famous. She’d aged, as I had, but was unmistakably beautiful. A knot that I didn’t think could exist in my throat ever again tied into place. I coughed it away.

“Hey,” I said to the cab driver.

“Billy,” he said, looking over his shoulder at me. “My name is Billy, not hey.”

“Whatever,” I said. “That singer, Dahlia, do you know anything about her?”

“Buddy, what planet did you just come from? Everyone knows about Dahlia.”

“I’m not your buddy, Larry,” I said.

“I said my name is Billy.”

Ignoring him I said, “So did she ever get married?”

“Oh yeah,” the guy said with a howling laugh.

I sat back, my jaw flexing. I had no right to be mad. And still I was livid. I’d abandoned her. Told her off. Broken her heart. How didn’t I expect that she’d get married one day? I knew she’d move on. And hadn’t I?

“It lasted a whole six months, the sham of a wedding. She married some hotshot movie star, I forget the guy’s name,” the cab driver said in a gossipy tone. “Personally I think the whole thing was a promotional stunt.”

My chest loosened a tad.

The cab driver, who apparently didn’t know brakes were standard in all motor vehicles, pulled over at the curb at LAX. He got out to help me with my luggage probably because I tipped him so generously. At my back a horde of people were gathered, most holding mobiles and stepping up on their tiptoes trying to see something.

The cab driver turned to see the commotion I was eyeing. The crowd parted slightly and I just spied a black limousine as bodyguards pushed the people back.

“Well, speaking of the devil,” the cab driver said with a delighted grin. “I bet that’s Dahlia in there now. She just had a tour here in LA.”

“She’s not the devil,” I said flatly. “Believe me. I know.”

I threw my eyes up looking toward the sky. That’s not funny, God, I thought. I’d been back in the real world for only an hour and already God was tempting me with people I couldn’t have. No wonder I locked myself away for almost two decades.

“Put that back,” I said to Billy, pointing to the suitcase. “You’re driving me to Oregon.” I then turned and got back in the car.

The cab driver slipped into the driver’s seat, a confused expression marking his brow. “What? That’s like a twelve-hour drive.”

I slipped down low, obscuring my face. Besides small wrinkles and the red goatee I’d acquired, I looked the same as when I was with Dahlia. Same spiked hairstyle. Same cut of suit. She’d recognize me for sure. I couldn’t chance her seeing me. I knew after that last night in London that I could never see her in person again. That’s why I locked up my flat and went to Paris. I would always take Dahlia back. And I would love her and lose her. It was the way of things. My parents had proven that Middlings and Dream Travelers didn’t belong together. In my world there were no happy endings. “I’ll make it worth your while,” I said to the driver. “Just get me the hell out of here, Larry.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

April 2015 - Present Day

The project in Oregon took six months and although I almost died, from both physical threats and annoyance, I ended up being victorious. My first agent assignment had gone better than anyone at the Institute could have hoped for. And when it was all over, I almost considered staying in Oregon. As much as I hated to admit it, the people hadn’t totally repulsed me. And the weather was cold. It rained too much. And the locals wore enough layers that usually their repugnant faces were partially covered. But Oregon had something that I couldn’t stand. Trees. And a bloody lot of them. Trees every fucking where. Trees with leaves that crackled underfoot. Trees with needles that chimed all bloody night. Trees that were home to pesky rodents and noisy birds. Trees that obstructed views. Trees with branches so large they could break in a strong wind and impale a person, killing them. Taking them away forever.

In Oregon I met and fought people as despicable as Chase. People who sought to destroy their children because they posed a threat to their political power. I worked to bring down these people who murdered their own family members and thought genocide was justifiable. If I had any spirit left then it would have been broken in Oregon. This all confirmed for me what I always thought: people are inherently awful. I’m not judging. I’m not pointing fingers. I’m one of these horrendous people. I’ve been asked numerous times what makes me so bad-tempered. People want a reason for everything but sometimes there isn’t one. I was just born bad. Corrupt. Like most of the population. And what was the use fighting all these losing battles anymore?

For eighteen bloody years I worked tirelessly to prevent disasters. I worked to stop bad guys, but it never really made a difference. Maybe we were all just better off letting the world go to shit. Although my first rogue agent case went successfully, as I knew it would, it also confirmed that there wasn’t any real point in saving the world anymore. There wasn’t a fucking point in anything. I loved the people I couldn’t have. The ones I could have, deceived me. And I was one of the most powerful men in the world, but I couldn’t save people who had mattered most to me.

I’ve never tried to make sense of my life, but now I’m giving up on it. Maybe in my genius mind I thought one day everything would figure itself out. That things would actually mean something to me, but for all my trying I’ve come up short.

Life. Is. Meaningless.

I live without consequence. If I die, it will matter very little. If I’m good it only has a small effect on the world around me. If I’m bad then I rip lives apart, creating a rippling effect for generations. Maybe I’ve spent too many years as a bad guy to appreciate the phony balance in the world. Maybe I’ve spent too many years around bad guys to see they weren’t the majority. They sure feel like it.

One of those bad people was Lyza. She had lied to gain status within this society in Oregon and as fate would have it, our paths crossed. My sister hadn’t forgotten what I’d done to her all those years ago. I had lied to the church’s therapist, telling him I was afraid she’d molest me. And I’d told the truth about her, breaking her engagement with Chase. And she was still pretty bitter about all that and more. Lyza sought her revenge on me in Oregon. She had me abducted, tortured, and imprisoned. My own sister. Is it any wonder that I’m giving up on humanity at this stage in my life?

Lyza wasn’t successful at killing me though. I’m not going to go into the assorted details of what happened in Oregon or what transpired between my sister and me. The important part of that history is that I got away. That story is not one I want to share with you, mostly because I became a little soft during my time in Oregon. I still shiver thinking about it. Maybe that history is written in another book, but not this one. Go and find that story for yourself if you’re really interested. And if you don’t like that I’m not divulging the story to you here, well, you know me well enough as your storyteller to know I don’t bloody give a damn. Fucking sue me.

Here’s what I will say. It was what Lyza did to me and what I witnessed in Oregon that finally broke me. It’s what made me finally decide to quit fucking caring. Being almost murdered by my soulless sister and watching a dictator try and lobotomize his people is why I’m here presently about to embark on a new life. I have lived my life before this as many different types of characters. And now I’m about to start a new chapter in my life. At the age of forty-five I’ve decided to start over. Today is the first day of the end of my old life.

***

As requested, I dream traveled to meet Trey in our usual location. We met in our familiar meeting location, Sanga in Nepal. Specifically for all these years we’ve met at a spot near the largest statue of Shiva in the world. Even when we were both at the Institute we preferred to have our dream travel meetings in this place. First, Trey had suggested it to get me out a bit. I didn’t care for the worshippers I saw there in physical form or the green rolling hills around it, but over time the one-hundred-forty-three-foot statue compelled me in an odd way. I guess I was intrigued that a religion of people had created such a beautiful monstrosity to idolize their god. Christians had done it. Buddhists had done it. Hell, every religion did it and it continued to astound me. Religion on the whole continued to elude me, although I realized that God was overhead probably having a field day with the things he was going to do to me when my time came.

I park myself on a step ten down from Shiva. Trey appears a minute later and stands staring at the statue with a quiet reverence. He then takes the spot next to me. Trey respects things. Gods. People. Ideas. I’ll never understand him. Ever. He is a complete anomaly to me in his totally forgiving and patient nature. And yet, I respect and trust him. There is something about Trey Underwood that is innately good. Some people are good because that’s what’s expected of people in modern society. Some people are good because they’ve been conditioned to be so. Most are good because they don’t want to be punished. And then there are the few who are that way because it’s who they really are. Trey is purely good and born that way, just as I was born the opposite way.

“Nice work on your last project,” Trey begins. “I have anoth—”

“Stop, Trey,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m done.”

He turns and looks at me for a few seconds. I can tell he is trying to explain away what I’ve just said. Rationalize it into what it doesn’t really mean. “What do you mean, you’re done?” he asks in his always calm tone.

“Oh, blimey, of all people I was certain you had a concrete working of the English language,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “Done. Finished. Retired. You’re familiar with those words, am I right?”

“Retired?” Trey says with a gaping look of disbelief.

I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but now it almost feels hard, like I’m not sure I can go through with it. But that would make me a weakling. Those kinds of people can’t follow through when things get tough and I’m many detestable things, but I’m no weakling.

“That’s right,” I chirp. “That was my last job. I don’t want a gold watch or a crummy retirement party with a gaudy cake. All I want is for you not to expect me to fight all these bad guys for you. I’m done.”

“But Ren—”

“Hey, I’d say we could still be pals and meet up to go fly fishing, but we both know that I’ll stand you up each and every time,” I say. “Instead, why don’t you call me on the weekends and I’ll let it go to voicemail. Then I’ll return your call a few months later when I’m in a busy airport and can’t really hear you very well. We’ll stay connected, I promise.”

He shakes his head, his once blond hair, now silver, has grown out in the few months since the last time I saw him. “No, Ren, you can’t quit. There’s bad people out there. People you can stop. Lives you can save.”

What Trey forgets or doesn’t want to admit is that I’m one of those bad guys. At least I used to be. I don’t remind him of this; instead I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, Trey, there’s always going to be bad guys to stop, don’t you get that? What we do matters so little.”

“How can you say that after everything you’ve done?” he says, pinning his elbows on his knees and leaning forward more.

“Because, Trey, I’m tired. Tired of fighting what increasingly feels like a never-ending battle. People keep breeding. They keep putting bad people in society. And I’ve got to drain my reserves to stop them from doing something that at the end of the day matters very little. Hell, even if I save these people who are potentially in danger then some natural disaster will take them out. Or some disease. Don’t you get that we only have one life and we’re wasting it helping people who don’t even know we exist?”

Trey seems to consider what I’ve said with a thoughtful look. “I thought after your last assignment you’d have softened some of this cynicism,” he finally says.

“Well, you’re wrong, old buddy. Getting abducted by my big sister only preserved my cynical nature. But at the end of the day, this assignment was my best work and also my last bit of charity. I’m going out on an up note.”

“But Ren, there’s so much you could do. You have at least half a century left in you.”

I stare off into a corner of Nepal in the distance. I’m feeling on the brink of having a moment. Hell, for the last few months I felt that way, like everything is coming to a pivotal point. I push the feeling away. “Don’t you get tired of watching the news reports?” I say. “Don’t you tire of seeing the death that keeps pouring in? Sometimes we step in and stop the plane from taking off and sometimes we fail and people tumble to the earth. Don’t you sometimes want to just forget about the future? Just live in the now?” I say.

“This doesn’t really sound like you, Ren.”

“Well, I don’t really feel like myself anymore,” I finally admit.

“And no, I can’t just forget that I can know the future. That I can stop it. How can I forget the capabilities of the Institute and the lives I can save with that knowledge? How do you expect to?” Trey says, his eyes hard.

“I’ve got some ideas,” I say with an indulgent grin.

Trey, who is supremely good at ignoring my bad behavior, shakes his head. “Ren, there’s a terrorist group who is planning a series of explosions. They call themselves Group X. Thousands will be killed and maimed and you could stop them. That’s the job I wanted you for next because you may actually be the only one who can stop this. We need someone to infiltrate their headquarters and get into their heads. Stop the propaganda they’re sending to their guerrillas. And you are the only one I know with the experience to do this job. If you walk away from this job then these people will die. Retire if you want, but do this last job. Please,” he says, almost pleading.

“There will always be more jobs, Trey. There’s never a good time to quit a job. Don’t you get that?”

“If you quit now then thousands will die!” he says and his voice actually rises. I’ve rarely heard him do that and it was always for a good reason.

I regard him for a long time. I can just get in his head and make him leave me alone but I don’t do that to people anymore and I never did it to anyone I respected. Trey is one of a few people who I admire and besides he can probably resist my mind control.

I shake my head. “I guess thousands are going to die then,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

“You can’t be serious?”

“When have you ever known me to joke?” I say dryly. “I’m done, Trey. But because I’m such a kind soul I won’t leave you high and dry. I’ve got an idea for how you can deal with this terrorist situation.”

He blinks at me. “What’s that?”

“Call the fucking cops,” I say. “This is their bloody job, after all.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Just like when I arrived in London the first time, I dream travel to a GAD-C and generate my body. Again I have only the clothes on my back. This time I have a modest bank account, instead of an overflowing one, and a key in my pocket. I step onto the curb next to Piccadilly Street. Automobile fumes waft through the air. People jostle past me, invading my personal space and invading my mind with their repugnant thoughts. And loud noises echo from too many places.

It is good to be home.

For some reason I feel like I’m living in the present for the first time. I’m about to live my life unlike I ever have before: simply. The key to my flat slides into the lock easily. I had purchased the penthouse flat all those years ago and sent money using my checks at the Lucidite Institute to maintain it. I was never sure why I held onto the place, but maybe it was because it was the only place I ever owned. Calling a place “home” isn’t really my style, but my flat comes close to earning that title.

After unlocking, I push the door open to find a dozen or more notes that were slid under the crack. They are yellowed from age. I know without a doubt they are from Dahlia. I kick them to the side. I definitely don’t want to see my post box after eighteen years of not checking it.

My nose pinches from the acute smell of dust. I march through the flat, a lifetime of memories sparking back to life. Has it really been a lifetime since I sat in my old plaid armchair? It definitely has been a lifetime since I was the man I used to be. The scammer. The gambler. The womanizer. And I’m ready to become someone completely different than I am now. I don’t even want to be the man I’ve been since Trey gave me a second chance.

I open my walk-in closet. Rows and rows of suits that would still fit stare back at me. I’m still the same size I was when I was in my twenties, but my days of wearing suits are over.

I take my time making my way to the bathroom. I stare down at the porcelain sink for a long minute, gathering a courage I didn’t think I’d need. Finally I flip my head up and look at myself. An image stares back, blinking. My hair never dulled from the orangey red like my mum said it would. My neon green eyes hold a mysterious, sinister look. But I know all my secrets. I’m a bad man who has done bad things. I’ve tried to change but the truth is that the monster in me is in my gifts. My mum was right that my powers make it so it’s impossible for me to be happy. That’s why I’ve decided to change. It’s not that I’m deluding myself into thinking I’m going to be happy in this lifetime, but I’ll settle with not being miserable.

***

Little has changed in Peavey. There’s still one school, one church, one pub, and one inn. I think the town went to incredible lengths not to grow. They would have had to. Everything evolves. Even stupid people. But the people of Peavey ran developers away. They prided themselves on the quaint feel of the town. They didn’t want anything complicating and polluting their way of living. It has taken me forty-five years to appreciate that mindset.

To say it feels odd to knock at the door to my childhood home is a serious understatement. I didn’t know when I met Allouette and Chase that by working with them I’d have to abandon my father for so long. I thought of sending him a message. Of letting him know I was all right. I even considered asking him to dream travel to meet me. But I’m a coward. I didn’t want to tell him why I couldn’t visit in person. I knew for certain that the look in his eyes when I told him what I’d done to get myself in trouble would be worse than my years of confinement. In my mind, he was better off thinking I’d died.

Pops opens the door, a look of bewilderment on his features. He was probably surprised to get the knock in the first place, since I’m guessing no one calls on him much. And then his face grows even more confused as he recognizes me.

I’m a hard man, unaffected by most anything. But to stare at my dad’s face after eighteen years has a visceral effect on my being. Something rattles my sternum, like fingers have wrapped around it and are trying to break it in two.

“Son?” Pops says, squinting at me. “Is that you?” For eighty-eight years old he looks impressive. Back straight, arms strong, and eyes eager. No one would think he was older than mid-sixties.

I nod. It’s all I can manage.

He takes me in, looking me up and down, his disbelieving eyes growing heavy with emotion second by second. Not only do I look older to him, but I know I look different than he was used to seeing me. I’m wearing khaki pants and a plaid flannel shirt. For the first time in a long time, I’m comfortable in my clothes. “Where have you been all these years, Ren?”

I scratch the side of my head, conscious that I’m shaking. “I got myself in a tad bit of trouble and couldn’t visit. I didn’t want to lure the devil to your doorstep.”

“Are you safe now?” he says, gauging the empty hills behind me. He’s probably looking for someone stalking after me.

“Completely,” I say.

“Thank the Lord,” he says and just then he opens his arms to me. Without hesitation I walk forward, embracing him. It is the first hug I’ve had… well, since he hugged me last, after my mum’s death. Pops is also still strong. He presses his large hands tightly around me, and there’s an urgency in his every movement. Maybe he thinks I’ll vanish before him. I won’t. I never learned teleporting from Trey, although he offered to teach me.

Pops finally steps back, breaking the embrace. “Well, come in, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse.

The house hasn’t changed much either, a bit like Peavey. I’m glad for this though. There are few comforts in my past, but seeing the interior of my old home brings a host of fond memories rushing to my mind.

Pops doesn’t keep the house as clean as Mum did. I notice this at once when I take a seat in the old dusty armchair. Almost like he’s unsure how to act, Pops sits awkwardly on the sofa across from me. He folds his hands in his lap and then changes the fold several times.

“I’ve been gone a long time,” I finally say.

He nods, his bottom lip twitching to the side.

“I saw Lyza recently,” I say casually.

His face doesn’t brighten like most parents’ would after hearing the mention of their daughter. I know for a fact that she never came to see him. Not once after Mum’s death.

“She’s mentally unstable now. Not doing so hot, but she got herself in a bit of trouble as well,” I say, finding I don’t know what to do with my own hands either.

Pops nods again. “Did you get yourself put in prison with your scamming? Is that where you’ve been?”

I laugh suddenly, making him startle. “Oh heavens no. You know no prison could ever hold me. I’d get myself out of there before they locked the bars. Where I’ve been was like a prison, but I stayed there willingly. I made some enemies and had to hide,” I say.

“And your enemies…?”

“They’re gone now,” I say, enjoying every time I get to say that, to know it’s true. “How have you been?” I ask.

My father tilts his head side to side. “Mostly good. Had some hard years after your mum passed. But the town has been there for me.”

“Good,” I say. “Anything new?”

He stares around the house, like the answer is written on the ancient furnishings. “Not really. Not that I can think of.”

We’re silent for a bit. It’s strange that we’ve lost so much familiarity after all these years. “I’m back for good,” I finally say.

His face now brightens, breaking into a relieved smile. “I wondered the question, but didn’t know if I should have such hopes.”

I almost smile. “I’ll be in London, but I’d like to stop over on the weekends. Would that be all right?”

He slaps his knee and lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course, son. Nothing I’d like more. Nothing on this earth.”

I do smile now. A small one.

Then Pops’ expression drops, a sudden look of concern. “So are you going to go back to gambling and scamming?” Pops asks.

“Oh, hell no. I’m going to do something way more repulsive,” I say, and watch as his face morphs through different expressions. “I’ve decided to get a real job.”

He nods in acceptance. “I think you’ll enjoy that. There’s something honest in working. In giving back to society.”

I want to tell him that over the last eighteen years I worked in a job where I literally saved millions of lives. Instead I say, “Pops, I get why you chose to live such a simple life. I appreciate it now.”

He blinks at me in surprise.

I continue, “I’ve decided to take a page out of your book. What I’ve been doing hasn’t worked. My powers have only ever gotten me in trouble. I’ve decided that it would be best for everyone if I didn’t use my gifts anymore. No more scams. No more mind control. No more hypnosis.”

He tilts his head like he’s trying to regard me from a new angle. “Whatever happened to you to make you leave, it really changed you, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I agreed. “But also, since I’ve been using my powers nothing has actually ever changed for me. I’ve always felt my life was wrong, like I was a mistake. That’s why I’ve decided to not use them anymore.”

“Well, powers or no powers, I love you, son. No length of time has changed that, and nothing you could do would either.”

I blink back a wave of emotion. I’m certain that can’t be true, but I’m not challenging my father on it. I’ve done many things that would change the way he feels about me, but those are my secrets to keep, not his to shoulder.

We talk easily for a long hour. I find there isn’t much to say. There are so many things I can’t tell him and so many things I don’t want to. And my pops has lived such a simple life that his stories run out fairly quickly. When it’s time for me to leave I make for the front door.

“Aren’t you going to dream travel to the GAD-C in London?” Pops says, giving me a look of confusion. “You have to take the train here, but you always dream travel back.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t joking when I told you I’m changing, Pops,” I said, sliding my hands into my khaki pants. “I don’t plan to use any of my gifts anymore and that includes dream traveling.”

“Are you sure you want to go to that extreme, son? Dream travel isn’t the power that corrupts you.”

“Corrupts is a strong word,” I say, pretending to be offended.

Pops sees through it immediately. “Oh, you know what I mean. I just don’t want you to deprive yourself too much or make too many radical changes.”

“Change is what I need,” I say. I don’t know how to reply to the part about depriving myself. I’m doing this all because I think I need to. Because nothing else has ever worked to kill the monster in me. But if I’m honest with myself, then no, I don’t really want to give up my powers. But addicts don’t want to give up drugs either, and yet they must to be healthy.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The office is cramped and smells of old food, like the way a lunch box starts to get that odor about it after a while. Across the desk from me sits an overweight bloke who’s sweating profusely. He introduced himself as Arnold or Johnny or Pete. I wasn’t really listening. His fat fingers flip through my application, which took me a whole minute to complete. With a look of surprise he drops the papers on the desk.

“Mr. Lewis, the employment history here is blank,” the fat man says. “Did you forget to complete it?”

“I never forget anything,” I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my ankle over my knee. “It is blank because I don’t have any employment history.”

He splays his stumpy hands on the surface of the desk and leans forward. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a job? Not one?”

I catch myself before I roll my eyes. People are so bloody stupid. I hate having to repeat myself. “That’s right. Zero employment history.”

“What have you been doing since you graduated from school?” He squints at the paper, checking it. “Over twenty-eight years ago?”

“Would you believe I’ve been watching the telly and playing video games on my pops’ couch?”

He eyes me, his forehead wrinkling. This guy has awful skin. “You don’t look like the video game type.”

I can’t tell this chap that I worked as the Head Strategist for a secret society so maybe he’ll believe this one. “Truth is I can’t provide references because I’m a rich kid who’s traveled the world on my pops’ dime. He’s just kicked the bucket and wouldn’t you know he didn’t leave me a single quid. Apparently he waited till he was dead to teach me a lesson. He was always a bit soft with me. You know, the enabling type,” I say.

“Didn’t you make contacts with your wealthy and prestigious friends? Can’t you get a better job than this?” the man asks, studying my button down shirt, which is untucked, making me feel half naked.

“’Fraid not. My pops gave strict orders in his will to all his shareholders. He wants me to make my own way, so here I am,” I say.

“Well, I have to warn you the job is fairly boring. I’m not sure a bloke with worldly experiences such as you will be happy doing a job like this. The automatic ticket machines have made it so people don’t use booths to buy their travelcards,” Arnold or Pete or Johnny says.

“I’m not the happy type, so don’t worry about my morale. I want the job and I can do it, I promise you,” I say firmly. In the past there would have been no conversation. I would have made the chap give me the job before the interview even started. But I’m going to land this opportunity the old-fashioned way.

“I’m just questioning whether it’s the right fit for you. I have other positions that are more challenging. Ones where you can use your mind more,” he says, running his forearm across his forehead, mopping up sweat.

“I’d prefer to use my mind as little as possible,” I say. I’ve found the perfect job. A clerk in the Underground selling passes. Their booths don’t get much traffic thanks to the automatic machines. And the job is straightforward. But best of all there is bulletproof glass between me and the public. This is more for their safety than mine. I’m pretty certain I’m going to be bombarded by frustratingly stupid questions every hour. The glass will protect the question asker’s fragile little neck from being wrung. I won’t have the misfortune of accidently touching anyone. It’s the perfect position for me. All that I aspire to after holding one of the most powerful positions in the world is to be a ticketing agent in the Underground.

“Okay, well, I suspect you can do the job,” Mr. No-Name says. “I’ll give you a shot. I like the idea of giving someone their first job.”

“What you’re giving me is a second chance,” I say my mind on my mum and her last bit of advice to me.

***

I started work the following week. As my supervisor had warned it was mind-numbing work. Most people preferred the automated machines. But tourists with bad English and fucked up senses of direction loved nothing more than to buy their passes from a real person. I often gave them wrong information to their daft questions and sold them the wrong travel pass. I wasn’t really hurting anyone and it was keeping me sane. A handful of times I berated a snotty teenager for their ridiculous nose ring or awful choice of hair dye. Why anyone with a regular shade of hair wanted to change it to something abnormal was illogical to me. I told them this. Complaints were lodged. I was given warnings. It was all very boring.

In my first week on the job I’d trained most of the regulars to steer clear of my booth. Even if there was a major queue at the machines, people would endure it if they didn’t have to suffer my wrath. Tourists still bothered me. But they had such poor English that half the time they hardly knew I was insulting them. And I hadn’t used my gifts in over two weeks. This for me confirmed that my bad attitude was permanent, but that didn’t mean that the cloud of doom that hung over my thoughts wasn’t going to dissipate with time. And even if it didn’t, I didn’t trust myself in the “real world” using my gifts. Inside the Institute had been safe, but out here where there were opportunities to deceive and no Trey Underwood to keep me in check I needed to be careful. It was all a slippery slope and I knew I was one scam away from falling into the monster’s mouth again and becoming despicable once more. Then I’d find a new devil and be back atoning for my sins.

I’m sitting in my booth reading when a woman’s voice disturbs me. I’d actually made it a complete hour without interruption.

“Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she asks, rummaging through a bag.

“Use the automated machine,” I say, not looking away from my book.

“But there’s a ridiculously long queue,” the woman says. She’s a local. They should know better than to bother me. I had a reputation with them. They warned their other local friends about me. The guy who took over my shift was usually bombarded. I was really proud of the strides I’d made in such a short time.

I lower my book, giving her a cold stare. “Are you allergic to lines? Can you not wait like everyone else?” I say.

“I was under the impression ticketing booths still sold tickets, what a daft notion,” she says. She has short curly hair and kind of resembles an elfish woman with her willowy build and pointed features. There is a spark of mischief in her brown eyes.

I lay my book down completely with a long sigh. “What do you want?”

“Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she repeats.

“You can,” I say and then sit frozen regarding her with a nasty look.

She grunts in frustration. “Will you please sell me one?”

“That will be forty-three quid,” I say, taking her money and handing her a ticket from the dispenser.

I pick up my book a second after I’ve chucked the travelcard through the receiving drawer.

“What are you reading?” The woman’s nasally voice echoes through the speaker.

Obviously she isn’t in too much of a hurry to wait in a queue if she has the time to ask me irritating questions. “A book,” I say, not lowering it.

“What’s it about?” the elfish woman asks.

“People,” I say flatly.

“Are you enjoying it?” the woman says, not reading any of my nonverbal cues.

I slam the book on the countertop, earning a startled expression from the woman. “Do I look like a fucking librarian? Do I look like the kind of bloke who has a blog about my favorite books? Do I look like I make incessant book recommendations on Goodreads? Or do I look like I want to be left the bloody hell alone?”

“No, you look—”

A disturbance twenty feet down on the platform interrupts the lady. An old woman is yelling. Her hands are flying around. “Thief! That man just stole my bag.”

I just then make out a guy barreling through people, pushing them to the side without concern as he sprints for the stairs next to my booth. They’ll take him up to the street where he’ll be lost in a sea of people. With an irritated sigh, I pick up my book and try to find where I left off.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” the elf-lady says, her voice rising in panic.

Without lowering the book I say, “About what?”

“That thief,” she yells, beating against the glass.

I nod, a consoling look on my face, although my gaze is still pinned on the pages of my book. “I am doing something. I’m ignoring it.”

“Call security,” the woman says, swiveling her head over her shoulder as the thief passes by in a sprint. I spy real fear in her eyes when I flick my gaze up for a second.

“Why don’t you?” I say, still searching for my last place in the book.

“I don’t have my mobile,” she says, watching the stairs which the thief has probably cleared by now. “You have a phone with direct access to Underground security.”

I lower the book yet again. “Look, Tinker Bell, it’s not going to make a lick of difference if I call anyone. They can’t get here in time. They can’t do anything about it and the thief is already scot-free at this point.”

“Because of you,” she says, with a menacing stare.

“Well, I didn’t see you tackling him on his way through here. You actually flattened yourself to my booth to avoid a confrontation,” I say.

“How did you see anything with your nose glued in your book?”

“Do you need a travelcard?” I say plainly.

She bristles, obviously confused by the sudden question. “No, you already sold me one.”

“Do you need Underground information?” I say.

“No.”

“Well, then may I recommend that you move along since you’re currently blocking other patrons from receiving my excellent customer service,” I say.

She throws her arm out. “There’s no one else in line.”

“Probably because you’re making such a scene and they don’t dare come over here. So would you please get on the tube and travel to whatever brothel you belong to,” I say.

The woman doesn’t give me the punishing look I deserve, which slightly deflates my spirits. I worked hard for that one. Instead she studies me, a strange look in her wise eyes. I don’t like the way this one looks at me. I don’t like a lot of things about her. Finally she blows out a frustrated breath and turns and marches off with her fists clenched at her side.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Undoubtedly parts of London have changed. Technology has reared its evil head and taken over the city more than I’d like. But London is also a city that holds onto its history and preserves places rather than tearing them down. For me that means that my old pub, down the street from my flat, still has its doors open. The interior has hardly been updated, which most would find a bit unpleasing since springs are threatening to poke out of the cushions in the booth seats. But I’m not one of those people. I’m as grateful that this place hasn’t changed as I am that my pops still has the same residence. I had the evening meal here at this pub almost every night I was in London. For almost ten years I patronized this place. I didn’t know any of the other regulars. And I never picked up a woman in this pub. I always considered it bad form to scam in places I wanted to frequent regularly.

“Have you come to harass me some more?” I hear a nasally woman say as a cocktail napkin is tossed on my table.

I yank my eyes away from my book to find my waitress is none other than the elfish-disaster-of-a-woman from the Underground that afternoon. Without the glass to protect her she should watch her mouth. She doesn’t know that and she’s probably going to get on my case regarding not calling security about the thief.

I take the napkin and skip it forward off the table to where it lands on the dirty floor. The woman notices and narrows her eyes at me. “Someone is going to have to pick that up.”

“That someone will probably be you,” I say. “And if I remember correctly, you were the one harassing me today while I was trying to serve the public.” I pause and arch an eyebrow at the woman. She’s isn’t pretty or ugly. She just is. She’s odd in her features and then also completely uninteresting. Short brown hair. Small brown eyes. A little tall, but nothing to write home about.

“What will you have?” she says, pulling a small notepad from her apron, along with a pen.

“Note that I’m not going to be a drain on your time and attention while you try and complete your duties. I’m simply going to move along when my order has been satisfied, as you should have done today.”

“What will you have?” the woman repeats.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement,” I say. “And also I’m grateful that you don’t purchase travelcards with the wages you make working in brothels. You don’t also work in a brothel, do you?” I then lean forward, appearing curious.

“What will you have?” The woman now sounds on edge.

I release a small smile. Good to know I can still get under the hardest of skins. “I’ll have a cup of Earl Grey and the fish and chips.”

Without writing down a bloody word the woman turns and trots off. “Make it snappy,” I say, realizing she’s already on edge after two altercations with me.

Seven minutes later, three minutes longer than it should have taken, the waitress hands me a cup of tea. It looks like it was about to rush out of her hands so I help her with it. I’m afraid it’s about to spill down my front, as I’m sure she intended. Unfortunately, the mishap causes our hands to brush and I immediately sense her thoughts. It’s the only gift of mine I can’t shut down. All I can do is hope to never touch anyone and therefore not be punished by their repugnant thoughts. From the waitress I hear her think, This guy really needs a friend.

My reaction is too immediate. My patience low from our exchange earlier and everything else not going on in my life. I slam the tea and saucer down with a blunt force and the woman jumps. “No, I bloody don’t need a friend, so don’t even try,” I say, a sharp punishing tone in my voice.

“Why did you say that?” the woman asks.

I’d been so repulsed by the thought of her reaching out to befriend me that I acted suddenly. Now I’m going to have to cover for my blunder. “Because I sensed you were thinking that.”

She regards me skeptically. “Well, maybe I was,” she says a tad sheepishly. “I just sensed you were lonely and that’s the reason you’re so rude. I’ve been there before and thought I might be able to help you.”

“Look, you didn’t sense anything about me,” I say, a bite in my words. “You don’t have super powers. You’re not a special race of people. You’re a waitress. Get it? So don’t try to be my friend. What you need to do is go wait tables. The guy over there looks like he could use a refill actually.” I point behind her.

The waitress dares to lay her tray down on my table. Then she leans down over the table, a strange look in her shit-brown eyes. “Actually, since you probably don’t believe a word I say, I’ll share that I’m a part of a race known as Dream Travelers and I’m empathic. That means I can sense other people’s emotions. And my gift told me that there’s a deep loneliness in you and I thought I could help,” she says, sounding both angry and sensitive.

I freeze and try to keep my expression neutral. What are the odds of stumbling across another Dream Traveler randomly? What are the odds that we’d be thrown together like this?

“This is when you laugh at me for telling you something so ridiculous,” she says with a dry chuckle when I don’t say anything.

I don’t want to believe she has told the truth, but I have to. My instincts tell me she is in fact a Dream Traveler. And this explains that mature look in her eyes and why I can’t place her age. Is she thirty or forty? I can’t tell.

“Why are you a waitress if you have a special skill like empathesis?” I finally say. “Why aren’t you a shrink or a detective or something else where you could utilize your skill at a more beneficial level?” And then I throw up a shield around my emotions. It isn’t foolproof, but totally worth a shot. I only ever knew one empath and he had a way of knowing things telepaths never knew.

The woman slides her head to the side, giving me a cautious stare. “That’s not the retort I expected. And I also didn’t expect you to throw up a shield. Most don’t know how,” she says.

“Well, let’s just say even though you didn’t expect me to, I believe the foolishness you just spouted.”

“Because you’re…” She draws out the last word, the reality dawning on her.

Behind her, a guy who drained his coffee cup six minutes ago coughs loudly.

“I think you’ve abandoned your waitress duties for too long,” I say, pointing at the bloke. “You’re a lousy empath if you didn’t realize the chap two tables over is pretty peeved at you for ignoring him.”

She flips her head over her shoulder at the gentleman and then back to me. Then the waitress slaps her hand over her forehead, looking overwhelmed. “Right, I was a little distracted,” she says.

I read her name tag. “Jane, go do your job, which is to wait tables and not pester me.”

She shakes her head at me as she turns.

I pull my book back up from the table. I’m not granted two minutes of peace when Jane, the rude waitress, slips into the seat on the other side of my booth.

I raise an annoyed eyebrow at her.

“The other waitresses are covering my tables,” she says, answering my question. “I was overdue for a break anyway.”

I grant her no reaction but instead bring my book up higher.

“You’re one too, aren’t you?” she asks.

I flip a page in my book and continue reading.

“I suspected from the beginning, but I wasn’t completely sure,” she says, her tone growing cocky. “It’s why I bought that ticket this morning.”

I don’t lower my book or respond. She can’t see the annoyed expression since the paperback blocks it.

“So I could ask you the same question. Why is it that you work a mindless job when I sense you are terribly powerful?” the waitress says.

I don’t lower the book, just speak to her with my face obscured. “Empaths can’t sense power.”

“No, but we can sense the desire to use it. My empathy sensed that you miss using your power.”

“You’re a lousy empath,” I said.

“And you’re lousy at completely shielding your emotions.”

I slam the book on the table, gaining the attention of a few patrons. “Actually, I’m quite excellent at it, but unfortunately it is impossible to completely guard emotions. So why don’t you mind your own bloody business and leave me alone,” I say, picking up my cold tea cup and taking a sip, my eyes low.

“I haven’t always been a waitress,” Jane says.

“And I don’t really care,” I say, picking up my book again.

“I actually was a social worker. I worked with lots of abused kids and poverty-stricken families.”

“Still don’t care,” I say, flipping a page.

“I worked in that role for years, decades actually,” she says, completely ignoring me. It’s like she’s talking to herself. “I actually lost track of how long I did it. Was it twenty-five or thirty years, I can’t say.”

I yawn loudly and flip yet another page, not having read the prior one.

“I just quit one day,” she says, plainly.

There’s a long pause and without having the gift of empathy I still sense a regret in the woman.

I lower the book. “Let me guess, you were as lousy a social worker as you are a waitress.”

“I was bloody brilliant at it actually,” Jane says, smugly. “I had stellar success rates. More of the parents in my cases completed rehabilitation than any other. The kids I worked with had great results, improving behavior and grades.”

I just stare at her.

“But for every person I saved, there were thirty waiting for help,” she says, her voice dropping an octave. “Our office was overwhelmed with cases. There was no end in sight. I had helped so many and I still felt defeated. I quit because no matter what I did it didn’t make enough of an impact. Does that make sense?”

More than she will ever realize. Maybe Jane sensed my story as I knew she has the potential to do. Whatever reason she has for sharing this with me, it does slightly endear her to me. We are both quitters. Complex people, seeking a simple life. Tired of the losing battle. And yet I resent God for sending this person into my life. He intervenes in my life about like the Lucidites do into other people’s affairs. God, I just want to be left alone.

Jane shrugs her shoulders when I remain stone-faced and silent. “Anyway, that’s my story.”

I stand, pulling on my jacket as I do. “Well, cheerio,” I say, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Jane says to my back.

I turn and regard her with disinterest. “What?”

“What’s your gift?”

“I’m apathetic,” I say and turn back around and leave.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I hadn’t even completely left the pub when my mobile rang in my pocket. I’m not sure why I even kept the irritating device after Oregon. I didn’t really do technology. I was pretty certain every time I stuck the stupid thing to my head it was scorching my brain cells like dove eggs in a frying pan. Only two people have my number and I’m fairly certain this call isn’t from my pops since we’d just had dinner the night before.

I pull the phone out of my pocket. As I suspected. Trey Underwood.

I tap the screen. “If this is about the fly fishing trip, I’m still checking dates. I’m super busy for the next decade or two,” I say, strolling the noisy pavement.

“Very funny, Ren,” Trey says on the other side of the line. “I’m not calling about the trip that’s never going to happen.”

“Ouch, you don’t have to be so harsh,” I say. “I was really looking forward to the trip.”

“Look, Ren, I’m calling to ask you to please consider one more job. I need your help.”

“Trey, you’ve always been so economical. When did you decide to start wasting your own time and energy?”

Silence on the other side. He clears his throat. “Hear me out, would you?”

I stroll down the street. “Only because I like to hear your voice,” I say. I thought the Lucidites would leave me the bloody hell alone after all my years of service. Not in this life.

“The news reporters have seen a problem brewing with this terrorist organization, Group X. It’s the one I told you about before and it’s going to get worse,” Trey says.

Why in the hell we had to spy on the future, I’ll never know. Can’t we just let some things be a mystery? No, because we’re bloody Dream Travelers with too many powers, and not enough willpower. We’ve got to stick our noses into the past and the future, but God forbid we actually live in the bloody present.

“Group X made their first attack this morning. They blew up a school in Africa,” Trey says, his voice gruff.

I pause and stare out at the busy street.

“There’s six more attacks planned and because they have such a large following it’s hard to find and stop them,” Trey continues. “We can intervene in the attacks but never stop the next one that’s planned. There’s always another and another. We have to stop the source, which is the leader, Antonio. No one here has the power to help. But with your mind control you could get into their headquarters and take over the leader. You could stop him. We’ve got a plan that will work but we need your help.”

“Why don’t you just go in there or have an agent,” I say, too loudly, overcompensating for the traffic noise. “If you’re trying to apprehend him then you don’t need me.”

“We can’t get in there,” Trey says at once. “It’s locked down, about how the Grotte was. We need someone with mind control who can convince the guards to allow him in. And a series of attacks are planned on innocent people, if anyone attempts to capture Antonio. He’s warned that his minions have been instructed to act if he’s apprehended. But if you got to them first and made them not act then Antonio could be apprehended.”

“In your recruiting, haven’t you found another bloke with mind control?” I say.

Over the speaker I hear a long breath. “Not one strong enough for this kind of thing,” Trey says with defeat. “I tried with another agent and they were caught.”

I press the phone more firmly into my head. “One of my agents was caught?” I shake my head. Not mine. That isn’t my department anymore. “What’s happened to them?” I say.

“They’re dead.”

“Damn it, Trey,” I say loudly.

“I told you this was serious,” Trey says and then an ambulance with its sirens blaring speeds down the motorway, drowning out his other words.

I duck into a large bookstore on the corner. “Hold up. I can’t hear you. There’s too much noise,” I say as I move around a crowd at the front.

“All right, repeat what you said,” I say, moving around a line of teenagers. They’re talking as loud as the bloody sirens on the motorway.

Again Trey says something and again I can’t make it out.

“Blimey, it’s a book shop, will you lot be quiet!” I yell, my face flushing hot with frustration. I gaze up then and notice a horde of teens staring at me, horrified looks on their faces. Then my eyes flick to the huge vertical banner hanging in the middle of the bookshop. A line snakes throughout the oversized bookstore. On the banner is a picture of Dahlia holding a hardback, with a glossy cover. She’s written a book. A memoir. I better not be in it. Under her beautiful picture it says: Book Signing Today at 3 pm. I flick my eyes to my watch. Trey is speaking in my ear, but I can’t hear him over the chatter in my head. The shop is completely quiet, all eyes on me. I twist my watch around.

2:59 pm.

I raise my eyes to the sky. “No fucking way, God. Stop messing with my life,” I say under my breath.

“What?” Trey says, confusion in his tone.

“I’ve got to go,” I say and switch off the phone as I sprint for the exit.

I don’t stop running until I’m two blocks away. I can’t see Dahlia. I can’t. Ever. I don’t know what kind of shenanigans the guy upstairs is playing. I’m sure it’s for his amusement. Dahlia and I don’t need to see each other. I don’t need to help Trey. I need peace, quiet, and solitude. Fat chance I’m getting that.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“You’re back,” Jane, the irritating waitress says, looking surprised and pleased.

I unfold the newspaper, blocking my view of her. “I’m a creature of habit. This is my pub.”

“What?” she says. “I’ve been working in this pub a whole year and I have never seen you in here.”

“Well, I used to come here every day,” I say.

“But…?” she asked, fishing for details I’m not willing to throw over.

“Are you going to take my order or are you trying to see if I’ll die from this conversation first, because I might at this rate.”

Jane turns and walks off.

“Where are you going?” I say to her back. “You didn’t get my order.”

“If you’re a creature of habit then you’re having what you did yesterday,” she calls over her shoulder.

I fold up the newspaper with repugnance. The pages are quickly filling up with events related to Group X. I’m confident now that whoever took over for me as Head Strategist is as incompetent as a box of rocks.

Jane returns with a cup of Earl Grey. I regard her and then the tea with annoyance. “I was going to order green tea actually.”

“No, you weren’t.” She crosses her arms and looks at me with a tough expression. “You’ve been gone from London for a long time,” she says, taking a different stance in the nonexistent conversation.

“Good guess,” I say.

“Not a guess,” she says. “My empathy read that you’ve missed the city and this pub.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Stay out of my head.”

“I don’t read thoughts,” she says, tapping her head and then her chest. “I read emotions from the heart.”

“I don’t have a heart,” I say.

“That’s not the impression I’m getting,” she says.

I try again like I did yesterday to shield her. Empaths are hard to block. I know this.

She eyes me for several seconds. “That was a weak attempt,” she says with a proud smirk.

“I’m done with your service. You may go now. I’ll whistle if I need something.”

To my irritation Jane sits down, just like she did yesterday.

“By all means, slack off so you get yourself fired,” I say, waving at where she sits in the booth across from me. “Then I won’t have to deal with you. But please slack off elsewhere. I’m busy.”

She looks at the folded up newspaper. “You look like it.”

Then she waves at the mostly empty pub. “As you can see, I’m not needed. And besides, I’m not getting fired. I’m shagging the owner.”

“Very classy, aren’t you?” I say. “I’ve seen how dirty the pint glasses are here. I think you should devote some time to them and leave me be.”

“Your accent, it’s Estuary, am I right?” she says, settling more into the booth. “Where are you from?”

“A place where people can take a hint,” I say, my eyes seeking to cut her like a laser.

“Well, tell me where that is. Maybe I’ll go and observe and learn.”

“I doubt that,” I say. My tea is cold when I take a sip. “I’m from a small town, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me, I grew up in the southeast too,” she says.

I sigh melodramatically. “Peavey,” I say.

“Oh,” she chirps loudly. “I can’t believe it. I lived a town over in Miller.”

“Good for you,” I say flatly.

“It’s uncanny how many things we have in common.”

“We have nothing in common,” I say.

“Oh, come on. We’re from the same area, both Dream Travelers, and both working in menial jobs because we’re tired of having our powers,” she says.

“I’m not tired of having my pow—” I stop myself and throw down the napkin I was kneading during this conversation. “Oh, fine,” I say in surrender. “What’s the use? You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

“Probably not. It’s not that I fancy you, I just know you could use a friend.”

I scowl at her.

She holds up her hands. “Just calling it how I sense it,” she says and then pauses. “So I’m right, you’re tired of your powers, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that simple, but sure.”

“Well, you don’t take me as the simple kind of guy.”

“I’m aspiring,” I say.

“That’s the reason for the ticketing job, isn’t it?”

“Well, I have to pay the bills now, don’t I?”

Her eyes drop to the gold ring on my finger. It’s a gift from the Lucidites and of the highest quality, just like everything in the Institute. “You used to have money though, didn’t you?” she says, studying me.

I’m actually intrigued by her ability to observe. Coupled with her empathy she would be a good agent. Damn it! I can’t keep my mind away from thinking like the Head Strategist. It’s just a habit, though, and has to be broken.

“So what is your gift?” she asks.

“I have a few,” I say.

She waves her hand at me. Imploring me to keep sharing. “This friend thing only works if you elaborate from time to time or otherwise I’m doing all the talking.”

I have a few dozen crafty retorts but I kind of don’t feel like using them right now. Instead I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t matter what they are because I’m not using them anymore.”

She blows out a breath. “Wish I could turn off my gift. It’s incessant on my attention. What’s your name?”

I pause and then say, “Ren.”

“At first I thought you’d give me a false name,” she says with a clever, triumphant smile.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“Because people feel bad when they lie and you didn’t just now,” Jane says.

“How do you know that I’m not a psychopath who doesn’t feel bad when I lie?”

“You’re not a psychopath. I know.” She shivers. “You never want to use empathy on psychopaths, it’s like wrapping your mind around a block of ice.”

“I think I have an idea of what it’s like,” I say, thinking of my experiences of being in Allouette’s head.

“Ren, do you ever feel cursed?” Jane asks and there’s a pureness to her question. She’s a girl standing alone in a desert. She’s been searching, trying to find her path. Trying to abandon her identity. It’s so plain on her. Plain Jane. And I hate that I know exactly how she feels. I know exactly what she’s looking for, because I’m looking for it too.

“I’ve only ever felt cursed,” I say, sounding as dejected as I am.

She nods with a commiserating look. “Yeah, I kind of figured you knew what I meant. I used to be in a society of Dream Travelers and they all seemed happy to be this race of people. They never felt burdened and that’s why I left. I couldn’t relate to them.”

I lower my chin and rub my temples. Jane and I have too many things in common and it is starting to piss me off. My mum would say the hand of God is playing strongly in my life. She’d say I should be grateful, but I’m not sure I know how.

“You’re not drinking your tea,” she says.

“It’s repulsive,” I say, raising my chin.

She pops out of the booth. “I’ll grab us ales.”

Jane comes back a minute later carrying two hazy glasses with too much head. “You’re a horrid waitress,” I say, looking at the pints.

She shrugs and takes a long sip.

“And you’re drinking on the job?” I say.

She burps loudly and then shrugs. “The owner won’t fire me. I know how to give him exactly what he wants and how he wants it,” she says with a wink. “Empathy does have some benefits.”

I throw my eyes up to the ceiling. Oh, bloody hell, would you stop it! I say to God, silently.

“What are you looking at?” Jane asks.

I bring my eyes down. “Just cursing God.”

“Oh, I do that all the time but he doesn’t seem to care. Why are you cursing him right now though?”

“Because you’re like the female version of me,” I say with a repulsed shiver.

She laughs. “I always hoped the male version of me would be more attractive than you.”

My mouth pops open. “I’m deadly attractive.”

“Maybe for people who are color blind?”

“Well, you look like a bloody elf with the pointy ears and cropped hair,” I say.

She laughs. “Don’t take offense. I’ve never been attracted to redheads,” she says, draining her glass.

“I’m not offended.”

“You are a little,” she says, giving me a knowing look.

Chapter Thirty

I woke up the next day with the first hangover I’d had since after the night I broke up with Dahlia. Jane and I closed down the pub, spending most of the time exchanging insults. It was the first good time I’d had in many years. I may have actually laughed, although it’s hard to remember after that many drinks.

Over the last week I’ve learned that Jane and I indeed have a parallel life. And although I’d die before admitting it, it’s been nice to have someone to relate to. She takes a break when I come into the pub at mid-day and we chat. It’s become the only part of my life I look forward to. Work is always the same boring bullshit. And each night is filled with strange dreams. I’ve got a long list of missed calls from Trey that I have no intention of returning. There was an off hour where I actually considered going back for one more job but every time I pick up my mobile I freeze. I then remind myself that doing one job isn’t going to make a difference. There will just be another tragedy. There’s no way to stop evil. It’s all just a delay tactic. And to do what he wants I’d have to turn back on the mind control and hypnosis and that isn’t an option. Since I’ve quit being me, my life has simplified and the monster is growing weaker. I was actually laughing. Maybe one day I’ll actually have a humble demeanor. The odds are close to nil, but one can have dreams.

I’ve been napping lately. It’s more a way to avoid reality than to get rest. I woke up late today from the nap and therefore I have to take a shortcut to get to work on time. I’m halfway through a back alley when I catch a movement in my peripheral. I flip my head around just in time to catch a fist slamming into my jaw. I’m then assaulted by a boy’s thoughts. He’s scared and his hand instantly sears from his own assault. I stumble back into a brick wall just as two other boys grab my wrists and pin me to the wall, one on either side of me. They’re street hoodlums who are stealing money to buy booze. They’re bullies hyped up on testosterone and hot egos. I know more about either boy holding my wrist than they’ve dared to share with each other. And I know they’re mostly harmless. They’re not murderers. Just common criminals.

I pull my face up and stare at the boy in front of me. He’s still cradling his hand. “Damn, you got a hard face,” he says with a sneer.

“And you’ve got a weak punch,” I say.

He then lunges forward and throws a punch into my ribs. I double over as much as I can with the two pricks holding me against the wall.

“You watch your mouth,” the boy says, jumping up on his toes, feeling victorious assaulting a pinned man.

I raise myself upright, but remain still otherwise.

“The wanker isn’t even fighting us,” the boy holding my right wrist says.

He’s right. It must strike them oddly, as it does me. The urge to use mind control on these gits is incredibly persuasive. I could get into the heads of these buffoons and make them fight each other to the death, but that would feed the monster. I think he’s almost starved to death and there’s no way I want to bring him back. And really, what does it matter? These prats aren’t really going to hurt me. They’re just kids who are hyped up on power. I’ve been there. Trey would say this is my karma. Why run from it when it follows me around?

“The wanker is probably scared shitless,” the other boy holding me says.

I close my eyes and resign to this godforsaken moment. When I open them it’s because I feel hands reaching into my jean pockets.

“Take my wallet but watch my balls, would you?” I say to the boy in front of me.

“Sorry, but I can’t resist, pops,” he says and knees me in the groin hard. Then his friends release me and they dart away as I double over in pain and frustration.

The little run-in with the bloody buggers in the alleyway cost me more than just a tenner, which is all I had in my wallet. I’m going to be six minutes late to work. I turn the corner to the station and realize I should have been paying better notice to my surroundings. My aching balls happened to be soaking up my full attention. But now I realize there’s a great commotion at the station entrance. I blink rapidly and notice there’s smoke pouring through the crowd.

Smoke? Why is there smoke coming up from the Underground entrance?

Then a rush of panicked people brush past me. Some screaming. Some crying. All of them delirious. And one touches me.

There’s been another bomb. Group X has struck again, I hear the person think.

I walk almost in a daze as too many thoughts compete for real estate in my head at once. A deafening number of sirens ring through the air. The authorities move in, pushing the crowd of overly emotional people back. I flash my Underground staff badge to civilians and bobbies, and it actually gives me clearance to keep moving through the growing crowd. I haven’t awoken from my shock, but I’m starting to gain a clear stream of thoughts as I push forward.

“The bomb went off just a few minutes ago,” I hear a woman say to a paramedic. I don’t look at her, but hone in on her testimony as I move forward, getting closer to the entrance. “It rocked the ground up here like a small earthquake. People were shouting and yelling down below.”

I move until I can’t make out the woman’s voice anymore. And then my ears pick up on another conversation. “They’re saying there are people stuck down there. The ceiling crashed in. Apparently the bomb went off just beside the ticketing office.”

I actually whip around at this and the woman who was speaking looks at me oddly.

Ticketing office? The booth where I work? Where I was supposed to be?

Something is needling my mind, like it’s trying to get my attention in this disastrous moment. Possessed by a weird force, I turn my gaze away and keep moving closer to the Underground entrance. Compelled. Magnetized. Something keeps pulling me to the wreckage, although there’s nothing but devastation there. Maybe I’m compelled by the strange idea that three teenage punks are responsible for saving my life. I was supposed to be down there.

Almost all realities state that I was supposed to be one of Group X’s victims, except the reality that I’m living. And still my mind keeps hitting a brick wall. Why? Why was I late when I’m never late? Why on this day? What is going on in this strange life of mine? Everything seems to have such odd timing lately and I’m not sure why. Why do I keep getting pushed into near collisions with Dahlia? Or joined up with a person like Jane? Or why am I stalled on a day when I would have been at the epicenter of an explosion? I’m supposed to have free choice and the ability to live my life the way I want to now, but strangely I don’t feel like I do. Increasingly I feel like a pawn.

The paramedics are starting to carry people out of the Underground entrance now. Most victims have on oxygen masks or have bloody gashes in their heads or are laid out on stretchers. I stop moving forward and assist a bobby who is trying to move the crowd back. There are so many people being brought up to the surface all at once.

A herd of frantic victims swarms to the surface and behind them more and more. The tube would have been packed with people. It’s rush hour. My mind has a hard time assembling the idea of a bomb going off on the platform during rush hour. It would have been bloody chaos. A blood bath. Metal and concrete and bodies all fighting for a space when the detonation happened. My stomach curdles with revulsion. And yet, I all but signed the papers on this kind of thing happening by not taking the job to stop it. What am I so angry about? I don’t have any right to be repulsed by this. I knew this kind of thing was going to happen and yet I’m shocked by the aftermath of the tragedy unfolding around me.

Just then a dead man’s body is brought up, carried between two other men. Their faces are flushed and sweaty when they lay the man down at a paramedic’s feet.

“There’s a hundred more like him,” one says to the medic.

I narrow my eyes at the man, like he’s done something wrong by surviving a catastrophe and stating a fact about what remains.

I knew more people were going to die from Group X’s acts. I surrendered to it. And I’d seen the reports about the attacks in the news. But seeing the reports and watching the outcome are two different things. And knowing I was six minutes away from being blown to bits makes a new reality sink in. I’ve only ever cared about myself. Ever. And to know that the acts of a group I could have stopped almost killed me hits a tender place not protected by armor. I could have died. I was supposed to. And it would have been my fault. It would have been justified.

More bodies are being pulled up the stairs. Dead bodies. Women. Children. Men. Old. Young. Some half breathing. Some being rushed for care. Some already with masks on. Some burned. Some looking past the verge of shock. And then a man carries a limp figure in his arms. He lays her with the bodies. The ones that no longer breathe. The ones that are meant to be catalogued and sent to the morgue. But I recognize this one. And I know I’m not mistaken. She would have been on her way home from the pub. She’d been stopping by my booth every day this week. Her shift over, mine beginning. There next to another dozen dead bodies lies Jane’s.

I almost kick out. Kick out at the crowd in front of me. Kick out like I’m having a tantrum. Jane is dead. I know it by looking at her. I know it by where they’ve sorted her body. To the pile that doesn’t need immediate attention. And yet, I want to rush to her. Check her pulse myself. Slap her cheek and tell her to quit trying to get attention. But I don’t. I stand frozen. A stupid witness to this tragedy. I was supposed to be there. Actually, I would have been so completely blown to shit that there wouldn’t be a body. And yet, here I stand, watching.

What does it even mean that the female version of me, who has lived my parallel life, is dead by an act I could have stopped? What am I missing? I throw my head up to the sky and look at the gray clouds with conviction. What do you fucking want from me? I ask God.

More smoke spills from the tunnel and a horde of people rush out of it.

“There’s about to be another explosion,” a guy yells, running up from the stairs. “A generator is about to blow.”

We part, making way for the paramedics and other people trying to get out of the Underground. Everything is chaos. Too much commotion and too much going on. And then there’s a small quake and a gust of hot wind rushes out of the entrance. It’s followed by people and smoke and debris. My eyes burn from the smoke and the dust. I move to make way for the shift of disoriented people and then I realize something is stuck to my foot. It’s nothing. Just rubbish, but I bend over and pull it off anyway. My heart skips into my stomach when I pull off a shred of the half-seared poster of Dahlia. It’s only a piece of her face, charred and burned at the edges, but I recognize her features. I’d recognize them anywhere. It must have been blown up from the Underground. And it somehow found its way under my foot.

Again I’m feeling like a pawn in God’s war, but I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m a monster who’s trying to rid the world of me by living simply. And yet I’ve felt more pushed and directed in the last few weeks than at any other time in my life. It’s like as soon as I came up from under the surface of the water, from the Institute, God started trying to direct my path. Doesn’t he understand that I can’t live a life as a Dream Traveler? That I can’t use my skills? That I can’t have Dahlia? All of that is too much for me. It’s enough to break me and make me break the world. I’m too powerful to be what I am. I need to be fucking left alone.

A man sprints up from the Underground, tears streaming from his face. Another rush of people hurry up from the Underground. This time a woman is half carrying a man who hardly has his feet under him. They collapse at the top. “David,” she shrieks, when the man topples over. She’s on top of him at once. “Wake up. Wake up,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, someone help him! Please!” she says, her voice trembling. Help rushes over, but they soon shake their head and retreat to other cases that can be saved. The woman crumples onto the man, the one she clearly loves and has lost.

Everything in front of me seems to be playing out with a strange reverence to it. I want to look away and yet I feel like there are so many hidden meanings to this all. I hate hidden meanings though. But I stay glued here. Watching.

“What kind of monster does this sort of thing?” I hear a woman say behind me.

“I don’t know,” her companion says, “but it’s going to take an act of God to save us from it.”

A breeze with too much force to be classified as such then rips down the street. I take this as my cue and allow it to push me out of the crowd and down the street. I walk a great distance before I’m away from crying people and sirens and dying victims. Every single event I just witnessed plays across my mind, every single detail as it actually was, thanks to my photographic memory. The crowds of people. Jane’s body. Dahlia’s half-burned poster. The dead man and the grieving woman.

Today I was supposed to die. Just like when I was born. And yet, I’ve lived both times. I could have been Jane. I was supposed to die, just as she had today. Our lives did follow a symmetry. And now all I can think about is how I left Dahlia all those years ago thinking I’d outlive her, and yet I’m not guaranteed one hundred years, it’s just the odds. And today the odds weren’t in Jane’s favor. People die. Old. Young. Middling. Dream Traveler. I can die too. But I was so afraid to live without Dahlia. Afraid I’d outlive her. However, since I left Oregon I’ve been too afraid to live at all. Hell, even when I was confined at the Institute I lived a quiet military-style life. All regimen. No pleasure.

And I didn’t want to help Trey because I thought it didn’t matter but if I did then Jane wouldn’t be dead. I can’t save the world but I can save people who matter to other people. Maybe if the Lucidites would have been formed a long time ago then they would have seen Jimmy’s accident and saved him. What I didn’t realize before is that it’s not about the whole, it’s about the individual.

Lately I’ve felt that God was trying to push me. And it’s angered me because I resented him for ever allowing me to live. I resented him for giving me too much power. For most of my life I’ve hated God for putting a monster inside me. But is it possible that I’ve viewed my life all wrong? I thought I was a mistake created by God, but maybe the reason I didn’t die at birth or today is because I was made as an instrument to be used by God. He is clearly trying to get his handle on me, like a critical tool necessary for an important project. The signs have been everywhere. So much so, I thought at times I could hear God screaming.

I stop walking and stare up. “All right, what do you want from me, big guy?” I say, appearing to talk to myself.

For the second time today, something sticks to the bottom of my shoe. There is much debris from the explosion, even down a block where I stand. I kneel over and peel a small scrap of paper from the bottom of my loafer. It’s a fortune from a Chinese cookie. It reads:

“You cannot run from who you are.”

“How did the Chinese score the job as your fucking messenger, God?” I say to the sky.

How long had I been running? I ran away from Peavey. I ran away from Dahlia. I ran away from my enemies. From my problems. I ran away from my work at the Institute. And now I was running away from my powers. I had seen a reason each time for running, but what would my life look like if I took everything I ran from and threw it all together? What if for the first time ever I decompartmentalized my life? A fear so real it prickles the back of my throat soars through me. I’d be forced to really live without walls. I’d be forced to live on an edge where things might actually be good and every day I’d risk having it ripped away. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is fleeting. And yet, that’s the very reason that life has meaning. When things cost effort to gain and are finite they are of value.

I cast a glance at the scene at my back. There are more people now. Swarms of frantic people. Screaming mothers who have just realized they’ve lost their children. Crying children who have lost their parents. Grieving people who have watched a stranger pass away in their arms. Life is fleeting, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth preserving.

I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial Trey. He picks up after one ring.

“Ren?” he says, concern heavy in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Send me all the information on Antonio. I’m going after the fucker.”

“You’ve changed your mind?” Trey asks in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Why? I thought you didn’t want to use your powers anymore.”

“Antonio is a monster and the only thing that will bring him down is another monster,” I say, and for the first time in all my life I feel a strange pride in who I am. I feel accepting of my powers and how very flawed they make me.

“Good,” Trey says with relief. “Thank you. Just this last assignment and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Don’t leave me alone,” I say. “It’s not what I need. I want to be a full-time agent. But I’m going to need something to help me keep my life in perspective first. I need something to give me balance.”

“Oh, well, I’ll help if I can,” Trey says.

“You can’t, but I know who can,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, after the job is done. I’ve got to go now.” I shut off the phone and head to my flat.

Chapter Thirty-One

I change into one of my old suits. As I suspected it fits perfectly. I then dream travel to Los Angeles and generate my body. Everything I do now is centered on the hopes that Dahlia still lives in her old house. It’s nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains. I helped her pick it out. If she doesn’t live there then I’m going to have to wait until God puts her in front of me somehow.

I’ve tried not to love her all these years. I abandoned Dahlia because I was afraid to lose her. And in actuality I love her more now than ever. All I did was kill her prematurely in my heart and life. At least my parents had fifty years. But I pushed her out of my life because I was a coward. I kept thinking I’d find a Dream Traveler who was better than her. Someone who could withstand the long lifespan with me. But I was wrong. Because a long lifetime with someone else was nothing compared to the few short years I could have had with Dahlia. And now I’ve wasted them. I might have lost them all by this point. God keeps trying to throw Dahlia in front of me. Well, it’s time I take matters into my own hands before we rush into one another thereby knocking each other out.

The taxi lets me off at a windy road. Her monstrosity of a mansion is gated and guarded heavily. This kind of security has kept Dahlia safe from crazy fans, but it can’t keep me out. I could have probably had the guard at the gate call her and she might have let me in; instead I make him pass out. He withstood my hypnosis for fifteen seconds before collapsing in his guard seat. I encounter six more guards and I don’t even break a sweat getting past them. A portrait of Dahlia with her parents that hangs over the mantel informs me that this is in fact still her residence. And the number of guards stationed throughout the property confirms that she is home. I sense she is home actually. I feel like I’m still connected to her. I hope I am.

I take down the last guard by her private wing and he falls with a thud on the polished marble. I probably could have caught him, but I didn’t want to wrinkle my suit. He actually looked like he recognized me, which was relieving. I’m more nervous than if I was facing Chase or Allouette when I walk up to the double doors where I know Dahlia resides. I don’t knock, but a half a minute later she pulls them back. Did she sense me here? Her face morphs into something priceless. She can’t believe I’m here. If I’m reading this right, then she’s ecstatic about it and never ever going to admit it. And Dahlia is somehow more gorgeous than she was almost two decades ago. She’s soft and angular and also hard with her pensive stare. She’s wearing silk pajamas and I can’t fight what they’re smoothness stirs in me. I can’t fight what her long flowing brown hair does to my resolve. I’m tired of fighting what Dahlia does to me.

After sizing me up for a full minute, she says, “I have enough security to keep out the Queen of England. How did you get in here?”

“Well, I’m not the queen, now am I?” I say with a smug grin. My heart is palpitating, much like it used to when I first met Dahlia. It hasn’t done that since. Actually, my heart has only worked to pump blood through my body all these years. That’s it. No emotions. No longing. No feelings of desire…until now.

Dahlia angles her head around me at the guard lying on the ground. “Is he okay?” she says, sounding mostly amused and not that concerned.

“He’s going to awake with a bloody awful headache and be at loss for the events leading up to his passing out. But he’s going to be fine,” I say.

“How long will he be out?” she asks, and I can tell she’s stalling this conversation. She doesn’t know why I’m here and hopefully she doesn’t want me to leave. I don’t want to, not now that I’m here and made up my mind. I don’t ever want to leave her, not ever.

“Oh, a solid hour or two. Maybe longer depending on his IQ, which I’m suspecting is low. Are all your dogs still dumb as rocks?” I ask.

“They may be dumb dogs, but they’re loyal and that’s what counts,” Dahlia says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. God, she is somehow more beautiful. How is that possible? She was enchanting when we met, but now she holds a maturity that captivates me in a new way. I, Ren Lewis, feel like I’m being hypnotized for the first time by staring at this woman, who is roaming her eyes over me.

“Loyalty is indeed important,” I finally say, knowing that the remark was meant to stab at me.

“You know nothing of loyalty,” she says through tight lips.

“I didn’t know how to be loyal when you knew me, dear Dahlia,” I say, hoping she’ll feel my earnestness. “But I do know loyalty now that I’ve grown up.” I think of my commitment to the Institute. How it’s what has taught me about real dedication. Who would have thought my would-be enemy, Trey Underwood, would have been my greatest teacher. I thought that day eighteen years ago he was going to kill me. I think that day he actually saved my life.

“Ren, it’s been almost twenty years. I looked for you,” she says, a desperate tone lacing her voice. “I hired men to find you. I didn’t give up for almost ten years. I searched and searched tirelessly. Where have you been?” She looks too defeated after this confession. I drained her energy by leaving. Another person might have plummeted after what I did, but Dahlia searched and also kept her stardom. She is more a marvel to me than ever.

“Would you believe me if I told you I became a monk?” I say, a cheeky grin on my face. I’ve had a hard time hiding it all this while as I stared at Dahlia.

“No, I wouldn’t believe that. You detest organized religion,” she says boldly.

“Well, I didn’t become a monk but I have been punishing myself.”

“For how long?” she asks.

“For almost eighteen years.”

“For what you did to me?”

I nod. “As well as other things.”

“And have you atoned for these sins?” she says, her voice not quite sensitive, but rather challenging.

“No, not yet.”

“Is that why you’re here?” And only Dahlia would dare to ask such a gamble of a question, knowing the odds of disappointment are so high.

I blow out a breath and consider answering her. Instead I say, “I lied to you.”

She pauses and regards me sideways. “How many times?” she says, sizing me up.

“Only the once,” I say.

“Which was…?”

“When I said I didn’t love you back then,” I say, each of my words carefully constructed. “The truth is, I did. And I do. I always have. I never stopped. I couldn’t make myself stop loving you, although I tried.”

Her face doesn’t shift at all. Instead of answering me, she inspects my features. I almost feel her eyes crawling over my face, but I don’t feel invaded. At all. It’s been too long since I felt her eyes on me, gracing me with her appreciating gaze. I realize now that when I sent Dahlia away, I banished myself to hell, but any other reality was a suffering after knowing what kind of effect she has on me. After a long minute filled with my thoughts and her lingering gazes she says, “You haven’t aged enough in all these years.”

“Nor you,” I say simply.

“It’s a perk of being rich, you know.”

“I wouldn’t actually.”

“You’re not rich anymore?” she says, not disappointed, but rather curious.

“No, I’m hardly Ren anymore.”

“Come here,” she says and motions me forward. I step so only two feet separate us. Dahlia takes her time regarding me, but I don’t grow impatient of looking at her, at her looking back at me. And then I spy her hand rise in the air. I could have moved away from it, but I never want to move away from her again. Even if every movement is a punishment from her, I’ll take it. She strikes me hard across the cheek with a fast and deliberate force. Her hand claps against my skin. That one sound sends the last eighteen years reverberating through my bones. I whip my head to the side from the assault. A stingy sensation wraps around my cheek, making it burn with heat. I clap a hand there before I bring my eyes up to meet Dahlia’s seething stare.

“I deserved that,” I say.

“And more,” she says, her eyes burning with a pain I know I caused and can’t ignore.

“Should I chain myself up so you can whip and torture me then?” I say.

“Oh, you’d probably enjoy that.”

“Probably,” I say, rubbing my still burning cheek.

“So why did you finally show up after all these years?” Dahlia asks. “Why are you finally confessing what I’ve always known, that you love me?”

I bring my eyes up to meet Dahlia’s. Her gaze has always done something to me. I thought maybe now I’d be immune to it, but there’s something there that unwraps me. She takes the monster out of me. Cages it, so I can breathe properly. “Because I’m tired of fighting it. I’m tired of pretending that not loving you is better than loving you and losing you.”

“That’s why you spent almost twenty years away? Because you were afraid to love me? I knew it,” she says, turning her gaze away, looking angry.

“In the beginning I was afraid and then things got complicated and I couldn’t get back to you even if I wanted to,” I say and pause, gauging her reaction. “I got in trouble and I had to hide.”

She doesn’t give anything away. God, I love this woman. Dahlia remains stone when others would crumble. She regards me with exactly what I deserve. Nothing at all. And I know it’s an act, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s so good at it that I’m impressed by her.

“I also had a service to pay to a friend and that deterred me,” I say. “Before a year ago I wasn’t really available.”

“You have friends now?” she asks in surprise.

“Just the one,” I say, a lump blistering my throat as Jane pops into my mind.

“Did you marry?”

“Never,” I say, like the idea is preposterous, because it is.

“Were you with someone all this time?”

“Hardly anyone,” I answer honestly. “Just the devil.”

“Did you ever love anyone else?” Dahlia asks, her tone even.

“Not like you,” I say, not wanting to lie to her. The monster in me loved Allouette, and has been tortured by her ever since.

“And this service…?” Dahlia asks in a roundabout way. She’s on the hunt and her mission is clear.

“It was more like a military duty. I helped to rid the earth of evils that would wipe away the fabric of time,” I say dully.

“Oh, is that all you did?” she says, a small smile gracing her lips.

“I read a few good books.”

“So, you haven’t been running scams all this time? Fooling innocent Middlings?” she says, her tone disbelieving.

“No, Dahlia. I haven’t. If you can believe it, I actually became a good guy,” I say, my voice honest, like I’ve never heard it. There’s no snark. No ego to it. “I won’t tell you where I’ve been because all that matters is that I’m here now.”

Dahlia has to realize that I know her life just as everyone does. It’s no mystery. Not like mine. She isn’t going to explain her affairs over the last eighteen years and I won’t question her about them.

“And what happens now that you’re here?” she says, looking at me like she knows how to break me in two and is just waiting to do it. I almost run right then, but decide against it.

Finally, I bolster the strength to say, “I ask you a question.”

“And I answer it?” she says so plainly. Everything is perfect about this woman. Everything. And I never wanted to believe it. But if eighteen years apart hasn’t shattered the illusion, then what will? I can create illusions, but I can’t create an illusion as perfect as Dahlia. She is flawless. Utterly and completely perfect.

“Right,” I say with a nod.

“And then what?”

“And then we decide,” I say, like it’s the obvious answer in this complex equation.

“That sounds ridiculously simple.”

“Life is simple, Dahlia. It’s blokes with too much power who make it complicated,” I say.

“That makes sense,” she says, nodding casually. “Well then, go ahead and ask your question.”

I bring my chin up but look down at her. “Dahlia, do you still love me?” I say and it takes every fiber of my being to force those words out. I’m not a strong man. I’m one granted powers I shouldn’t have. And to ask this question takes everything inside me, but I’m glad I spent that energy, no matter what she says, because then at least I’ll know.

She blinks in surprise at the strange question after a lifetime apart. Then she holds out her hand. “It depends,” she says, her hand hanging in front of us.

“On what?”

“I want to know if I’m still the only one who you have zero control over,” she says.

“That’s how you’ll know if you still love me?” I say, offense creeping into my voice.

“No,” she says, sounding insulted as well. “Of course I love you. I can stop that as easily as I can stop breathing. I just want to know if it’s safe to actually love you. That’s why I want to know if I’m still the only one who you can’t control.”

“Well, I’ve never met anyone since, but maybe now things have changed. I am stronger and you’re an older Middling woman. My powers were always strong on them.” I say.

Her eyes narrow in mock disdain. “Take my hand, Ren,” she says, flicking her still outstretched hand at me. “Tell me if you hear my thoughts.”

I eye the dainty hand, hanging gracefully in the air in front of me. Finally I reach out and take it like I did over eighteen years ago on the night we met. My mind is assaulted by a rush of thoughts but they are all mine. The way her skin feels against mine. Her warmth. The shock she still sends through me overwhelms every single thought. And still not a single one of her thoughts graces my mind. I drop her hand and it floats to her side as her eager eyes stare back at me.

“There’s nothing,” I finally say. “My telepathy doesn’t work on you. And I’m certain I still can’t control you with my mind or hypnosis.”

Dahlia steps forward and blinks at me. She has no idea that her proximity unlaces the parts of me I’ve trapped. The way she moves tears at my resolve. “Then Ren, I think you need to finally allow yourself to admit that I’m one of the few people who absolutely love you for who you are and not because you manipulate me to do so.”

“You really still love me after everything I did to you?” I say, needing to ask the question. Needing to hear the answer.

She takes another step forward, and my heart actually feels like it falls out of the coffin where I buried it. It beats in my chest, unobstructed for the first time in almost two decades. “Of course I do,” she says. “As I told you before, I would never love another like you. I knew it was true then, and it’s always been true. I love you, Ren Lewis. You’re the only man I could ever tolerate. You’re the love of my life. I’ve just been disappointed you’ve missed out on a greater portion of it.”

“I’m here now. And I’d like a second chance,” I say and lean down. A startled breath escapes her. “Are you going to slap me again?” I say with a wry smile.

“Yes, but not on your face,” she says and I pull her into me, my lips instant magnets to hers. Eighteen years to not feel an attraction like this hasn’t been torture. It’s been purgatory. But in Dahlia’s arms I’m reborn. In her arms I’m not Ren, the powerful man with the skills of a god. I’m a normal man. I’m what I’ve always wanted to be. And finally I feel like I deserve this destiny.

Epilogue

Two guards stand outside the compound in Argentina holding automatic rifles. There’s loads more on the inside. I know that because of Trey’s report and also because I surveyed the building while dream traveling. I’m in physical form now. That’s the only way to control minds in this realm, and I have a few minds I plan to take over. The guards stand like a wall in front of the warehouse entrance. They are incredibly vigilant, as I’m sure they’ve been commanded to be. That’s fine. I don’t plan on getting past them. From where I stand some twenty yards away I’m hidden behind an overturned car. It’s probably the result of a vigilante’s attempt to stop Group X. Bloody fools. They probably used force, attempting to break into the compound. Why break in when I can make Antonio come out and see me?

I’ve already taken out the four minions that were charged with retaliating if Antonio was apprehended. They won’t be doing that now. The only one who will suffer when Antonio is punished for his crimes is Antonio. These four men have had the orders from their guerrilla leader wiped clean from their heads. Suggestive memory loss is a helpful tool. I’ll be adding it to my regular arsenal, as well as a few other clever tricks I’ve yet to learn. Teleporting will definitely be one of them.

The entrance to the warehouse opens and a man I know to be Antonio marches out into the sunlight. There’s no one else accompanying him. Even from this distance I spy the dazed look on his face. He’s moving, driven by a force, but doesn’t understand why. I’ve pulled out all the stops for this one. It isn’t the strategy that Trey signed off on and he isn’t going to like it. Let him fire me. I’m not usually a vicious man, but Antonio decided to bomb the wrong Underground station. No one messes with my city and gets away with it.

Antonio has long black greasy hair and he works out way too much. He trudges past his guards and they gaze at him, not quite certain what they’re looking at. I have the guards and Antonio under my mind control. I’m at my capacity, manipulating the minds of three people at once, but I’m also heavily motivated. People can do anything when incentivized.

Antonio halts when he’s six feet away from the soldiers. I know that because I made him take exactly that many paces. His mind is strict and demented and not easy to control, but he’s still no match for me. Suddenly Antonio drops to both knees, putting his hands behind his head as he does. I blink back at the man who maybe can see me since I’m only partially obstructed behind the vehicle. In a week’s time, this man is responsible for the deaths of thousands. He’s a terrorist intent on creating chaos for the sole fact that he’s never known peace inside his own mind.

One guard raises his rifle and points it at Antonio’s oversized head. The lunatic stares in my direction. He has the eyes of an evil man, one without a conscience. I have seen those eyes many times in my life, and I have looked away from them too many times. I have ignored their evil or even flirted with it or pretended that that evil lived in me.

The guard releases the safety on his weapon. He holds it steady and centers on Antonio. I turn just before the shot is fired. Some people need to be ridded from this world, but I don’t want to have their deaths etched across my memory. With a steadying breath I return my gaze to the compound. The soldiers, as instructed, have dropped their weapons and are walking away. Who knows what they will do when I release them. Maybe they will forget that this happened. Maybe they will become productive members of society. My only concern is that I’ve done my job. Antonio lies on the ground, blood puddling out around him.

Although I know I undoubtedly have a conscience, I don’t feel bad for murdering Antonio. I was born a monster. And God created me to take down bad men.

I close my eyes and dream travel back to Los Angeles, where I will generate my body. Dahlia will be waking up soon. I want to be beside her when she opens her eyes. I want to be beside her every morning that she awakes.

Keep Reading for the Next Installment in the Ren Series!

Acknowledgements:

Thank you so much to all of my readers. I cannot do this without your support. I’ve had so many of you make preorders or have standing orders for paperbacks and I can’t even express how great that is. Being an author is the hardest profession I’ve ever had, but you all make it so much easier than it would be. Well, I wouldn’t last at all if there weren’t people who wanted to read my books, now would I?

Thank you to my beta readers. The list is long for this book, but each one of you made this book better. A colossal thank you to Heidi, Heidi, Kelly, Melinda, Colleen and Kim. Thanks to Kelly for recruiting more beta readers and for the idea to write this book in the first place. Thanks to Colleen for putting up with me. You have the hard job of reading the rawest manuscript and I’m sorry that I still refuse to use commas in first drafts…well not really, but I want to be sorry about it. Does that count? Thank you to Heidi for being such a wonderful supporter. I love you all. XOXOOX

Thank you to Katie for beta reading this book to check that my use of the British vernacular was correct. Being spot on was extremely important to me. As a native Texan, I could have bodged this whole thing up, but knowing and having a blighty like you to proof the book sure saved me from looking like a git. You’re the bee’s knees. Thanks for helping me not sound like a tosser when I really want to be regarded as wicked. Bob’s your uncle and other things that I didn’t get the chance to say in this book.

Thank you Christine LePorte, my editor. As I said to Colleen, sorry about the refusal to use commas. I do know what they are. As an English professor, I even know how to use them…kind of. I think it’s just better for everyone if you handle commas. Anyway, thanks for answering all my assorted questions. This book especially threw me for a loop. There was so many concerns, but you are my objective party and I really trust your judgment.

Thank you to Andrei Bat, my cover designer. This has been the most important cover we’ve done so far, because people have such a specific idea of what Ren looks like. And you nailed it. Forever and ever I will have those eyes burned into my memory. And you took my idea and really made it ten times better. Ren, my darling beautiful man, actually looks like a monster, while also being handsome. Thank you!

Thank you to Diane Holmes for being a super fan. The lovely support means to so much and I love hearing the connections you’ve made to my books. Also, another thank you to Alicia, Wendy, Maria, Sarah, Elizabeth, and a whole lot of other fans who make my job fun.

Thank you to ARC readers: Nicole, Nicole, Anna, Susie, Tiffany, Marie, Kariny, Christine, Chelsea, Lesley and Katy. Your early reviews really help. Not only that but I love having you all to share with.

Thank you to Dominic and Maja for running the fan group on Goodreads. A huge thank you for the fan art and the quizzes. They really mean so much to me and I love having a place to interact with readers. Thank you to everyone in the group. You all are the coolest. No seriously, like way cooler than other people not in the fan group. Hint hint to “other people.”

Thank you to Band of Dystopian Authors and Fans on Facebook for all the continuous support. I love you all and really love sharing my books and reading yours. Best Facebook group ever. Thank you to Katy for running the launch parties. I really look forward to those with each book and you do such a fantastic job! Thank you!

Thank you to the musical artist who inspired the sound track for this book. The first thank you goes to a band whose music I listened to a great deal while writing this book: Above and Beyond. Thank you to The Neighbourhood and Radiohead for offering the angst I needed. Thank you to Kari Kimmel, James Blunt and Snow Patrol for offering the love inspirations. And thank you to Stateless, Poe, and The Head and The Heart for helping me keep the tone riddled with a poetic darkness.

Thank you to my family and friends. You all continue to amaze me with your love and support. I’m not sure where I’d be without your encouragement.

Thank you to Luke, my husband, for believing in me. You’re actually the first person to know when my ranking changes on Amazon, because you’re watching it. I can’t imagine a more supportive husband. And after reading this book and realizing that for me channeling a perverted middle-aged man was actually super easy, you weren’t grossed out. Thank you for your love.

Thank you to my daughter. You keep me laughing and inspired with your wit and your imagination. The other day you said to me, “Ren is real, right, Mommy?” I didn’t know what else to say but, “I sure hope so.” You continue to amaze me with your passion for life and that infects me with new stories. Thank you, my muse.

Thank you to everyone reading my books!

Love,

Sarah

One-Twenty-Six Press.

Ren: God’s Little Monster

Sarah Noffke

Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Noffke

All rights reserved

Copyeditor: Christine LePorte

Cover Design: Andrei Bat

All rights reserved. This was self-published by Sarah Noffke under One-Twenty-Six Press. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are seeking permission send inquiry at http: www.sarahnoffke.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary: The unexpected can break a man. The unwanted can make him revolt. And both might just be his saving grace.

Published in the United States by One-Twenty-Six Press

ASN: B01DEB8TXG

To Heidi Hudson, for being a super fan and a wonderful supporter.

REN: GOD’S LITTLE MONSTER

Prologue

Nothing is more beautiful than human stupidity. It continues to spread although we erect millions of institutions that are meant to eradicate it. With all the thousands of years of scientific study foolishness is one of the few diseases that we can prevent and yet persist relentlessly. There’s no vaccine for stupidity. No drug to cure it and yet we know how to rid our world of it. How fucking beautiful. Few things on God’s green Earth have the tenacity of stupidity.

You want to know what else is beautiful? Volcanos. Tsunamis. Hurricanes. And guess what they do? They kill.

Chapter One

I probably wouldn’t have a job if it wasn’t for stupid people. They fill up my schedule with their erroneous decisions, which I have to fix or prevent. If it wasn’t for them I’d be sitting on the beaches of Maldives frying my freckled skin. I’d also be wasting money on five-star hotels with sheets they pretend to change and a wait staff which resents the patrons who fund their wage. Thank fucking God for stupid people. I hate vacations. And thanks to stupid people it doesn’t look like I’ll get a vacation in the next millennium.

I’ve been working as an agent for the Lucidites, intervening in hundreds of potential disastrous scenarios. Unfortunately for me, saving stupid people is effortless and growing quite boring. I get that since I’m the special race of Dream Traveler, it’s not likely I’ll ever find a real challenge saving my people, or the non-gifted race of Middlings. But hell, I’d settle for a slight high.

I stop in an empty corridor in the Underground. The slick glass surface covering the advertisement on the wall shows my image, made visible by the bright lights on the ceiling.

Why do I have to be so fucking hard to please? I think as I look at my image. I have Dahlia, the woman I’ve wanted all my life. And I have a job I can be proud of and still the monster in me isn’t happy. It’s relentless in its perpetual state of frustration. I blame stupid people for that though. I raise my hand and stroke my chin, which is freshly shaven. I miss the red goatee I’d adorned for the better part of a decade. However, when the lady you’re shagging tells you it has to go, it has to go. I miss facial hair a lot less than I’d miss Dahlia. In my reflection I catch the small smile I’ve released, albeit it’s laced with a cunning glint in my eyes. Not really a smile, but rather the rehearsed look I give myself. It’s how I tell myself I’m in charge and not the monster who lives within me. I tilt my head to the side to take in the angle of my chin, which I didn’t see for a long time thanks to that lovely goatee. My chin is pointy because apparently God was hoping it would complement my Dracula bicuspids and spiky red hair. I narrow my eyes at the image. Damn Dahlia is one lucky lady. And the Lucidites too.

I leave myself with a cold look before continuing my trek to the custodial closet. It’s locked, as it should be since most humans love to steal, even if it’s only cleaning chemicals meant to keep public places tidy. Humans aren’t just stupid, but greedy too. I slide the unlocking device out of the breast pocket of my forest green suit. The stupid piece of technology is about half the size of my palm and as promised it adheres to the outside of the lock when slid into place, like a robot finding a mate. Three seconds later the lock releases and I pull the door back, wishing I was stepping into this closet to disable a bomb. Hell, I’d settle for releasing a snotty teenager from the space. Instead I grab the plastic standup sign from the corner. Plastered across the front of the bright yellow sign are the words “Caution. Wet surface.”

This is not what will rescue the person that I came to save. It’s just a courtesy for the rest of the dumbasses who can’t use their eyes to see a slick surface. Trey’s orders. The Head Official for the Lucidites really cares about people. I absolutely don’t get him.

In the Charing Cross tube station I find the fine sheet of slippery liquid in the exact place where the news reporter said I would. What incompetent goon thought it was a great idea to leave mop water just outside the entrance to a tube? Stupid people seem to have jobs where they can do the most harm. I prop up the sign in the middle of the puddle, which indeed makes the concrete platform slippery. I note this when I step to my spot. My loafer hydroplanes but only briefly before I pause in my station.

The tube has just come to a halt, the doors about to bounce open. Overhead the recorded voice sings, “Mind the gap.” And then three people file through the door, all eyes darting to the plastic sign and then carefully stepping forward after that. The person I came to save can’t read that sign. Not anymore. I reach out my arm just as she steps forward. Her flat slips on the first step, but thanks to the position of my arm she grabs on to it. Her hands had begun to flail through the air, as they tend to do when one is about to fall, when her fingers found my support. The old woman’s other foot slips too, but she’s firmly grasped onto me. I lift her up, her crooked fingers now digging into me like her life is in my hands, and it is. I spy the fear in her eyes as I pull her up to a steady position. She has that look, the one of a person who is repeatedly on the verge of slipping. They keep finding their footing only to lose it again. I’m the only thing actually keeping her from landing her tailbone on the concrete, and she knows it.

“This way,” I say with zero inflection and pull her to the side where the platform is dry. The old woman is shaking when I finally note that she’s on steady feet. I yank my arm out of her tight grasp. Then I wipe my hands off on my trousers, although she didn’t touch me, only my arm dressed in a suit jacket. Thank god. I have no interest in hearing her thoughts.

The woman’s eyes, which have loose skin weighing them down, look up at me. “Sonny, I do believe you just saved me from breaking my hip.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” I say, not giving her another glance as I walk off. “Now go off and do something worth my efforts to save you,” I sing over my shoulder, aware she’s standing frozen, her chest still buzzing from the adrenaline of the near fall.

The news reporters saw a future where that woman fell, broke a hip, and withered away from the pain and then pneumonia. Worst of all she was an awful waste on our health care system. Not to mention the accident created quite the delay on the Underground. Now all these blokes hurrying past me will catch their train so they can sod off to their repugnant jobs. Kudos for me. I just saved an elderly Middling and a bunch of people from a minor inconvenience. Hurr-freaking-yah! Leave it to the Lucidites and their new incompetent Head Strategist to waste my God-given powers. I wasn’t even approved to use mind control on the old bag so she took a different exit out of the tube. Mind control is apparently “an invasion and should be reserved only for extreme circumstances,” Trey Underwood, the Lucidites Head Official, informed me. Sometimes I hate working for a goody-goody.

My mobile buzzes in my pocket. I retrieve it and check the screen. Oh good, another worthless assignment.

Chapter Two

My second assignment for the day involved stopping a distracted bloke in Chicago from stepping out in front of traffic. The news reporters saw that he was taken out by a bus that ran a red light. And like most apes these days, the guy’s eyes were glued to his mobile, which is why the git didn’t see the bus before it smashed his head in. Trey had recommended that I gain the guy’s attention by asking him a question, or if that didn’t work, grab him like I did the old woman. I decided to trip the guy when he was ten feet from the intersection. However, he was so obsessed with his wounded hands which were scuffed trying to soften his fall that he wasn’t paying attention. The chap was also so busy giving me nasty looks over his shoulder that he still ended up careening with the bus he was supposed to avoid. Some people can’t be saved.

“Ren, you tripped him?” Trey says, throwing down the report on his orderly desk. His voice is even although I sense the impatience in him. It’s the effect I continuously have on the usually Zen Trey Underwood. I switch my gaze to the Buddha statue that rests on his intricately carved desk. This furniture in his office has always looked out of place inside the stainless steel Institute which has motorized doors and enough technology to launch the Earth out of the Galaxy.

“You asked me to implement a stall technique,” I say, looking directly at Trey. He wears his hair similar to mine, but his is full of silver and some remaining blond, whereas I hardly have any gray. I can’t boast since I gave Trey most of those silver hairs.

“I said to get his attention, like strike up a conversation,” he says.

“Trey, you know I don’t do conversation. It’s in my contract.”

Trey rests both his hands on the table as he pulls in a breath. “Well, you failed that mission,” he says, shaking his head.

“Tell me, when the fuck did I become some traffic warden?” I say.

“Ren—” Trey says, his voice calm, probably in an effort to disarm me.

“No, in the last three months you’ve given me shit cases. Saving little girls from busting their knees and helping blokes to get jobs inside of private corporations. I get that you’ve employed a lemur in my old position but this is getting ridiculous,” I say, spit flicking out of my mouth from my growing temper.

John Something-or-Another was given my old position as the Head Strategist when I asked for a demotion. Now he decides how interventions happen when we receive the news reports from the clairvoyants. He uses the resources at his disposal to prevent accidents or major tragedies, or to create huge wins for all of humankind. The jobs are tiny, creating small ripples, and also huge, creating major tsunamis. The Head Strategist has to have a holistic view to be successful. However, Mr. What’s-His-Face is a fucking idiot. He thinks a shiny degree means he can give me orders which are wrong and a huge waste of my abilities. And he does all this while pushing up his glasses on the bony ridge of his nose and making snorting sounds. I quit taking orders from him on my second case. Now I receive my reports from his boss who is also my old friend, Trey Underwood. Well, my only friend really. I also listen to his recommendations on how to proceed, but I rarely take the advice. That was the agreement or otherwise I’d quit, and Trey was as likely to allow that as to give the Lucidite Institute back over to its original owners, the U.S. Government.

“Ren, you may not see this, but the people you help are important. The work you’re doing matters. The guy you helped get that position in that corporation was a better option than the reality foretold. He’s going to instigate change. And the people you save are cared about by others,” Trey says. I’ve heard this speech before. It’s past getting boring. Now it’s downright irritating. Yeah, yeah, people matter. I recently reluctantly admitted this when a bomb in the Underground blew up a bunch of people. One of them was my only other friend, Jane. God likes to take out friends of mine though. It’s a wonder Trey’s heart is still beating. And I do get what he’s going on about, that a person matters to another and that should be reason enough to save them. But I want to save a bloody lot of them, not just some old grandmum who is past her expiration date.

I impatiently tap my perfectly manicured nails on the surface of the desk. “I get that I didn’t handle the Group X case like you wanted, but enough is enough. Stop punishing me with lousy cases,” I finally say.

“Ren, you had Antonio’s soldiers shoot him in the head. That was directly against my orders,” Trey says and now his mouth is tight. He’s almost angry with me.

I shrug, like we’re discussing paint swatches. “You told me to stop him from another terrorist attack.”

“And I also said to bring Antonio in. We needed to question him. We needed to see why he had so many resources and so much power. Why he was bent on so much destruction. Now we won’t ever know,” Trey says and suddenly he sounds tired. The guy works nonstop and worries incessantly. It shows in the lines on his face. Maybe I should tell him.

I sigh. “I cut off the head to the beast. What else do you want?”

Trey shakes his head. “I want to understand. The news reporters can’t see everything. What if Antonio was part of something bigger?”

Antonio was a half man, half gorilla who ran a terrorist organization called Group X. Trey wants to understand the motivation behind a bunch of people who spread anarchy and hate, but that’s a worthless effort. Some people are just bent on destruction. And Antonio was better at it than most. His attacks overwhelmed the news reporters. Nothing else came in during the time that he reigned.

“Do you see mass bombings happening around the world, Trey? No? Are there sniper attacks going off in every major tourist attraction in the U.S.? No? Well, then I think I did my job. I got rid of the baddie. You’re fucking welcome,” I say, lacing my arms in front of my chest and sitting back casually. “Now take me off probation and give me a real case, one where I can use my damn abilities.”

Trey blinks at me slowly. He’s deliberating. Something shifts on his face but he knows I see it and that’s why he drops his eyes to the desk. “The Group X case isn’t why you’ve been getting level one assignments.”

I narrow my eyes at him, flare my nostrils. “What?” I say in one long growl.

“Ren, your physical exams have been showing a growing concern.”

Each month, everyone employed at the Institute goes through a quick exam. Blood is withdrawn. Vitals checked. I’ve been doing it for almost two decades. It’s never been a concern for me. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this?” I say, sitting forward.

“I figured I could make changes to your workload, and then along with your new relationship status, we’d see natural changes,” he says.

Yes, this is the “Trey Underwood” method. He employs a Head Strategist, but he’s really the wizard behind the curtain. I’ve always known he was “taking care” of all of us, ensuring we had what we needed to flourish and perform. “So you’ve been withholding important medical results from me?” I say.

“I’ve been keeping them, trying to help you plan a solution,” he says.

“I can’t find a fucking solution if I don’t know there’s a problem, Trey!” I yell, feeling my voice plug my throat, seeking to burst it.

“That’s just the reason I didn’t tell you about this. I knew you’d either be too flippant about it or too stressed. And I’ve been trying to naturally ease your tension, hence the reason for the level one assignments,” Trey says, looking suddenly more weighted.

I slam my hand on the desk and tap my fingers, but now with a menace behind the movement. Each tap is a part of a Morse code of threats and by the look Trey is giving my hand, he knows it. “Tell me what’s going on,” I say.

Trey holds up his palms in surrender, his eyes meeting mine. “Well, since the decreased workload and your social status haven’t fixed the problem, I’m obligated to share this now.”

I don’t respond with words, but rather just growl. He almost smiles.

“Ren, you have, and have had for a few months now, stage two hypertension.”

Air rushes out of me as I slap my hand against my knee and release a loud laugh. “Oh, you old son-of-a-bitch, I thought I had something serious.”

Trey blinks at me impassively. “Ren, that is serious. Did you hear me? You have stage two—”

“Yeah, I think I’ll add it to my resume. It makes me sound smarter. And I’ll be updating my nonexistent resume now, since I’m quitting. There’s no way I’m working for someone who withholds my medical information from me. I’m subtly referring to you, Trey…or would you rather I call you God?”

He tilts his head and gives me that “why can’t you ever be serious” look. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to create extra stress,” he begins. “Your medical tests had just come back with the spike in your blood pressure. I was going to make recommendations, but then Dahlia reentered your life and you took a job as an agent. I thought it would naturally take care of itself.”

“But it didn’t…” I say, tucking my chin and regarding him under my red eyebrows.

“No,” Trey says at once. “It’s gotten worse based on your last evaluation.” His eyes are on a folder, which no doubt has all of my exams in it since I started at the Lucidite Institute some nineteen years ago.

“So that’s the reason for the bullshit cases,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, piecing together why I’ve been dealing with pesky assignments for three months.

“Ren, this is a big deal. You’re strong as a Dream Traveler, but stress can kill anyone at any age. And you have to know that I can’t risk losing you,” Trey says, that always sincere look in his eyes. It’s quite endearing.

“Is this when you tell me you have a secret crush on me and you’ve sent an agent to take Dahlia out, so we can be together…finally?”

He blows out a breath. Another look that says, “for once be serious.”

“It’s not going to work between you and me. I’ve never liked blonds, you know,” I say, with a wicked smirk.

“This is when I tell you that you have to try some anger management, Ren,” Trey says, not giving me the scowl I deserve. Maybe if I make one more homosexual statement he’ll grimace a bit. “Your problem isn’t diet. Your tests prove that. It’s stress. You allow the world to get to you and it’s going to take a toll on your heart.”

“Can I really help it that the world is full of a bunch of wankers who have nothing better to do than intersect my path all bloody day long?” I say.

“Ren, how you respond to people will dictate your overall health,” he says.

“Oh dear God, are you asking me to be nice? Because we made a deal, all those years ago. You told me I didn’t have to be—”

“Ren…” Trey says, cutting me off. “I’m telling you that if you want anything more than a level one case then you better get yourself in check. I’m not signing off on anything until your blood pressure is normal.”

Even in this moment I can feel my blood pounding in my veins. It has been like this for months, waking me out of my dream travels. I thought it was all the sex, but apparently it’s all the incredibly stupid people, slowly giving me congestive heart failure. I’ve spent all these years saving the human race and this is the thanks I get.

“What I think you need is to employ a few strategies,” Trey continues. He’s in his element now. “Save some needy soul” mode, except I’ve never liked the idea of being saved. I’ve said that before, and it’s still true. “I’m confident if you try a few things it will have the right results,” he says.

“Which are?” I say, sensing this is going to involve some Zen bullshit.

“Well, medicine would be the first place to start. I should have had you on it when the problem first arose, but like I said, I was hoping it would go away naturally,” Trey says.

“Meds?” I say, rolling the word around on my tongue. I guess I could take a pill every day. Makes me feel old, but I am in my mid-forties, so maybe I am.

“Yes, and then may I also suggest you try yoga,” Trey says.

“And, Trey, may I suggest that you fuck yourself,” I say. “The only way I’m doing down dog is if I’m giving it to Dahlia.”

Trey actually rolls his eyes at this, but gives no other indication of frustration. “Well, if you won’t adopt a stress release technique then I’m going to order that you see the Institute’s therapist. I think that talking about your stresses would help.”

“A shrink?” I say. “You want me to spout my problems to some bloke with credentials? Are you insured against such things, because the last guy I saw in a therapy session is now in a padded cell.”

I can tell Trey wants to shake his head at me. Instead he says, “Dr. Raydon is one of the best. I trust he can help you find ways to combat your anger, which is what this is really about. You have an anger management problem.”

“Anger management problem?” I pull forward at lightning speed, slam my fist on the desk, and narrow my eyes at Trey. “Fuck you! My only problem is that I have nothing better to do than hang out in this hell hole with you.”

A smile cracks on Trey’s thin lips first. I’m grateful when it surfaces because I’m having trouble keeping my own smirk hidden. Trey then bursts into an easy laugh. He’s the only man besides my old buddy Jimmy who I ever laughed with. I still miss that bloody bastard every single day.

Chapter Three

My nostrils pinch when I enter the house. This is followed by three consecutive sneezes. Damn the stupid air fresheners in this place. On the way through the corridor to the study I sneeze five more times. The door squeaks when I open it to find the only piece of furniture in this mansion that doesn’t make me feel like a pretentious American.

“Come here, lovely,” I say to the worn plaid armchair. It doesn’t move so I walk until I’m close enough to throw myself down into it. This chair is the only thing Dahlia allowed me to move into her house. She said my stuff was too masculine. God-fucking-forbid I have manly tastes. At least I’m not allergic to my stuff. Her drapes and furniture are swathed in floral scents like she’s trying to convince herself she’s a pixie living in a bloody garden. She’s actually a pop star living in Santa Monica. I rub my hands over the frayed fabric on the arm of the chair. “You’re the only one who gets me,” I say to the furniture.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Dahlia says, leaning into the entryway. By the looks of the fitted coat she’s wearing she just got home too. I never know when to expect her. I guess I could ask but I like being surprised.

“I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to the chair,” I say, giving her a sly smile. She’s probably been working for twelve hours and still she looks fresh with her bright complexion and silky dark brown hair lying over one shoulder.

“Oh, well in that case, that’s not weird at all,” she says.

“Can we get that perfume out of the house?” I say, my eyes watering from a sneeze threatening to rip out of me again. I press it away and shake my head.

“No, we can’t. I told you, sneezing is good for you, Ren,” Dahlia says with an amused smile. “It keeps you humble.”

“Good thing you went into show business and not medical science,” I say. I’ve been living with Dahlia since that first night I came back to her after I abandoned her over eighteen years ago. Apparently I’m still in the dog house and that’s the reason she’s getting her way on every-bloody-thing.

“I’m starving. Follow me to the kitchen,” she says and then pivots at once and trots off.

I roll my eyes, but peel myself out of the chair and trudge after her. “Slaves held in work camps are starving. Crash victims who are stranded in deep snow are starving. I’m guessing you’re probably just slightly hungry. What’s it been, eight hours since you ate?”

“Nine,” Dahlia says as she pulls off her jacket and tosses it on a claw-footed chair in the corridor. She’s wearing that black dress. The one that’s too short, too tight, and too low cut.

“I thought I told you that wasn’t appropriate to wear outside the house,” I say, unable to keep the mischief out of my voice. “I’m pretty certain I forbade it.”

“And I believe I told you that you’re not my daddy,” Dahlia says and swings around, halting with her hands fixed on her narrow hips. She’s also suppressing a playful grin.

I don’t stop until I’m two inches from her and then I gaze down, giving her a chastising look. I don’t say a word. Dahlia is expecting a crafty retort, but I know what my eyes will do to her if I stay focused.

Right on schedule she softens a bit. Then Dahlia grabs my tie, tugging it slightly. “Oh, fine. If you think this dress is too provocative then I’ll save it just for you.”

I keep my eyes pinned down at her. Playfully she slaps me on the chest and pulls again at my tie, encouraging me down lower as she tucks her chin to the side. I allow it, not stopping until my lips are almost touching her cheek.

“I missed you, Ren,” Dahlia says, sliding her arms around my neck.

“I know, how could you not?” I say, kissing her jawline twice before finding her ear and gliding my nose across her lobe.

“Didn’t you miss me?” she says between indulgent breaths.

“Didn’t realize you were gone,” I say and run my mouth down her neck. Her perfume doesn’t make me sneeze. It does something else to me entirely. My hands are on Dahlia’s hips when she pushes me back, turns, and strides off for the kitchen, her steps a little impatient.

She pulls the double doors of the pantry back and stares into the massive closet with a curious look. “Are you hungry?” she says and disappears into the dark space. I wait until she resurfaces with a bag of pretzels.

“Not if you’re cooking,” I say, eyeing the bag like it’s rubbish.

When she opens the bag it makes a small “pop” sound. Then she sticks her nose into it, inhaling the smell of salt. “How was your day?” Dahlia says and pulls out a pretzel.

I yawn. “Fine. I saved an old bag from death, killed a guy who probably deserved it, oh, and I forgot to look at those samples you left out for me,” I say, in one long bored statement.

“What? Are you serious, Ren?” she says, dropping the pretzel back in the bag, a look of horror on her face.

“I know. I know. But you knew what kind of man I was when you took me in,” I say, ready for the explosion.

“A forgetful jerk who can’t do the simplest thing, that’s who you are,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I’ve been asking you to look at those flooring samples for a month. If you want a say in how this house looks then you’ve got to put in the effort.”

“I do want a say in how this monstrosity of a house looks. Like less flowers and paisley prints,” I say.

“No on that one. You were outvoted,” she says.

“It was only you and me voting,” I say.

She raises a challenging eyebrow at me. “But you get a say in flooring,” Dahlia says and pulls a pretzel out of the bag again.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention that the reason I’m getting shit cases is I have hypertension,” I say.

She now takes a bite, severing the pretzel in two. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Dahlia says dully. “But they just caught it, right? That’s good.”

I shake my head and step forward, pinning my elbows on the kitchen bar. “Stage two, actually,” I say and then sneeze again.

Dahlia pops the half eaten pretzel back in the bag and lays it on the counter. “Ren…” she says in that voice she likes to use.

I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe it across my face. “Trey thinks it’s caused by a poison in this house I’m being forced to breathe.”

Dahlia doesn’t glance at me as she retrieves a glass and then fills it at the sink. She doesn’t say a word until she’s taken a few sips and placed the glass back on the granite countertop. “This is serious, Ren.”

“Ohhhh, you too?” I say, shaking my head. “You and Trey should start a ‘serious’ club. You can sit around talking about morose subjects and being fretful about the long-term implications. Maybe you can braid each other’s hair too.”

“So what does he want you to do?”

“Take some meds, see a shrink, implement some stress management strategies.” I say all this in a flat monotone.

“Stress management? Like meditation?” she says.

“What kind of bloody hippie do you take me for? Hell no, not like meditation,” I say with offense. “Like sex, Dahlia.”

She cocks a single eyebrow at me. “Sex? Like more sex?”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “If that’s what it takes. I mean, you don’t want me to die.”

“Depends on the day,” she fires back immediately.

I push off the bar and walk over to her. “It’s the doctor’s orders. Not mine.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m going on tour in a week. So I can’t help you out then,” Dahlia says.

My mouth drops open. “What? What do you expect me to do then?”

She’s the one to shrug now. “Get some hookers. I’ll pay for them.”

“I don’t have to pay for sex. I can make just about anyone shag me. And you know I don’t want someone whose thoughts I can hear when I touch them. I only want you since you’re immune to my telepathy,” I say.

“Well, then go with me on tour,” Dahlia says.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Right, because being around an amphitheater full of stupid teenagers won’t give me more stress.”

“Well, those are your options,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Hookers or being a diva’s boy toy. I think I’d rather die,” I say.

“Then may I suggest that…” She drops her hand into my jacket pocket and pulls out the bottle of pills Trey gave me before I left the Institute. Dahlia holds them up and shakes them in front of my face. “You better start taking your medicine, old man.”

I snatch the pills from her. How did she know they were sitting in my pocket? “I’ll show you old man,” I say.

“I think you better. Might as well give you what I can before I’m gone,” Dahlia says and turns around so that her tight dress is pressed into my front. Grabbing her hips, I pull her more firmly into me, slightly dragging up the short dress as I do. She reaches over her shoulder and retrieves my tie, tugging me forward like a dog on a leash. “Come on, Ren Lewis. Let’s see about bringing down that blood pressure.”

Chapter Four

The new guy’s office door is open when I cruise down the hallway of the Lucidite Institute. The facility is underwater and only accessible by submarine or by dream traveling and generating one’s body using a machine called a GAD-C. As much as I loathe technology I hate pressure changes more, so I entered the Institute on the bed of a GAD-C. It’s one hell of a commute to work. Beats the Tube though.

I read the placard next to the new Head Strategist’s office, my old office. Dr. John Gibbons. I stroll straight into the tidy office and plop myself down in the cushy chair across from his desk. When it was my office this chair was a cold metal folding one. Not something that encouraged visitors to stay long. He looks up from the folder of information he’s studying as he simultaneously pushes his wire-rim glasses up on his crooked nose. He really should have had that fixed. Maybe I should tell him.

John makes a startled snorting sound. “H-h-hi, Ren,” he says, trying not to look nervous.

I cross my ankle over my knee and pin my hands behind my head and lean back. “So, Jake, I’m here to get a new case,” I say.

He coughs, and it’s all phlegmy. Overly so. “I thought you were getting your cases directly from Trey,” he says in his revolting nasally voice.

The guy has his polo shirt buttoned all the way and it hangs loose on his bony shoulders. He wears a wedding ring but I’m guessing they never consummated the marriage. This is not a guy who gets laid.

“Now that Trey has put me back on level five assignments, he says I can get them directly from you,” I say, not an ounce of stress or hesitation in my voice. I’m fairly certain I could beat a lie detector test.

What’s-His-Face looks down at the various folders lining his desk and then at me. His expression is full of reluctance.

“Don’t believe me?” I say, pulling my hands down and into my lap. “Go ask Trey for yourself.”

The buffoon nods, a look of relief filling his face from the permission I’ve just granted him. He reaches for the phone.

“Thing is, Trey hates the phone and prefers in-person interactions,” I say.

Jerk-face’s hand pauses on the phone resting on its cradle. “Trey doesn’t hate anything,” he says.

“Okay, I exaggerated. But seriously, you haven’t been around here long. Trey likes face-to-face conversations. For some insane reason he enjoys looking at people directly,” I say.

“And he signed off for you to have level five cases?”

The urge to just use mind control on this git and make him turn over a case to me is strong. However, it’s the one order Trey gave me all those years ago. No mind control on Lucidites. He probably would fire me for it. Damn self-righteous do-gooder.

I wave at the door. “Go on now. Go ask Mr. Institute.”

He stares at me and then at the door, then shakes his head like in a trance. “But why didn’t he tell me himself?”

“For the love of God, he’s got a bloody world to save. Do you think he has time to sit down and have one-on-ones with you?” I say.

The Head Strategist makes a sucking sound like drool is trying to escape his chapped lips. Then he wipes his slightly shaking hand across his mouth. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check with him.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. I’ll stay here. Go on,” I say and wave him to the door.

He stands with a jerk like I spooked him. His mauve shirt is tucked into his wrinkled khakis. If his inability to deal with his bodily fluids wasn’t disgusting enough, then his dress is about to make me gag. The wanker turns and scurries his skinny ass out of the office. I probably have less than a minute. I whip forward, shuffling through the files. They are color-coded. I don’t pause until I find the red files at the bottom of the stack. There are only two, but they are thick. I whip open one and scan the first page. Level five assignments are never easy and usually involve a lot of detail. Still, this one is extra confusing. They don’t have names for any of the parties. Only labels like Person E and Place 2307. I flip through the file. It all reads like that. How hadn’t the news reporters obtained more details during their sessions spying on the future? Or the investigative reporters should have dug up something. The information is worthless to me in this state.

I hear his squeaky white high tops before he materializes. Slowly I bring my eyes up until they are resting on John. He has his hands pinned up high on his waist, and lips pursed.

“Don’t do that,” I say. “It makes you look even more like a pathetic school girl.” I drop my eyes and flip a page in the file. More mysterious babble.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he says and marches over and dares to jerk the file out of my hand. Brave move for a guy who I could have wearing his underwear on his head and cawing like a crow, if I dared.

“I was looking for your stash of Cosmo magazines. I don’t think they were in that file,” I say.

He huffs. “You were trying to steal information on a level five case. Trey says you haven’t been given clearance.”

“Oh, he must have forgotten. That airhead,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand.

“Ren, you’re lying,” he says, scooping up all the cases on his desk while giving me an apprehensive look over his shoulder. With his arms full he takes them over to a file cabinet and quite clumsily attempts to pull open the top drawer, which is a few inches taller than him.

“Need a hand?” I say.

“Stay away,” he says, an edge of fear in his voice, like I’m about to steal his lunch money.

“Why aren’t any of the subjects or location names in those files? You only know about events, but not who they’re happening to or when or why?” I say.

He drops the files into the cabinet with great effort and struggles to shut it. With a protective glance at the cabinet he pulls the key out of the lock and sticks it in his pants pocket. I can read the hesitation in him. He’s been told to not give me any information. Damn Trey. He’s serious about me getting my blood pressure in check.

“You know, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over,” I say as I stand, extending a hand out to him. I’m at least a half a foot taller than the dweeb.

He eyes my hand and then me. “I’m not shaking your hand. I already know you have telepathy linked to touch.”

I blow out a breath and narrow my eyes at him. His rat brain is working though, I can tell as he takes his seat again. I stay standing. It’s more menacing that way.

“Okay, I’ve got a deal for you. I’ll tell you about the deciphering problem if you’ll do something for me,” he says.

“Look, Jeb, I don’t swing that way,” I say.

His eyes bulge with embarrassment and he shakes his head. “No! And me either,” he says, and his voice is high-pitched suddenly. A revolting sound, like the squeal of a bird at sunrise. “And my name is John.”

“Oh, right, sorry, Johnny. I’ll get it right from now on,” I say.

“Just John,” he says. “My sister is the only one who can call me Johnny.”

“Sure thing. Love getting the family history,” I say in a bored voice. “And this favor you want in exchange for information on the level five case? What is it?”

His skinny face flushes a shade pinker. “You’re going out with that pop star Dahlia, right? That’s what the people around here have said.”

Oh good. I’m a topic of gossip. I’m not surprised. People enjoy talking about others who are superior to them. “Look, Dahlia and I aren’t kids and we aren’t going out or going steady. The truth is, when I’m not wasting my time with stupid cases then I’m shagging her.”

And as I suspected he coughs on his saliva. It actually flies out of his mouth and splatters his desk.

“Easy now, John-John,” I say.

“Do you think… I mean is it possible?” he says. “Well, I was hoping—”

“Do you want to meet Dahlia?” I say in a tired voice.

He widens his eyes at me in horror. “Oh no. That would be too much. I don’t know what I’d say.”

“How about nice rack,” I say. “She loves that sort of thing.”

He shakes his head. “I just wanted an autograph.”

I give him a long look that I’m certain communicates how pathetic I think he is. After a long silence where he squirms several times I say, “Yeah, sure. Just tell me what’s going on with that level five case.”

His face brightens and he smiles, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Then he corrals his excitement and pulls himself tight against his desk, folding his hands in front of him. “There appears to be some sort of shield around these events although we sense a strong psychic energy. The news reporters find the events, as usual, but atypically they can’t read anything about the people involved or anything else. No names, descriptions, or locations. Not even a timeframe. We just know the events are of importance and that’s why we’re picking up on them,” he says, his voice about like I’d imagine an Italian Greyhound would sound if they could talk.

“And the investigative reporters?” I say.

“Nothing. There’s a barrier,” he says.

“Then how are we supposed to intervene on events that we can’t see completely?”

“Actually, I’m glad that you asked that question because that’s exactly my problem.”

“So you want me to swoop in here and fix your problems, do you?” I say.

“No, but if you have any ideas…” he says, a hopeful look in his glasses-magnified eyes.

“Not a one. Good thing I’m a rogue agent and these missions rest solely on your shoulders.” I then retrieve my mobile from my breast pocket and tap it twice. I hold it to my ear when it begins to ring. When Dahlia picks up I say, “Hello, luv. How are you?” I look up at the ceiling while I listen to her reply. “You’re right, I don’t really care,” I say. “I’m fine in case you’re wondering.” I listen some more. “Oh, you’re not. Well, whatever. Anyway, I have this incompetent and poor excuse for a human colleague,” I say and pause while Dahlia talks. “Yes, exactly. The new Head Strategist. Anyway, the poor chap has the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old and was hoping you’d sign a poster for him. Is that all right?” I wait for her response. I then nod and bring my eyes up to John, who is cowering like a sissy. “How do you want her to personalize it?” I say.

“Oh, ummm…” He clears his throat with a revolting sound. “How about, ‘To John with love, one of my most devoted fans. Love always and forever, Dahlia,” he says and for the first time ever he sounds rehearsed.

“You got that?” I say, although I’m sure she didn’t hear half of it. “Very good. Well, I’m going to ring off,” I say and listen some more. “Yes, of course you do. I’m amazing,” I say and disconnect the call. “Well, I’d stay and chat, but the smell in here is disgusting.” And then I turn and leave.

Chapter Five

Most people hate Mondays. Most people are idiots though. There’s something fresh about Monday. New week, no mistakes. Fresh ideas. I get Sunday is supposed to start a week, but no one buys that. It’s just a continuation of Saturday. It’s supposed to be the Lord’s Day, but if you’re agnostic then that just means it’s another day. And I work enough that all the days feel the same. But not Monday. What I like most about Monday is it’s the day when people are the slowest and therefore easiest. It’s also the only day when I know exactly what Dahlia’s doing.

Since Dahlia and I work odd schedules we’ve made the habit of having brunch every Monday at a café in Malibu. Most people are back to work and we usually have the hibiscus-lined patio all to ourselves. Her guards stand at each of the entrances, their eyes always scanning when we’re out in public, although Dahlia is mostly safe with me. I can disarm most anyone, but I do have a shortcoming. I can’t control a mob of teenagers. That’s what the guards are for.

Since I’m a creature of habit I prefer to frequent this café even though Dahlia would prefer we mix it up from time to time. Our waitress today, like all the rest in this joint, has long blonde hair and a perky smile. The owner is doing a poor job of hiding his obsession with short blondes.

The waitress looks directly at me, dutifully holding her order pad, pen tucked behind her ear. “Do you need menus?” she asks, and then switches her gaze to Dahlia.

“I’ll have my usual,” I say, not glancing at the girl.

“Actually, he’ll have oatmeal,” Dahlia says. “And yes, I’ll have my usual omelet.”

I gape at her across the table. “Excuse me. I’m not eating something that hardly qualifies as food.”

She looks at the waitress with pure confidence. “He’ll have oatmeal and I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Okey dokey,” the girl says, not having written down a word and pops off to the kitchen.

“Dahlia,” I say, my voice deep. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping you lower your blood pressure,” she says, not looking at all deterred. “Studies show that eating—”

“Don’t you spout some medical study at me, pop star,” I say, cutting her off and feeling heat rushing to my ears, probably making them red.

She wags a finger at me with a slight smile. “Now keep yourself in check. You know getting angry only makes the problem worse, Ren.”

“Then stop making me livid.” I’m about to say something insulting when a girl plops my tea down in front of me with a loud clunk. The lid on the pot slides to the side and the canister of sugars tumbles off the unsteady tray she’s holding. However, she manages to keep the tea cups from joining it on the ground. With the same ungraceful force, she drops the cups on the table in front of us. I narrow my eyes and raise them to find a girl with a red ponytail staring down at me. She’s wearing the long apron that all the waitresses in the café adorn, but I know better. I slide the tea cup out from in front of me. “You don’t work here,” I say.

“What?” the girl says, tossing the tray on the neighboring chair and retrieving the packets of sugar from the ground before dumping them on our table. “Of course I do. It’s my first day,” she says and I just then catch the British accent, although it’s slight.

“No, it’s not. It’s not your first day because you don’t work here,” I say, looking at Dahlia and then back to the girl, who has high cheekbones sprinkled with orangey freckles. “What do you want?” I say to her.

“To take your order,” she says, her face neutral, although I spy the micro expressions that tell me she’s lying.

I snap at Dahlia’s bodyguard to signal the intrusion. “You allowed an obnoxious fan to get through, you moron,” I say to him. He presses his fat finger to his earpiece and says something into it as he rushes over.

“I’m not a fan,” the girl says, looking offended. “I hate pop music.”

“Thanks,” Dahlia says, not looking insulted, but rather intrigued. She’s leaning back from the wrought iron table with her legs crossed and foot bouncing slightly.

The guard is at the girl’s shoulder at once. “Miss?” he says.

“I’m their waitress,” the girl says, looking at him briefly. He nods at once, believing her lie.

“The owner doesn’t employ anyone but blondes, little girl. Nice try, diva-stalker,” I say and then look at the meathead. “Get her out of here.”

The guard reaches for her arm, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t touch me,” she says, a strange conviction in her voice. One that’s a little too familiar.

And again the guard stops, looking confused, his flat nose wrinkling from his indecision. The girl turns to me, a piercing stare in her eyes. “I’m not here to see Dahlia. I’m here to see you.”

I raise an eyebrow at her and wait.

“Are you Ren Lewis?” she says.

“No, you’ve got the wrong guy,” I say and shake my head at her before looking at Dahlia, but still talking to the girl. “You may leave now.”

“But I just heard her call you Ren a minute ago,” she says, pointing to Dahlia.

Dahlia has a smirk on her face and her eyes on me.

“You were eavesdropping. Great waitressing,” I say.

“I’m not a waitress,” the imposter finally admits.

“No shit,” I say, whipping around to look up at the girl. “And my name isn’t Ren, it’s Reynold.” I give her a childish sneer.

She returns my look with an annoyed one. “Whatever, but you go by Ren.”

“If this is about a case I worked, then take up your complaint with my boss,” I say and pull my wallet from my inside breast pocket. From it I retrieve one of John Gibbons’ cards. I pinched a stack from his office. “I can add his mobile number to this if you like,” I say, holding out the card. “He prefers calls late. Really late.”

She doesn’t take the card. “Do you know a woman named Shannon Fields?”

I blink at her blankly. “Not ringing a bell.” It’s just then that I realize the patio is empty. Where’s the rest of the wait staff? The place is deserted.

I angle my head at the dumb guard, still standing at the girl’s shoulder. “Seriously, do your job and get her out of here.”

The girl holds up her hand and the guard freezes.

What in the hell is going on? I chance a glance at Dahlia, who gives me a curious look.

“Who is Shannon Fields?” she says, looking at the girl.

She doesn’t glance at Dahlia, but rather keeps her focus on me. “She’s my mum, and she says that Ren Lewis is my father.”

Chapter Six

Casually I turn to Dahlia and purse my lips. “Well, I can tell you who Shannon Fields is. She’s a bloody liar.”

Dahlia’s eyes are now scrutinizing, studying the features on the girl’s face. “I don’t know, Ren. She does look a lot like you.”

“What?” I say, refusing to look at the thing beside me that’s making outlandish accusations. “There’s like a million redheads. Is that what you’re basing this on?”

“My mum said you picked her up in a pub in London twenty years ago,” the atrocity says.

Again I don’t look at the girl. “I’ve picked up thousands of women in London. Tell her to join the fucking club.”

“Ren, this could be possible,” Dahlia says, her eyes still searching the girl. And to my horror she sounds half amused, half worried. Not sure which one I prefer.

“It isn’t possible. I was careful,” I say.

“Accidents happen,” Dahlia says, and now she looks curious.

“Whatever,” I say. Where is everyone? I wonder again. It’s still empty in the café. I crane my head around to look.

“I told the staff to leave us alone for an hour,” the girl says, sensing my question.

“You what?” I stand at once, making the girl back up from our table. “Come on, Dahlia. We’re leaving. This girl is obviously spouting bullshit to every redheaded man she sees so she can get money.”

Dahlia stands calmly and takes the arm I offer, her blue eyes still on the lying git.

The girl unties the apron, wads it up, and throws it to the ground. “No. I don’t want money,” the little beast says.

“Sure, sure. Maybe your trick will work on the next chap. Not me,” I say, sensing the other guard near us realizing we’re departing early. He puts a wall between us and the girl and the other guard takes the position in front of us. I lead Dahlia to the curbside entrance.

“Get out of my way,” I hear the girl say and to my surprise she’s right beside us again.

I wheel around to see the guard standing lamely by. What’s his bloody problem? Why is he not doing his job?

“I just need to talk to you,” the girl says at my side. “I’ve been in and out of mental institutions for the last several years. My mum won’t have anything to do with me. I’ve been classified as a schizophrenic and she says you might know something about this mental illness since she suspects I inherited it from you.”

I turn to the guard who stepped out of her way, the one at her back. “She just admitted to being crazy. Will you apprehend her so we can get out of here?” I consider using mind control on the girl to get her away from us, but I’m rather peeved that the guard isn’t doing his job. He should already have her detained in the back alley.

The fatheaded guard nods and takes two steps.

“Don’t touch me,” she says and again he halts, looking confused. “When people touch me I hear the voices.”

“You what?” I say with a snarl in my voice.

“I hear voices. And no one believes me, but I can make people do things. Like this guard,” she says, pointing over her shoulder at him. “And I sleepwalk at night messing with things. I have the strangest dreams.” Her voice sounds suddenly traumatized as she presses a hand to her forehead. “But no one believes me. They think I’m crazy. Do you have any idea what’s wrong with me, because I can’t take this anymore. That’s why I’m here. I need answers.”

None of this makes any sense, and yet there’s too much information that I can’t ignore. This could all be a trick, but there’s one surefire way to find out. I extend a hand to the girl. “Take my hand,” I say.

She eyes the hand I have extended and then me with a practiced skeptical look. “Why?”

“I’m trying to determine if there’s any legitimacy to your story,” I say.

Tentatively, she reaches out and lays her hand in my palm. It’s freckled on the top, like mine. I let her hand sit there for a long moment. Only a light touch. Her thoughts stream through my head at once. They involve a series of doubts and also one awfully nasty thought about my attitude toward her. I push this away and focus on having an exceptionally clear thought. Then I pull my hand away and wipe it on my trousers like I’d just touched a disgusting loo.

“What did you hear?” I say.

She drops her eyes to the ground. “I heard a voice…” The girl’s eyebrows seam together. “It was weird this time though. Weirder than usual.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

“It said, ‘All the oatmeal in the world should be fed to goats and then the pesky beasts catapulted off the fucking Earth.’”

No bloody way! I release a long growling sigh. I point to the limo parked by the curb. “Get in.”

“What? Why?” The little life-ruiner looks at the limo and then at me.

I stare around at the street, which is slowly filling with people. Damn Californians can’t be bothered to get out before late morning. They have to drink a protein shake, do their yoga, and watch a talk show.

“We aren’t discussing this here. Get in the car,” I say and stalk for the limo, as an overwhelming pressure erupts behind my eyes. My blood is beating so loud it drowns out the autos driving past.

“But I—”

I spin around, but don’t look at the girl in front of me. I can’t. I keep my gaze to the side. “If you want answers to your bloody questions then get in the car. Otherwise get out of my fucking sight.”

“Ren, is she—”

“Yes,” I say, cutting off Dahlia’s question. I don’t chance a glance at her, but instead turn to the car where the guard has the door open. I slide into the limo and take a seat on the far side, next to the minibar.

Chapter Seven

I detest alcohol. However, right now the monster in me is ripping at my insides, trying to take over my being. Poison seems like the only way to corral the beast. I pour a tiny bottle of gin into the tumbler and throw it back before the car pulls away from the curb. Dahlia stares at me, giving me a look that from my peripheral tells me I better not glance directly at her because she’s readying a volley of insults in my direction. However, I know her and know she’ll want eye contact to deliver the nasty remarks.

The girl sits on the other side of the limo, arms tightly crossed in front of her chest. “Where are you taking me?” she says.

Pulling out two more bottles from the bar, I ignore her. I screw off both the lids and pour them simultaneously into the glass.

“Ren, what are you doing?” Dahlia says.

“Processing,” I say, sliding the full tumbler to my lips and taking a sip which makes my tongue burn and then my stomach warm.

“Can all this be possible?” Dahlia says.

“I’m not ready to answer questions,” I say to the glass I’m holding just in front of my mouth, my elbow propped on the armrest beside me.

“You are my father,” the girl says, a cold hostility in her voice.

“Dahlia, will you tell it not to talk to me right now?” I take another sip, my head feeling like it’s shrinking in on itself. I wouldn’t be able to hypnotize anyone under this drug’s influence or use any of my other gifts, but the monster seems to have retreated slightly and for that I’m grateful.

“Oh really, Ren,” Dahlia says and I sense her reposition herself to face the girl on the other side of the car. “What’s your name?”

The girl remains quiet, not answering her question. I feel her stare on me. Finally she says, “Is he always like that?”

I take another sip which bubbles in my throat.

“No, usually he’s way more verbally abusive. I think we can thank the alcohol for his unusually quiet demeanor,” Dahlia says.

I swing my gaze out the window, not really seeing the terrain as we wind through the Santa Monica Mountains. Daughter? How do I have a daughter? She irrefutably looks like me with her orangey red hair and almost neon green eyes. That’s not what bothers me. It isn’t even that at first glance she reminded me of someone who I only now recognize is my mum. What infuriates me is that she appears to have inherited my gifts and that means she’s dangerous. How do I have a daughter?! I’ve been so careful, while also being promiscuous. Carefully promiscuous. Maybe that’s the thing, it’s an oxymoron. Wish I could tell twenty-something-year-old Ren that.

“Are you even listening to me?” I hear Dahlia say up close to my ear. I realize now my vision has tunneled. I blink back into focus and take a drink but only because I know I’ve been frozen for several minutes, only taking shallow breaths.

“No, I’m not,” I finally say, my eyes still directed out the window, my words slurring.

“Ren, what are you going to do?” Dahlia says.

“Right now I’m getting drunk. Not sure what happens after that. Only done this drinking thing twice before. The events are blurring,” I say.

Dahlia sighs loudly. “Are you really taking this girl to my house?”

“Adelaide,” the beast on the other side of the limo says.

From my peripheral I see Dahlia turn her head. “Pleased to meet you, Adelaide. And no offense but all this is rather sudden. Why are you so sure that Ren is your father?”

The girl gives a humorless laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Dahlia looks at me and then back at my spawn. “There’s a resemblance but—”

“My mother says that the year she had me she’d only ever been with one man, Ren Lewis. She was in pre-candidacy to be a nun.”

At once my arm is assaulted by a fist. “You screwed a nun?” Dahlia says.

“Oh, that Shannon Fields,” I mumble into my glass before taking another drink.

“Not a nun, pre-candidacy to be a nun. She was of course rejected by the church. How did you convince her to sleep with you?” the thing says in my direction.

“He’s extremely convincing when he wants to be,” Dahlia says and by her tone I consider opening the door and throwing myself out of the vehicle. If I hadn’t drunk so much I could dream travel to a GAD-C and generate my body. That would freak the girl out when my body disappeared in front of her eyes.

“Oh, like when I tell people to do something and for some insane reason they do it? Like the wait staff I told to stay in the kitchen until noon? Convincing like that?” the girl says.

I rock my forehead forward until it slams into the window. This can’t be happening.

“You can control people with your mind?” Dahlia says to Adelaide. Which is a mouthful of a name and should be changed to something I can say when I’m drunk. Twit. Pest. Fucker.

“That’s what I think it is,” she answers. “But other people think I’m crazy when I say that, hence the mental institutions. And things just happen around me. I tell someone to do something and they do. Then later I’m blamed for something ridiculous that happened, like when I told a customer at my last job that if he didn’t like his split pea soup he should just pour it on his fucking head. He did but then I was blamed for doing it. Apparently no one wants to believe that a bloke would do that to himself.”

I take a long drink. I’m pretty certain that if I drink this whole thing the girl in front of me will disappear. Or I’ll pass out. Either way.

“Anyway that’s one of the reasons I can’t ever keep a job,” Adelaide continues. “Well, and also because I hate people. They’re all bloody idiots.”

The glass I’m clutching is plucked from my hands. “Yep, she’s yours,” Dahlia says and throws back the rest of my drink. Like me, she doesn’t drink. Hates the poison. She extends her arm, knocking the glass into my chest. “Fill her up, Ren,” she says.

I take the tumbler and set it down on the bar just as the limo halts in front of the house.

“You live here?” Adelaide says, staring out the dark tinted window.

“He used to,” Dahlia answers.

Chapter Eight

“Please escort Ms. Fields into the house. Have her wait for us in the study, and ensure she’s comfortable,” Dahlia says to one of her guards when we exit the limo. She’s the perfect picture of poise.

“Is that code for ‘bury her in the cellar’?” Adelaide says, standing arms crisscrossed with a look on her face I know too well.

Dahlia quirks up the corners of her lips at the beast. “No, the code for that is ‘serve her the house specialty.’”

“I’ll remember that,” she says, flashing Dahlia a false smile before turning and marching off with the guards. I only really see fuzzy shapes move away. Being drunk before noon is a surefire method to screw up one’s life.

I finally turn and look at Dahlia for the first time since this catastrophic atrocity befell us. “So I don’t know about you, but I’m famished, luv. What do you say we pop over to one of those new spots you’ve been convincing me to try? Maybe that awfully pretentious place that’s always swarming with shabby chic dipshits down on Sunset,” I say, my words almost slurring.

Dahlia’s hands are pinned on her hips, her heel tapping the concrete. And a look I haven’t seen in eighteen years is plastered across her face. That’s the expression she gave me when I dumped her for no good reason all those years ago. “How do you plan to handle this?” she says.

“Do we really have a house specialty, because that would be my vote. I’m sure Adelaide won’t be missed by anyone by the sound of it,” I say.

“Ren, she’s your daughter.”

A gigantic shiver rips through my body. “Don’t say that.”

“What are you planning to do?” she says.

I pull out another mini bottle of gin I stashed in my pocket. I unscrew the lid. “I’m going to find out what she wants.”

“So, you’re actually going to be able to talk to this girl? Because earlier you appeared a bit incompetent at the task,” Dahlia says.

“I’ll be able to talk to her,” I say and throw my head back, filling my mouth with the repulsive alcohol.

***

Adelaide is sitting in my plaid armchair when I enter the study, Dahlia is behind me, and meathead number two behind her. I don’t know his name and don’t plan on learning it. Meathead number one stands in the corner, his eyes sparking to attention when we enter the room. I halt at the sight of the girl sitting casually in my chair. Her legs are propped on the arm on one side, her back leaning into the other. And in her lap she holds a small purse and is lacing her finger around the strap.

“Get out of that chair,” I say at once.

Unrushed, Adelaide brings her eyes up to meet mine. “Dahlia told me to make myself comfortable,” she says.

“Well, make yourself cozy somewhere else,” I say.

She motions to the leather couch and various straight-back chairs littering the room. “That other crap looks like it’s made to encourage people to stand.”

I growl in response.

“Get out of Ren’s chair before he throws an awful tantrum,” Dahlia says, casually strolling over and sitting on one of the other chairs.

Adelaide looks at me with an inquisitive stare. Then she mouths the words “Ren’s chair” as she pulls upright to a standing position.

“What do you want?” I ask, staring straight at her, the corner of my lip pulled up like a wolf’s.

“You know what’s wrong with me. I want you to explain it,” she says, tucking her chin into her chest, her hooded eyes staring at me with a strange menace.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I say. “You’re very powerful and completely incompetent at controlling that power.”

“Well, then that’s what I want. I want you to teach me. Explain why I can do these weird things and teach me how to control this,” she says, and although it’s a request, there’s a great deal of authority behind it.

I drop my eyes. Oh fuck, why doesn’t she just want money?

“I inherited this all from you, didn’t I?” she continues with the incessant questions.

I don’t answer. I’m forming my next question when the pain in the ass says, “And do you have the weird dreams too? The ones where no one can see you?”

I flick my eyes at Dahlia. Her stare seems to be encouraging me to talk. To explain.

Then big mouth says, “The other day I had a dream I painted a large mural on the side of the front of the Louvre. And the next morning—”

“That was you?!?” The words explode from my mouth.

“No!” she says at once. “I dreamed it. Like I was having a clairvoyant dream or something.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” I say. The news reports were baffled about the invisible figure who the cameras couldn’t catch. She’d apparently stolen paint from a nearby shop and then when the sun rose it showed her extensive mural covering the bottom half of the walls and columns of the museum. It actually wasn’t considered horrid artwork. They called it classy graffiti, which sounds like an oxymoron to me. I called it careless debauchery.

“What?” she says with a disbelieving laugh. “Of course it was a dream. I saw a vision of the future.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I say loudly. “You’re a Dream Traveler. Well, half anyway.”

“A what?” she says, sounding like I’ve just told her she was a different species.

“That was my reaction when he told me,” Dahlia says. “I asked him if he was on drugs.”

Adelaide looks at Dahlia briefly, irritation making her face pink. “Oh, would you shut up.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say and ball my fists on either side of me. “What you do in your dreams is real. Your consciousness goes to real places and does real things.”

“So I really did that?” she says, her voice turning to a hush.

“Yeah, you defaced a national treasure, you dumbass,” I say.

“Don’t call me that. This is your fault. If you’d been around then I would know who I am,” she says, her words growing rushed.

I sink my probe into her mind, as I do with most as I try and figure out the best way to control them and not be detected. It always gives me a snapshot of how their mind works. It’s abstract, but enough information most of the time. “I’ve been in hiding for almost two decades,” I say. “So excuse me for not being around to tell you to slit your throat before you created a huge problem. It’s never too late and that’s my advice. You’re dangerous and should just off yourself and save us all the trouble.”

“Ren,” Dahlia says, a warning in her voice.

“What?” I bark at her. “Is it my fault that this little monster is putting graffiti on the Louvre? I didn’t even know about her until today.”

“Well, you know now and I’m not offing myself as you’ve so kindly suggested,” Adelaide says. “But I do think I am a monster, especially now that you tell me I actually did that to the Louvre.” Then her eyes go cold. “If my dreams are real then that means…”

“What have you done?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says, her voice suddenly artificially high. “No murder or anything but…”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I say, stomping my foot. It’s only to keep me from throwing Dahlia’s gaudy collection of antique vases across the room.

“See, I need your help,” Adelaide says.

“Where are you living?” Dahlia asks, sounding calm which only makes the heat in me simmer.

“Nowhere, right now,” she says, her tone dropping. “I mean I had a room in London, but I left it. Sold everything I had to buy the plane ticket to come over here. I knew I had to find you,” Adelaide’s eyes are suddenly heavy as she looks at me. “But I’m not here asking for money. I’m asking for help. I can get money myself. I just tell people and they give it to me. However, I do usually get caught. I’ve been in jail more than a few times.”

“That’s because you’re sloppy and have no control. You can’t just tell people what to do. They’ll be suspicious when the mind controls wear off,” I say.

“Mind control…so I was right,” she says and doesn’t look especially happy about the idea. “That’s what I can do. I’m a Dream Traveler who has mind control…” she says almost to herself, as though trying to rapidly process.

“And you’re telepathic too,” Dahlia says, always willing to help the invader who is ruining my life.

“What? Why do you say that?” Adelaide says.

“Well, you read Ren’s thoughts at the café when you touched him, right?” Dahlia says.

“Those were your thoughts?” she says to me, looking surprised and then also amused. “What do you have against goats?”

“Besides the fact that they are irritating little shits?” I say.

“So I have telepathy?” Adelaide says.

“It’s linked to touch,” Dahlia says.

“Oh, then I’m not hearing voices?”

“Well, you are, but they are the thoughts of the person you’re touching,” she says.

“Badass,” Adelaide says, looking excited.

“Not so fast there,” I say, holding up a hand. “You’re a monster and your gifts aren’t something to be excited about. They aren’t gifts at all. Usually I think of myself as cursed.”

“These are the gifts you have too?” she says.

“Yes,” Dahlia answers for me. “But he has more skills. Ren is extremely powerful, however he’s right. You have a lot to learn.”

Adelaide then looks at me and her stare has an extremely persuasive quality to it. Not like Dahlia’s, which rattles me. It’s like this girl has just drilled down into my emotional center and dropped a bomb into it.

“Teach me. Please,” she says.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, pulling my eyes away as I swallow hard. The liquor is churning in my stomach now, threatening to erupt out of me. I turn to the guard closest to Adelaide. “Take her out of here. Let her roam the grounds or whatever, but keep an eye on her.”

He nods at once and marches forward. When he is in front of Adelaide he stops and looks at her. “This way, ma’am,” he says in his neutral voice.

“Go fuck yourself,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest and giving me a challenging look.

Before I can respond the guard turns and continues his trek to the door.

“Where are you going, Bobbie?” Dahlia says to the guard.

He halts and turns to her. “To do what she said, miss,” he says.

“Don’t, Bobbie,” I say, feeling the vein in my neck threatening to break the collar of my shirt. I stride over to Adelaide and stare down at her. She flinches from the threatening look I give her. “You will go with the guard. You will be watched. And you will not give any orders to anyone while I deliberate on what to do with you. Do I make myself clear?”

She narrows her eyes, the ones just like mine. Just like my mum’s. I want to rip them from her, but then that thought makes my stomach turn over. Adelaide stays silent.

“You may be powerful but compared to me you’re a fucking roly-poly,” I say. “I’ve studied your mind and if I so desired I could make you climb to the tower of this mansion and jump, so I suggest you do what I say.”

“Threats don’t work on me,” she says.

“I’m realizing that,” I retort.

She holds my gaze. “You wouldn’t really make me kill myself either.”

“No, but I’m considering hypnotizing you until you pass out. Ask the guards. These marble floors hurt like a bitch when you collapse,” I say.

Her eyes dart to the guard standing beside me. I’m guessing he nods because I notice the sudden tension in her throat as she swallows.

“Now, are you going to leave this study and follow my orders or not?” I say. “Because I don’t want to worry about you torturing Dahlia’s staff while I tear this room to pieces.”

She dutifully nods and turns for the door.

Chapter Nine

“You aren’t tearing the study to pieces,” Dahlia says at my back.

I turn after watching Adelaide leave the room. Deliberately I pivot to face Dahlia, who is standing now. She’s taken off the “cool” mask and is showing me her true face. Her pinched expression of anger makes her look more beautiful somehow, like a mermaid before it’s about to rip the throat out of a sailor. Her hands rest by her sides, her posture straight. I shiver from the calm ferocity spilling off her.

“No, I’m not tearing this room up until you leave,” I say and stand to the side waving an arm at the door.

Dahlia glides to the door, but doesn’t open it. Instead I hear the terrifying sound of the lock falling into place. She turns, her back to the door and her hands behind her. “Ren, for ten years I searched for you,” she begins in a low voice I can barely hear. I step forward, realizing that’s probably what she wants. The closer I am, the easier it will make it for her to scratch out my eyes. I pause three dangerous feet from Dahlia. “For over eighteen years I’ve missed you. And we’ve only been reunited for three months. It hasn’t been easy to allow you back into my life but it’s been worth it. I love you, you know that, but this…” And just then her voice cracks. She pulls in a breath and brings her arms to her sides. They are perfectly steady. “I don’t know how to assimilate this into our lives. Into mine.”

“Dahlia,” I say, finally realizing how fragile we are. Relationships have never been of interest to me. Destroying them is something I’m superb at. But preserving them now feels like a feat similar to erecting the Great Pyramid. “Dahlia,” I begin again. “I have to help Adelaide. She’s dangerous. If I don’t then she’s going to show up on all the Lucidites’ news reports. She’s going to—”

“I’m not arguing that you have to help her,” Dahlia cuts me off. “She needs to understand who she is and what she’s capable of. I’m just not sure I’m in a position, after everything you’ve put me through, to stand by while you foster your daughter’s gifts. It’s not how I pictured this reunion between you and me going,” she says.

“What?” I say, the air skipping out of my lungs like they’ve been punctured.

“It’s been hard enough to start again, to share my home with you, which I lived in for so long alone. And now what do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know, Dahlia,” I say, turning from her. Thrusting my hands into my hair.

“She needs to be with you.”

“I know!” I scream, my back still to her.

“But I don’t think she should be here.”

“Dahlia, no,” I say, not prepared for this misdirection. My head beats like a drum, the alcohol not numbing the torture erupting in my mind.

“You know she’s too much of a risk to my staff, to me. And you and I—”

“You’ll be on tour soon,” I say, turning to her, catching the regret in her eyes before she covers it up.

“Ren, this is my home. It’s been so hard to share it with you. And now you’re asking me to share you and my home.”

“I’m not asking anything. I haven’t even had a chance to think.”

“You’re a genius, Ren. Don’t pretend that you don’t know what you have to do. You’ve already dissected this situation, assessed your options, and decided on the best strategy which will benefit everyone. Do not pretend that this decision comes as a shock.”

I nod. I knew Adelaide wouldn’t be good in this place. Honestly, she would be best held at the Institute, but I’d be obligated to live there again. For eighteen years I willingly imprisoned myself in that sterile underwater facility. I can’t do it another time.

“I can make this work, Dahlia,” I say, ignoring my logical side. Dahlia is the only one who ever made me behave irrationally based on emotions. And yet I don’t care. I can’t lose her. Not again.

She stares at me and something shifts on her face. The hurt retreats and the anger flares. “Damn it, Ren, how could you have been so careless! We were just creating a life together.”

My nostrils flare at that phrase. I get that’s what we were doing but I’m still not comfortable with the idea of making a life with another person. Even Dahlia. “I obviously made a mistake. I didn’t know it at the time,” I say.

“Well, it wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t screwed half the population of London,” Dahlia says.

“Don’t give me that much credit. It was probably more like twenty-five percent.”

She just shakes her head. “And a girl studying to be a nun? Really, Ren?”

I shrug, remembering clearly the night I scammed the virgin who was working with her study group in that pub. It hadn’t been hard to lure her away from them, but convincing her to leave with me took a little more effort. “What can I say, I was looking for a challenge.”

“Damn it, Ren you should have had it snipped,” she says, pointing at my pants.

A scream akin to a noise a school girl would make falls out of my mouth. “Have you lost your mind, woman?”

“Oh really, you’re impossible. Why do I love you so much?” she says as she throws her hands in the air, real frustration in her voice.

“Dahlia, this is something unexpected, but I have to help Adelaide and I want you beside me.”

She lifts her blue eyes and studies me for several seconds. Then she shakes her head. “I can’t. I realize I’m not being fair but I need space to deal with this all.”

“You’re dumping me? Because I have a daughter?” I say.

“No, I’m saying we need to separate while you figure out your shit. As much as I care about you, I have to think about myself and what a distraction like this will do to my career,” Dahlia says.

“Right, so this is all about you preserving your bloody stardom and getting rest so you look fresh on stage for your fans,” I say.

“My fans and this career were there when you abandoned me!” she yells and the vein in her neck bulges to the surface. Never have I seen her this mad. And I know she has every right to be. We were good. As close to happy as I’ve ever been. And this, well, it’s too much to ask Dahlia to deal with. My reasonable side sees this. Sees that having to share my attention isn’t something she deserves. And in pure Dahlia form she’d rather have none of me if she can’t have all of me. I can’t argue with her. I would probably ask for the same space in her situation. But I’m not ready to be reasonable, so I say, “I came back. After everything I put you through, I came back.”

“Yeah, and now you’re back, but with a deranged daughter and a job that if you have it your way will become even more dangerous. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, but right now I’m not sure our lives are congruent. I am a Middling, and remember you said I would never understand your life and the things you’d have to do. Maybe you were right all along.”

“Don’t…” I say.

She holds up her hands, like she’s blocking me. “I already have, Ren. This is my decision.”

I swallow hard. Never would I beg, not even for Dahlia. “Fine, I’ll give you space. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” I speed by her, whipping the door open and not casting a look back as I stride away.

Chapter Ten

The benefit of working as a strategist for so long is I can cut off the emotions connected to a situation and make clear, unbiased decisions. Under stress I work best. Not like a soldier. They work based on protocol. I invent new solutions. Ones that will bring about new results. I’m a master at creating change. And that’s what has to happen right now if I’m going to fix this mess that is my life. I make three phone calls before seeking out Adelaide. I expected to find her having the kitchen staff making a bonfire and the landscapers roasting their hands over it. Imagine my surprise when the heathen is sitting unassumingly at the dining room table and sketching.

“What is she doing?” I say to the blockhead guard standing at her back.

He turns. “She’s drawing, sir.”

“Why?” I say, not looking at the girl who has turned around and is giving me an aggravated look.

“I’m not sure why, sir. She just asked if she could have some paper and pencils,” the gorilla says.

“She asked?” I say, my eyes now darting to her face.

“I even said please,” Adelaide says, batting her eyes at me.

“Whatever. You weren’t raised in a barn is all that proves,” I say.

“A tiny two-room flat, actually,” she says, turning back around to the table.

“But you didn’t have dirt floors, did you? Or drink out of a trough?”

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even appear to have heard me. Just turns back around. Then all I hear is the sound of a pencil sketching against paper.

“All right. Craft time is over. You’re leaving,” I say and turn and walk off, knowing what is about to come next.

“What?!” I hear Adelaide say behind me. Then the sound of her footsteps. “You’re sending me away? How can you do that? I need help.”

I halt and she notices a second late and stops a few paces in front of me. “And you’re getting it. It’s just you can’t stay here,” I say.

“Where am I supposed to go?” And now she sounds frantic, and the worry in her eyes is pure. She’s used to being alone, but not scared. And now she is both. Now that she realizes she’s not crazy, but actually powerful, she’s afraid. Generally people would rather be insane than talented, hence the reason that most choose drugs over greatness.

“You’re going to London,” I say.

Her eyes blink rapidly. This is a girl who has always been strong. I see that in her, but she’s close to crumbling now. We all have a breaking point. Well, not me. But everyone else.

“I just got off a plane from London though. Like, this morning,” she says.

“Well, then you’re going to have a bloody awful case of jet lag,” I say.

“You can’t abandon me,” Adelaide says.

I give her a long look. “Who says I was?”

She blanches with surprise. “But you said—”

“Why doesn’t anyone ever fucking listen? I said you were going back to London,” I say.

“So you’re not abandoning me?”

“Don’t say it like that,” I say with a grimace. “That makes us sound like we’re—”

“Family,” she says, drawing out the repugnant word.

“No, not family. Like we’re working together. And no, I’m not abandoning you,” I say.

“So you’re going to London too?” she says, an ounce of hope in her voice.

“I’ll meet you there. A car will pick you up at the airport and deliver you to my flat,” I say.

“So you’re not traveling with me? Why not? I thought you’d want to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t do something,” she says.

“I don’t fly commercial. Well, I don’t fly at all actually,” I say.

“Wait, how are you getting there? By boat? That will take forever.”

“Not by boat. I’ll be there way before you though,” I say.

“But how?” she asks, looking curious.

“Look, missy, you have a lot to learn but I’m not going to overwhelm your brain with it all at once. Here’s what you’re going to do if you want my help. You’re going to take the car out front to LAX. You’ll find a package with ticketing information and cash in the backseat. As difficult as this may be for you, you’re not to say more than one-word answers to anyone. You will make no requests or demands while traveling. And also you’ll find a bottle of pills in the package I’ve left for you. Those are barbiturates which will cause you to sleep, but make it impossible for you to dream travel and therefore threaten national security or whatever horrid things you’d unknowingly do while sleeping. Take those when you get on the plane. A car will be waiting for you when you land. Got it?” I say, my eyes sharp.

She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to laugh and tell her I’m just joking and go to hell. When I don’t she finally nods slowly.

“And you’re really going to be there when I get to London?” she says, her voice slow, careful, bordering on fragile.

“Yes,” I say, my voice bored.

“This isn’t a trap?” she says. And because I have studied the human condition for so long I spy a real fear in her; it’s one everyone has and there’s no cure for it. Fear of rejection.

“It’s not a trap,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “I’ll do everything you say. I promise.”

I don’t say a word or shift my expression. I simply point to the door where one of Dahlia’s guards stands ready to chauffeur Adelaide to the waiting car. She turns her head over her shoulder and then back to me. The girl, who is at least nineteen, appears so small all of a sudden.

She opens her mouth to say something but I turn and stride away at once.

“Don’t make me regret this, Adelaide,” I say over my shoulder.

Chapter Eleven

I lay myself out on the guest bed on the far side of the house. It’s not a bed I’ve ever slept in before but I’m not planning on sleeping. I just need a place to store my body until I generate it. Dahlia is probably in her gym on the elliptical. I know she didn’t want to push me away but too often we are forced to do things because people don’t make sense in our lives. It wasn’t a surprise to me that Dahlia was having growing worries about my job as an agent for the Lucidites. Working level five cases, I would never be able to guarantee my safety. But what’s the point in having gifts like mine and not using them to save the fucking world? Since we’ve been reunited I’ve spied that haunted expression in her eyes when I briefly mentioned the types of cases I used to advise on and now wanted to work on from the field. And I also knew that her reluctance to give me a say in the house was a result of not knowing how to allow me into her life.

Long ago, I almost broke her. She’s not wrong to be leery of my presence in her life, no matter how good we are together. It didn’t have to be an estranged daughter that put the wedge in between us. It could have been something much smaller, like a disagreement over vacation spots, or the fact that I refuse to travel with her to any vacation spot. Or the fact that I would never accompany her to any Hollywood function. But it was something more jarring that split us up. I can’t fight her on this. As much as I want to. As much as it’s actually scorching my lungs, creating a fire in my empty chest. I won’t fight this. What kind of dreamer had I been to think that God would allow me to be happy in this lifetime? I might be a good guy now, but it will take several lifetimes to absolve my sins. As I close my eyes I almost choke on the absurdity of it all. I thought I could go back. That I hadn’t gone too far. I am the man who Dahlia loves and can’t really have. I’m cursed.

My subconscious takes the direct order from my conscious and I’m at once clouded in the silver tube that transports me through space and time. The connection to all that I as a Dream Traveler have access to. I’ve taken these trips most of my life. The complexity of it all would humble most. For me, it demands a higher level of greatness. Whatever hot shot constructed a system where a special race of humans has access to something akin to ley lines through their consciousness, didn’t want me sitting on my ass and binge watching mindless shit on Netflix. That proverbial bloke hanging out on the clouds expected great things from me and the race he assigned me to. Our creator, whether still watching or long deserted, expected something from all of us. And yet we cling to our comforts and stupidity as though actually living our lives would kill us. Complete and utter rubbish.

My conscious form, my ethereal body, awakes on the GAD-C in London, which resembles an MRI machine. Habitually I complete the process for generating my body, which when it joins consciousness feels like I just shoved my fist up my nose. Still it’s better than traveling on a plane with cranky toddlers and a crowd of people who could learn superior hygiene techniques from a chimpanzee.

***

My flat has been cleaned and the kitchen stocked by the time I arrive. I requested that the services be done the very same hour I called. Money makes things happen. I happen to have a lot of it. I like making things happen. I also like having things done for me.

The flat looks bare without my armchair sitting in the corner. Feeling on the brink of sentimental feelings, I throw my fist through the closest wall. Plaster sprays out at me, sprinkling my face and dusting my suit jacket. Too acutely this pain radiating around my fist transports me back to my mum’s death so many years ago. This was how I dealt with that and is obviously my favorite reaction to loss. Working my hand back and forth, I pull it through the wall and stare at the organic hole in the light blue plaster. It looks horrid, and worse is that some sweaty repair guy, who can’t take his eyes off my high-end furnishings and rare artwork, is going to have to fix it. His repugnant smell probably will linger for a whole day.

***

The hole is repaired and I’m in a clean suit by the time the knock sounds at my door.

“Yeah,” I call from the sofa.

Again a knock. I sigh and slap the book in my lap shut. “Come in already.”

A pause precedes the door peeling open. Adelaide’s tentative expression is soon swept into one of relief. “I wasn’t sure if I had the right place,” she says, looking back at the numbers on my door and then me.

“Well, against every one of my hopes it appears you’ve made it. No plane crashes, motor accidents, or crazed killers stopped you? Maybe next time,” I say.

“Is that your way of welcoming me?” she says. That small bag she had earlier is slung over her shoulder. I’m guessing everything she owns is in there.

“Sure,” I say, propping my feet up on the coffee table.

“How did you get here before me? Did you take a jet?” Adelaide asks.

“Yes, and it was sprinkled in fairy dust,” I say.

She gives me a measured glare. One I recognize, and yet I don’t. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to start supplying me with answers. That is why I’m here.”

“I decide when you get answers,” I say. It’s still hard to look directly at her and realize who she really is. Half of my genetics. A heavy pressure pins my sternum down like it’s trying to nail it to my back. Not wanting to draw attention to the movement I slowly bring my hand to my chest and press. It does nothing to fix the uncomfortable sensation which isn’t quite pain. “So did you make the TSA stand on their head or get the pilot to sing ‘La Bamba’ for the first-class passengers?”

“‘Edelweiss’ actually,” she says.

“How very classy of you,” I say.

“And no, I was as boring as a house cat. I didn’t even tell the rich socialite beside me that her gay boyfriend was continuously checking out the male flight attendant,” she says.

“I’m sure your self-control is quite frayed at this point. Now you’re safe, away from irritating people, and don’t have to worry,” I say.

She lowers her chin and gives me a dark expression. “Yes, no one irritating in here.”

A knock at the door sends me upright.

“You know, I do have feelings,” I say as I stalk for the door.

“I actually didn’t know that. Personally, to me, you appear to be a soulless monster,” she says.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob and turn back to Adelaide. “And here I thought you’d misread me entirely.” I then whip open the door and take in the sight in front of me. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I’ve missed you,” I say, opening the door wide, making room for the delivery men to carry in my plaid armchair which is bathed in bubble wrap and making an awful squeaking sound as they carry it into my flat.

“What would it take to get that kind of welcome?” Adelaide says, watching the chair enter the flat.

“Put it over there,” I say to the men. Then I turn to Adelaide. “Be quiet. That would be a fantastic start.”

I sign the forms as efficiently as I can so there’s no reason for the pimply kids to loiter around my flat. I slap the pen back onto the clipboard and hand it to the first kid, who is watching the other peel the wrapping off my chair. “Leave,” I say.

“But sir, we’re supposed to—”

“Leave,” I say. “I pay your wages. Get out.”

The other boy by the chair stands at once, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls.

“Go on now,” I say, holding my arm out, directing them to the door. They leave without another word and only then do I bend down to pull the wrapping off the chair.

“You’re really rude to everyone, aren’t you?” Adelaide says at my back.

“I’m kind,” I say, my attention on pulling the stubborn wrapping off my chair. “I give direct orders so that defenseless Middlings know to get away from me before my restraints wear off and I wring their fat little necks.”

“What’s a Middling?” she says.

“Someone without powers. A non–Dream Traveler,” I say, clearing the covering from one side of the chair.

“Like my mum?” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“And why do you get to wring necks, but have ordered that I not talk to people?”

“Because…” I say, securing my fingers under a piece of plastic and tearing away a large section.

“Because why?” she presses.

“Because I’m not an ignorant little pest who has no idea the power she wields,” I say.

“Oh, I think you’re indirectly referring to me,” she says in an arrogant tone. “And it almost sounds like you gave me a compliment there.”

“Well, we will add to our list to have your ears checked,” I say, looking at her and then catching an almost amused smile on her face, which makes her slightly pointy nose somehow look more pronounced.

“What are you smiling about?” I say.

“You’re kind of fun, you know, like a snowball fight, chilly and piercing but still entertaining,” she says.

“I’m not fun at all. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you,” I say.

“I don’t know,” she sings, a teasing look on her face.

“Why are you acting all chipper?” I say, pulling up a bit of plastic.

“I had the best sleep. On those sleeping pills I didn’t have any strange dreams,” she says.

“They weren’t dreams,” I say with a grunt, pulling once at the plastic. “And those are habit forming, so you won’t be on them for long.”

“Aw, I think someone cares about my general well-being,” she says.

I jerk my head up to look at her, an expression of confusion on my face. “Who?” I say with a curious tone.

She just shakes her head at me and then looks back at the chair as I pull the final piece of wrapping off.

I throw myself down in the chair at once, running my hands back and forth on the arms. “Finally,” I say to the chair with affection. “There you are.”

“That’s the chair from that extravagant mansion, isn’t it?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, my attention mostly on the chair, inspecting it.

“Why is it here?” Adelaide says.

“Because I’m here.”

“But I thought you lived with Dahlia.”

“Well, now I live here,” I say.

“Oh,” she says and I look up to see her suck in a breath.

“Don’t ‘oh’ me,” I say, scowling at her.

“So Dahlia kicked you out because of me, didn’t she?”

“No,” I say, turning and regarding the wall with solemn hostility.

“Yes, she did. How could she do that?” she says, sounding offended.

“It’s not as simple as you think. Dahlia and I weren’t ever really together.”

“But she didn’t want me around, did she? That’s why we are here, isn’t it?” Adelaide says, her tone demanding. Why do the women in my life have to be so bold? Why can’t they be meek and subservient?

“Can you blame her?” I say and to my astonishment no pity springs to her face. Adelaide simply shrugs noncommittally. “And this is my residence. You’ll be safer here.”

For the first time since she walked in she looks around, her eyes growing lighter as she studies the space. “Well, it’s much better than that cavern full of polished surfaces where Dahlia lives,” she says.

I want to agree but instead point to the kitchen. “There’s food in the icebox. I expect you to eat that if you get hungry. No ordering takeout or popping off to the pub. We can’t have you creating catastrophes all over my neighborhood.”

She nods, staring out the darkening window. Autumn gray skies in the distance. “Yeah, and what a neighborhood you live in. Can you see Hyde Park from here?” she says, her eyes growing more curious as she studies the view.

“Probably,” I say, pretending I don’t know or care.

She studies the space. The books on the shelves. My high-end furnishings. The famous paintings lining the wall. “You’re rich,” she states. And the observation carries no pride to it. It’s just her stating a fact.

“Your room is through there,” I say, pointing to another door, ignoring her statement.

Adelaide approaches the door and looks back at me before opening it. She peeks her head through. When her head pops back she has a smile on her face but it drops when she takes in my stone expression. “It’s lovely. I didn’t take you as the type to have a guest quarters,” she says.

I turn my head to the bank of windows. “It was my friend’s quarters,” I say.

“Oh. Did he move out or is he on holiday?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” I say. “You didn’t kill him, well unless you control the fucking wind.”

With an uncertain glance at the room, she says. “I don’t mean to complain but—”

“Then don’t!”

“But you have me staying in a dead man’s room,” she says.

“He never had a chance to move in actually. So don’t worry about him haunting you,” I say.

“Oh, that’s bizarre. So why do you call it his room?”

“Because it was supposed to be his room,” I say, realizing she’s right and it is weird that I still think of that as Jimmy’s room.

“And when was that?”

I sigh, frustrated by these questions, but strangely willing to answer them. “I don’t know. Twenty-five years ago, maybe.”

“Wait, that’s extremely bizarre,” I say.

“It’s a fact. Not bizarre.”

“And no one has ever lived in that room?”

“Why would they?”

“If he never lived in that room then why do you say it was his?” Adelaide says.

“If you’re done then I have two more things to relay,” I say, pushing to a standing position and making for my bedroom at the back. “You should find everything you need in your room. Clothes, soap, et cetera. Which means—”

“You shopped for me?” she says, cutting me off.

“Of course I didn’t. I paid someone to do it,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, sounding slightly deflated.

“As I was saying, that means you have everything you need. You are not going to leave this flat until I return. If you sleep then take the pills,” I say.

“Where are you going?”

I turn and face her. “To work, naturally.”

She angles her head to try and see through my doorway. “What’s in there?”

“My bedroom,” I say plainly, knowing full well this makes zero sense to her.

“But you said you were going to work,” Adelaide says.

“Oh good, it listens,” I say.

She scowls at me and it makes me feel accomplished for my abrasive remarks.

“Well, what do you do?” she asks, sounding curious.

“I’m not authorized to say.”

“Oh, well who do you work for?”

“You haven’t heard of them,” I say.

“Is it like the CIA?”

“Heavens no. Who I work for sucks up no government resources and actually creates real changes in the world,” I say.

I try for my door again, but she interrupts me.

“Well, when are you going to come back?”

“When I do,” I say and shut the door behind me.

Chapter Twelve

John is hunched over his desk doing a crossword puzzle when I stroll into his office. I throw the rolled up poster on the desk and it collides with his hand, which is gripping the ballpoint like that’s going to actually help him figure out the complex riddle of why he’s such a loser.

“I see you’re wasting the time and money of the Institute. I’ll make sure Trey is made aware as well,” I say, clicking my tongue at him with disapproval.

“I-I-I’m just taking a tiny break,” he says, his voice high-pitched. Scared.

“That’s funny because when I ran this department there wasn’t time for breaks. But hey, if you’re cool with letting innocent people die so you can have some R and R, then so be it. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” I say.

“Well, I do have a lot of unassigned cases,” he says, his voice a rush of nervousness as his beady eyes dart to the stack of folders by his elbow. “But I can’t seem to figure out how I want to go about solving them. I thought a bit of a break would help.”

“Again where you and I are different,” I say with a disappointed sigh. “I never had any problem figuring out my cases.”

“W-w-what? You’re lying,” he says, but doesn’t seem to really believe it.

“It must be dreadful to have your low IQ. I think there are assistance programs you can apply for. They’ll help take care of you.”

His mouth pops open and when it does I spy a bit of white mucus around the edges. Before I have a chance to gag he says, “I’ll have you know I went to Yale. I graduated at the top of my class.”

“And while you were doing that I was scamming old ladies out of their money and shagging every girl in London. This just proves an education is no substitute for actual brains and skills. Sorry, Johnny boy,” I say, with a pleased smile.

“What is this?” he says, poking the rolled up poster with the end of his pen.

“That is me fulfilling my end of the bargain. I’m a lot of things. An anti-patriot. A gambler. An asshole. However, Ren Lewis is a man of his word. If I say I’ll do something, then I bloody do it.”

“So that’s the signed poster from Dahlia?” he says, a bit of glee in his tone.

“You gave me information and asked for that in return. There it is,” I say.

His excited hands, which are flaking with dry skin, reach for the poster. He looks ready to tear off the string secured around it with his yellowing teeth. Thankfully he refrains and pulls off the string, his fingers shaking.

“However…” I begin, drawing out the word. “Dahlia doesn’t take orders very well. She decided to embellish the personalization a bit. Divas do as they please.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” he says. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”

I in fact had Dahlia personalize the poster before I moved out. We might be broken up and she might be extremely livid with my new situation. However, Dahlia has priorities in life and they happen to be very close to mine. She hates most of the population, and people like John, although fans, matter little to her. This woman would rather have a little fun than preserve her relationship with a dumbass admirer.

John’s wide eyes center on the inscription at once. Then tiny lines form on the edges and deepen as first confusion and then heartbreak set in. I know the words he’s reading. I helped write them.

Dear John,

You’re a fucking moron. Don’t ever change. The world needs people like you, so that people like me can rule it.

All the best,

Dahlia

***

“Give me good news, Ren,” Trey says, his elbows pinned on the top of his desk, his blue-green eyes centered on me.

“I haven’t twisted the Head Strategist’s neck yet,” I say, an emphasis on the last word.

He sighs. “I was referring to—”

“I know what you were referring to. And there’s not really any change,” I say.

“Not really any change?” he says. “Like it’s only gone down a little?”

We’re talking about my blood pressure, which I had checked when I entered the Lucidite Institute an hour ago.

“Actually it’s a little higher,” I say.

Trey shakes his head. “Oh, Ren, this isn’t good.”

“I’ve had a stressful day,” I say in defense.

He tilts his head to the side, giving me that look he has practiced so often. That one that makes people open up, realizing he really cares.

“I got drunk,” I say. “That’s all. And that raises blood pressure. So there you go.”

“You did what?” Trey says, his eyes bulging with alarm. He’s shocked because I don’t drink. Ever. I hate the stuff. Hate that it kills brain cells. Hate the way people act when drunk, more ape-ish than usual. And hate that it dulls reality. I’m a master of strategy for a reason, because I’m alert. I see all. Observe every moment like my fucking life depends on it.

“Yeah, I told you I had a bad day. Dahlia and my brunch was interrupted, and her collection of Russian nesting eggs was destroyed, and one of her guards quit. It was all a bloody mess,” I say.

“So you got drunk because of that?” he asks.

“Heavens no. I’m responsible for most of that,” I say, pride in my tone.

“Wait, you destroyed her Russian nesting eggs? Why would you do that?”

“Well, because she dumped me,” I say simply.

“Oh,” he says, drawing out the word, like it’s finally dawned on him. “So that’s why you got drunk. Because she broke things off with you.”

“Gosh, you really are awful at this. No, I got drunk because I found out I have a daughter,” I say. “And Dahlia dumped me because she’s bitter that I accidentally bred. And the guard quit because he can’t hack all the name calling.”

And the face Trey gives me is why I like this guy. His expression doesn’t change. He just nods, as cool as ever. “Yes, now I understand completely,” he says.

“So a bit of a spike in blood pressure isn’t really that surprising,” I say.

“A daughter,” Trey says, stroking his chin.

“She has my Dream Traveler gifts. Most of them anyway.”

Trey flicks his heavy eyes to me. “Do you want to bring her in here for orientation?”

“I want to erase her memory and drop her on the side of the road,” I say, knowing the Institute could actually help me with that. They have technology, stuff that erases memories, destroys lives.

“Ren, I realize this is a lot to handle. And then losing Dahlia on top of that. These are major life changes. And I can help.”

I click my tongue and shake my head. “No, calculus is hard. Building a house is arduous. This is a fucking nightmare. But it’s my nightmare and I’m going to handle it.”

Trey regards me for a long moment, a great deal of concern in his expression.

Finally I say, “I’m going to train her. She’s going to stay with me in London.”

“Ren, dealing with your own child isn’t like dealing with other people. You’ve trained the agents in your department. You’ve trained the news reporters. Hell, your training has kept my children alive. However, this girl…”

“Adelaide,” I supply.

“Adelaide is probably angry that you haven’t been there. She’s going to challenge you in ways that others haven’t. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’ll find there’s a strong connection between you two. There’s no way to ignore that between a child and a father. And if she has your skills―”

“She’s my problem and she’s created a lot of other problems in her ignorance of who she is,” I say, cutting him off, tired of the bloody speech. “I’m not parading her around this place because she does have my gifts. You don’t want her running around here unchecked. And she needs to be contained, not inundated in a world as confusing as the Lucidite Institute,” I say.

“Ren, I know what it’s like to be in your position.”

“I know you do,” I say, my voice sharp. “And no offense but when you introduced your daughter to who she really was and the Lucidites, she threw a rotten fit. Roya spread a lot of negativity around this place and her main gift is she’s clairvoyant. My offspring will probably use mind control to make the staff in this place punch holes in the stainless steel walls until water pours in and drowns us all.”

Trey taps his palm on the surface of his desk several times as he considers this. “Okay, I can’t argue with that. Being submerged in this world was a bit of a shock on my kids. My daughter hated me for a long time.”

“Well, mine already does, but unfortunately not enough not to talk to me,” I say with a heavy sigh.

“Ren, I want you to talk to Dr. Raydon about this in your first session today.”

“I figured you’d say that,” I say. “I’ve been journaling about the experience extensively and plan to recite each rose-scented page to him verbatim.”

“Ren, as much as you’d like to think you don’t have feelings, I know that you do. And it’s this insistence on shoving them away that’s causing you these health problems.”

“Tell you what, Trey. I won’t push away the emotion I’m having right now. I’ll firmly embrace the loathing I feel for you. Happy?”

He ignores me. “Are you taking the medicine that was prescribed to you?”

“Like the good boy that I am,” I say.

“And also, like I suggested, are you meditating?”

“Yes, right now on how to kill you,” I say.

“Well, one out of two isn’t bad,” Trey says.

I rise from the chair, realizing my appointment with the shrink is soon and I’m never late, even to something I think is a waste of my time.

“Ren,” Trey says to my back when I exit. I turn my head in his direction, but stay facing toward the door. “Adelaide might actually be good for you.”

“She might also be the death of me,” I say and leave.

Chapter Thirteen

Adelaide sits in my chair, reading a book from my library collection, A Clockwork Orange. Her head flips up when I enter. Her red hair hangs down, in a way I haven’t seen on her before. She’s got a lot of it, and it’s not straight like my sister, Lyza’s. It’s loose curls like my mum’s.

“Hey, Pops,” she says, placing a colorful bookmark in the novel.

“Don’t call me that,” I say, pointing to her and then throwing my finger to the side to indicate she should move.

Instead she pulls her legs from the floor and crosses them tailor style. “Well, what do you want me to call you? Mr. Lewis? Deadbeat? Jerk-face?”

“How about Ren? That is my name,” I say, my eyes narrowed at the repugnant squatter.

“I thought your name was Reynold,” she says, sounding amused.

“That’s my pop’s name. I go by Ren.”

She tightens her mouth into a puckered expression and tilts her head to the side. “That’s right, I have grandparents. Are there aunts and uncles too? I’d want to meet them.”

“Look, Addy. This—”

“My name is Adelaide,” she says, cutting me off.

“Oh, I refuse to call you by that ridiculous name. Believe me, Addy is about the nicest thing I’ve decided to call you.”

“So you get to mandate what I call you, but ignore my preferences on the same matter?” she says, looking a bit smug, like she thinks she’s caught me in a loop hole.

I think for a moment, well pretend to. “Yes, that’s exactly right. And as I was saying, Addy, there isn’t going to be any family reunion. We aren’t all going to get together and join hands and sing kumbaya. You are here to learn who you are and how to suppress your powers so you’re not a nuisance to innocent people,” I say.

“Did your family disown you too?” she says, breaking my will to live with her dumb questions.

I let out a heavy sigh. “No. Would you get out of my chair? I don’t want to find your long, greasy hairs on it. You’re like a bloody sheep.”

She gathers up her hair in her hands and pulls it over one shoulder, combing her fingers through it, pulling the loose hair out. Then she drops them, maybe three strands. They float through the air until they disappear. No doubt tangling into the fabric of my chair.

I turn and march away. She’s looking for a reaction and I’m not going to give her one. I’m almost to the kitchen when she says, “Did you kill your parents? Is that why I can’t meet them? It kind of seems like something you might do.”

I swiftly turn back around. “My mum is in fact dead but I didn’t kill her. Fucking cancer killed her.”

“Oh, that’s horrible. I’m sorry,” she says, real remorse in her voice. “Cancer does suck.”

I nod in stern agreement. “My pops is still living. He’s a Dream Traveler. No cancer for him, thank-fucking-God.”

“Oh, so Dream Travelers are immune to cancer,” she says, sounding intrigued.

“We can’t get a lot of things,” I say simply.

Her eyes dance around with curiosity, but I don’t elaborate. Finally she says, “Your pops. Can I meet him? I never met my mum’s parents. They were dead by the time I came around.”

There’s a real interest in her eyes. A new spark. She may be cold and calloused like me, but she’s a girl and girls always are looking for connections. They need to feel that with other people. It’s what makes them not float off to the moon. However, men go to great lengths to keep connections mostly physical. Clinical. Not pure and real and therefore liable to chain us to the bloody earth for all of our lives.

I consider her for a long moment, in which she grows exponentially more fidgety. “I’ll think about introducing you to him if you get out of my bloody chair and never ever taint it with your dead skin cells again.”

“Promise?” she says, a glint of hope in her eyes.

Everything is about finding people’s motivators. I knew Adelaide wanted to learn who she is but now that I can dangle my pops over her head it’s even better.

“No, I don’t promise or pinky swear or do anything that gives you false hope. If you do what I say then if I feel like it I’ll do what it is that you want,” I say.

“Oh, well I’m sorry about your mum. That had to have been hard to lose her,” she says.

I narrow my eyes at her, a crafty retort in my mouth, but the look of loss on Adelaide’s face deflates me instantly. She lost her mum but not through death, rather because of who she is, a monster. Too acutely I relate, and that’s incredibly unacceptable. “When I get back you better be out of my bloody chair and take your greasy strands of hair with you,” I say, pointing to my armchair.

***

“Your biggest problem is that you aren’t acquainted with your power of mind control. It’s an energy inside you. Like electricity,” I say, standing firmly in the center of the den. I lean a little before deciding to begin pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. “Your energy is like a series of frayed wires with electricity shooting all over the place and not restricted by handy rubber coating.”

“Can you explain this without using metaphors?” Adelaide says from her position on the sofa, a blank pad of paper on her lap.

“No, I cannot,” I say simply. “The energy linked to your mind control has a switch on it. And if you first fix the frayed wires then you can figure out how to turn on and off the switch.”

“You are making me sound like a freaking motherboard,” she says.

I tilt my head to the side and push out my lips. “Good analogy. Exactly.”

She scowls.

“If you keep doing that with your face it’s going to stick like that,” I say.

“Is that what’s wrong with your face?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say with a snobbish tone.

She raises her eyebrows at me and nods slowly. “Yeah, right.”

“As I was saying. If you’re ever going to be allowed to leave this flat or socialize with another human being, then you have to learn to operate the switch. Currently yours is broken and everything you say to someone has the force of your mind control behind it. You must be exhausted by the end of the day,” I say.

“I am,” she agrees. “But I don’t really understand what you’re talking about. I don’t know how to become acquainted with this energy. This is all too abstract.”

I look down at her pad of paper. “What’s the difference between writing a letter and drawing a picture?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “It’s different skills, I guess. Writing is more controlled. Whereas drawing is fluid, a letting go. It’s a choice.” Each of her sentences grows more confident as the answer comes to her.

“And right now you are making the choice to let your power flow out of you. You’re drawing everything, but the things you say need to be written. How’s that? Does that make sense?” I say.

She stares down at the pencil in her hand and nods, a slight dawning growing on her face.

“Now stab yourself with that pencil,” I say calmly.

“What? No! Are you insane?” she says, revulsion written on her expression.

“Probably. Now draw a circle,” I say, pointing to the pad and putting a strong force behind the words, a solid intention.

Her eyes morph into a look of confusion and then awe as she takes the pencil to the pad and draws a perfect circle. Then Adelaide looks at me. “Wait. You made me do that,” she says, sounding half offended, half fascinated.

“Of course I did,” I say, my hands behind my back now.

“Even though I tried to resist I couldn’t,” she says in astonishment.

“That’s how it is with everyone you’ve told to do something since you came of dream travel age,” I say.

“They were forced….” Each word is drawn out as the realization hits her. “Even though they knew it wasn’t what they wanted to do, they had no choice but to follow my orders,” she says in disbelief.

“Exactly,” I say, firing a finger gun at her.

“So the first order you gave me, when you told me to stab myself, that was when your switch was off?” she says.

“Catching on now,” I say, rocking forward on my toes and then back again.

“But then you flipped the switch on the second order, didn’t you?” she says, her eyes looking without seeing as everything pieces together in her mind.

“And tomorrow I’ll teach you how to give orders so you’re not detected in someone’s mind. This will make it so people think what you told them to do is of their own free will. Although no one really has free will around me. Well, I’ve met one or two,” I say, thinking of Dahlia. It brings a subtle pressure to my chest. A sensation I’m not used to. I cover my sudden discomfort by strolling for my chair, which puts my back to Adelaide.

“So our lesson is over? What am I supposed to do now?” she says.

“You should play the quiet game,” I say, grabbing the file on the side table that I stole from John’s office.

Chapter Fourteen

“Don’t you have a telly?” Adelaide says. She’s been fidgeting for the better part of a half hour.

“You’re bloody awful at the quiet game,” I say, lowering the file and glaring at Adelaide. “You’ve lost like a dozen times.”

She throws herself back on the sofa. I’d go to my room to review the files I stole from the Institute but I prefer the light in the den for reading. This was never an issue before my spawn crawled out of the pits of hell.

“Errr,” she says with a growl. “Who doesn’t have a television?”

“Me,” I say simply. “Well, and the other one percent of the population who like to think for themselves and not pollute their brains with rubbish.”

“You can’t be serious. Are you hiding the telly in a bookcase or something?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, dropping the file in my lap. “There’s a secret latch somewhere in that case,” I say, pointing to the bookshelves lined with leather-bound classics. “I forget where it is. Check around and you’ll find it. I’m sure of it.”

She pulls off her arm draped across her forehead and glares at me. “I’m not falling for your stupid trick.”

I shrug. “Then have it your own way. No mind-stabbing TV for you.”

“And there isn’t one in your room, either,” she says, like this was part of the discussion.

“Excuse me,” I say, lifting the file and slapping it down on my lap.

She doesn’t look guilty. “I went in there while you were at work,” she says with air quotes. “Where were you? Did you go out the window? Is your other gift that you can fly?”

“Yes, I can fly and I can even become invisible,” I say.

“That’s impossible,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she completely believes her statement.

I then narrow my eyes at her, a heat burning in my stare. “And don’t ever go into my room. That’s my space. Well, this whole flat used to be my space until you decided to show up and throw a wrench into everything,” I say.

“You’re making it sound like I ruined your secretive and strange life,” Adelaide says.

I tilt my head at her and give her a long telling look.

“Errr,” she grunts again, balling up her fists and slamming then into the sofa.

I pick up the file I’ve tried reading over a dozen times.

“You don’t have to be so rude, you know. I didn’t ask to be born,” she says.

First, I pick a piece of lint off my trousers. Then I flick it in Adelaide’s direction. It doesn’t even come close to her, but that wasn’t the point. “I do, in fact, have to be rude. It’s hardwired into my DNA. And, on your second point, I didn’t ask for you to be born either. Wish I had been given a choice on the matter.”

“You can’t be serious?” she says, her voice low, hurt flaking it. “How can you be so heartless?”

“I’m obviously a genetic phenomenon. I operate perfectly fine without the pesky organ,” I say. Actually, I know from too many emotional tragedies that I in fact do have the organ beating in my chest. It just happens that I was born with a broken heart.

She stares around, exasperated. “Well, what do you expect me to do? You locked me in this flat and all I have are a bunch of books.”

“I know, I’m quite the villain. I gave you, a homeless and diabolical pain in the ass, a roof over your head, food, stuff,” I say, motioning to the room where the clothes and products I had bought were left. “And now I’m weighing down my schedule teaching you how to control your power. Call the authorities on me. I’m a bloody scoundrel who needs to be stopped.”

She pushes herself to a standing position, and immediately sets off stomping back and forth. “Well, what am I supposed to do all day long when you disappear?”

“Read a book,” I say simply.

“I have already read most of these,” she says, angling her head at the nearest case of books.

“There’s over a thousand volumes in this flat,” I say, throwing my arms at the bookshelves crammed with books. They are my most prized possessions. Most objects are a convenience or hold no real purpose for me. But books have meaning. They have depth. They are alive.

She shrugs and continues pacing. “I like to read. I do. But these are all classics. Catch-22, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Invisible Man. Really? Who hasn’t read these?”

“Most of the bloody population,” I say, impressed but unwilling to show it.

She strolls over to the shelf, her hands in her pockets, her eyes wondering. “And they’re first or early editions. All of these.”

I shrug, disinterested in this observation. Maybe she’s talked herself out now. Maybe she’ll give me some peace.

“You want to hear something funny?” Adelaide says.

Or maybe not. “If it starts with ‘there’s this YouTube video’ then I don’t care.” I then look up at her, mock sincerity written on my face. “Actually no matter what it is, I don’t bloody care.”

She throws me a seething glare over her shoulder before returning to studying the volumes in front of her. “How do you even know what YouTube is? Have you ever even been on the World Wide Web?”

“I don’t pollute my brain with trash but that doesn’t mean I live in a bloody hole. It may surprise you but I know about a lot of useless shit. It’s part of my job to know what sources the dumbasses are using to promote evil,” I say.

“And this job? What is it?” she says.

“Oh, since you asked so nicely, let me just tell you,” I say and pause. Lower my chin and stare at her until she turns around and looks at me, an expression of surprise on her face.

“You will?”

“No, of course not. Fuck off,” I say.

The eye roll she gives me looks like it will make her eyes stick in the top of her head. “And you don’t know as much as you think. You don’t know shit about me,” she says.

I tap my finger on the file sitting in my lap. “You were born May 15th, 1997. You went to Saint Angus’s Academy until age twelve, when you were kicked out after a series of incidents. From there you were expelled from sixteen different schools until you dropped out at the age of fifteen. You then became a full-time resident of Terrill Mental Institute where your therapist classified you as a schizophrenic. After six months you were quarantined to solitary confinement for most of your days because although not a danger to yourself, the residents and your care givers were worried for their own safety when in your presence. They reported sensing you were in their head and blacking out when forced to interact with you. In hopes of finding a more life-sustaining option for you, you were moved to three different institutes over the next three years. However, it was the same ol’ issue at each. At age eighteen you signed off on your own release. Since then I can deduce that you’ve been a drain on our government in other ways.” I say all this while staring at my fingernails, no emotion in my voice.

“You…” she says with a hiss, her face an awful shade of red. “You read my files. Those are personal and private. How did you even get access to those?”

I huff arrogantly. “Nothing is classified for me. And now you realize that I truly do know everything.”

“Well, you may be able to read a report about my screwed up life, which by the way is all your fault. But you still don’t know much about me,” she says, sounding proud like she’s one-upped me.

I know enough about the human psyche to realize Adelaide is going to blame me for her screwed up life no matter what. If she had it easy then she’d hate me for not being a part of it. If Adelaide had minor upsets in her life then she’d loathe me for not being there to help. And since she obviously had it rough due to economics and mental confusion, well, I’m absolutely going to be blamed for the troubles. The person who is absent is always accused. Neglect is really the easiest thing to not forgive.

“No,” I say casually. “I don’t know your favorite color, your preferred flavor of ice cream, or what you like to do when you aren’t terrorizing an innocent school girl.”

And I didn’t think it possible but her face deepens to an almost purplish shade of red which makes her freckles almost disappear. “She fucking deserved that!”

“I’m sure sweet little Sally did. But really, in front of the whole school yard,” I say, almost breaking my neutral expression.

“Well, she didn’t end up shoving anything anywhere because the headmistress intervened,” she says.

“And then alarmed and confused by the whole thing, Sally made up the story that you blackmailed her into doing it, is that right?” I say, having pieced this together ages ago after reading about it in Adelaide’s file.

She nods, shame covering her face.

“Yes, I’m brilliant at reading between the lines on reports. They never tell the real story,” I say, staring at the file in my hands. The one from the Lucidite Institute that definitely doesn’t tell the real story.

“Do you want to know what I like to do in my spare time or anything of an actual personal nature about me?” There’s hope in Adelaide’s voice. It’s sad really. She’s got false expectations about us, ones I’m continuously trying to fix for her.

“No, I don’t, but deep down you already knew that, didn’t you?” I say plainly.

She actually nods as she turns back to the case, to pretend to browse books. Adelaide is hiding her expression and that’s fine by me. I don’t like sharing in people’s pity. “But you went and looked up my history, why?”

“Because my job is to know as much as I can about someone’s personal history. The person who holds the most information is always at an advantage,” I say.

“You make it sound like we’re playing a bloody game of chess,” she says.

“Yes, that’s exactly right. We are. And here’s a little tip for you. You’re always playing chess with everyone in your life. Everything is about power, about outmaneuvering the other person. There’s no relationship where someone isn’t trying to checkmate you. Spouses, friends, coworkers, neighbors, it’s all a competition in one regard or another,” I say.

“You know how cynical you sound?” she says, turning around and quirking an eyebrow at me.

Adelaide hasn’t seen the thousands of cases that I have. Some were natural disasters, but all the rest were triggered by greed, stupidity, and deceit. The repairman who was responsible for a jetliner of people falling out of the sky was distracted by a fight he had with his wife. She wanted to take out a second mortgage. He, of course, didn’t want to. The bombing I stopped last year was a retaliation on a celebrity who fired her agent. The high-speed chase on the motorway I had an agent prevent was the result of an irate student who was acting out against an instructor who didn’t recommend him for the honors program. Everything is a power game. People don’t get along. They fucking play games with each other. And the loser is usually the one who doesn’t realize he just left his king wide open for an attack. Know the people around you. Know what they’re capable of. And watch your fucking back when you piss them off.

“I happen to pride myself on my cynicism,” I say.

“So you don’t trust anyone, do you?”

Without hesitating I nod. “That’s right.”

“What about Dahlia? Did you trust her?”

“What do you think?” I say.

“Yeah, I guess she did kick you out for breeding,” she says, seeming to understand immediately how dumb a question it was.

“What about friends or family? Haven’t you ever trusted any of them?” she says.

My mind immediately thinks of my sister. The person I grew up with and was forced to bond with since day one. Last year Lyza had me abducted and tortured, and if her plan had worked then I’d be dead right now. Then I think of Trey, my only real friend. He withheld my medical records from me, not telling me for months that I had high blood pressure. And then there’s my pops. He loves me unconditionally, but had always voiced his disappointment over my lifestyle when I was younger. “I trusted my mum,” I finally say.

“Well, at least you had her. I can’t think of a single person I’ve ever trusted,” Adelaide says, that repulsive pity in her tone again.

“Well, who’s the cynic now?” I say.

She shrugs noncommittally at my statement.

“Well, when you can hear the revolting thoughts in people’s heads, it is difficult to trust the buffoons on this planets,” I say, and oddly hope that makes her feel better. Or at least act less pitiful.

“Yeah, you’d think that would make it easier to trust people, but…” She trails away, a dark expression in her eyes.

“Actually, I know exactly how untrustworthy people are from being in their heads,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, turning back to the case like she has no more to say on the subject. However, I think she’s actually been swept away by a thought or accosted by a long ago memory. Maybe a thought she heard but back then didn’t know was from the person’s head. She’s probably having a lot of hindsight moments lately. Maybe her reflection will offer me some peace.

The first page of the file I’ve reread a dozen times sits staring back at me. It’s still the same rubbish as before. A record of an event that will happen sometime in the future. No dates. No names. No places. Someone is blocking the intelligence field. Obviously. But why? And who? Are they aware that the Lucidites are watching them? That we have that capability? The news reporters pick up on events of interest. Events that have strong psychic energy, heightened emotions, or are connected to the consciousness of thousands. For this last reason things like sporting, political, and other massive events make the Lucidites news feed. As well as lottery numbers and stocks that rise or fall suddenly. But in this particular case there’s no clue to what’s caused it to be picked up by a reporter. There’s hardly any real information. Person E is catching a plane. They don’t get on it. They are intersected by Person F. They go without a struggle. It’s baffling. But the reporter who made the report is a level five. Her reports have never been wrong and they are always of significance. The cosmic force delivered these clairvoyant visions to the reporter for a reason. And level five cases are only picked up by a few and they are insistent until the event comes to pass. This event is still being retrieved by the news reporter, which means it hasn’t happened yet. With so much ambiguity surrounding this case, it can’t be ignored but it also makes no sense. There has to be a way to figure out the timeline. The location will be even more difficult to determine. But I think I have a way to do it.

Chapter Fifteen

I throw the file down on Trey’s desk. He flips his head up, not having heard me come in. His eyes touch down on the file and then crinkle at the edges with disapproval.

“Ren what are you doing with that?” he asks, his forehead wrinkling.

“I stole it,” I say and lean casually against the wall.

Trey lets out a breath that sounds like a bull before it charges. “You haven’t been approved for level five cases. You’re still not healthy enough for something like this.”

“Which is why I stole the file. You have zero idea what this case is about. I’ve decided that even if it kills me I’m going to help,” I say and narrow my eyes with satisfaction. “I’m really such a humble good Samaritan.”

“It’s a level five. You’re not working it. They’re always complex and dangerous,” Trey says, looking to try to bolster courage against the argument he knows I’m about to lay on him.

“Fine,” I say indifferently. “You don’t want me on the case as an agent. Very well. Why don’t you allow me to consult? A little innocent consulting won’t harm me, and I guarantee it will save the Institute’s ass,” I say.

Trey’s eyes look away as he deliberates.

I’m not patient man. Waiting for others’ rusty wheels to crank in their fucking heads is not a skill I ever acquired or plan to. “Oh, bloody hell. Just offer me some details on the case. I’ll give you my superior opinion. Because right now, you weighing on this decision is making my blood pressure worse. You don’t want to be responsible for killing me, do you?”

“Ren, I know how you work. You’re going to keep edging your way into this until you have the case,” Trey says.

“And then I’ll have saved the fucking world, so where’s the bloody problem here?” I say.

“The problem is your health and well-being,” Trey says, his voice all coated in gross concern and sympathy.

“Then why are you making me want to strangle you?” I fire back.

Trey gently shakes his head like we’re discussing takeout options and he’d prefer no pad thai tonight. “I don’t feel right about letting you in on this one.”

“But you’ve also got no clue about these cases and you’ve got a Head Strategist who can’t figure it out because his pantyhose are too tight,” I say.

“Ren—”

“Just give me something,” I interrupt him, realizing he’s going to try and lecture me with some bloody parable. “If I can’t help then you’re no worse off than you are now.”

Trey sighs, one of resignation. “The reporter who secured these stories—”

“Your daughter,” I cut him off, my voice monotone. He always likes to pretend to others that’s she’s nobody special, although her reports undoubtedly have saved billions. I’m not exaggerating that number. This girl is the reason the planet is still spinning on its axis and not floating in tiny bits around space. She’s still a repugnant little witch, but a helpful one, nonetheless.

“Yes, my daughter,” Trey says matter-of-factly. “She received two other similar reports before this.”

“And you all couldn’t find any leads?” I ask.

“No, not in time,” Trey says, his voice regretful.

“In time? What do you mean?”

“Well, she had the vision every day for two weeks and then they disappeared both times after that period.”

“Because we can assume the event came to pass. And the timeline is two weeks for seeing the unrelenting visions,” I say.

He nods. “That’s what we think.”

“And how long has it been since she saw this event?” I say, pointing to the file detailing the discrete people in the airport.

He swallows. “Thirteen days.”

“What happened after the other events came to pass?”

“That’s the thing. Nothing,” Trey says. “The only thing that was similar was at the same hour that the events came to pass there were simultaneous abductions, but we only found that out later. They weren’t on the news reports.”

“Why is that of significance?” I say, trying to drill down to the bloody point.

“Well, in both instances there were two abductions on the same day and the individuals were linked.”

“Linked?” I say.

He nods. “Yes, in the first case, two women were taken separately. They were friends apparently. In the second case, two sisters were abducted. However, they weren’t together at the time. Again separate abductions, but the individuals associated. And in both cases there was no news report on one abduction and then the other was the one reported that we couldn’t quite see the events or people.”

“The news reporters miss things all the time,” I say.

“Yes, but why can we see one abduction on a single day, but not the other that happened at the same time? It makes no sense. And now four people have been taken,” Trey says.

“So the reporters missed one of the two abductions that happened,” I say, trying to assimilate the facts.

“Yes, and twice,” Trey says.

“So that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Kidnappings. One we can’t quite see and another we can’t see at all, both at the same time. Scheduling has to be a key factor here,” I say. This is pretty blatant when I actually have bloody information, although there’s still a lot of mystery to uncover.

“Yes, we believe this is a case of several linked abductions, although we don’t know the significance of the individuals,” Trey says.

“Because you have a bloody lemur who’s been eating poisonous berries running your Strategic department.”

Trey’s expression remains flat.

“Do you have investigative reporters trying to figure out the background on the people abducted?” Investigative reporters are the nonclairvoyants who work in the news reporting department. They’re usually telepaths or divination experts who can track down details on cases that have been reported, but haven’t happened yet. I used them to secure more information so I could place the right agents in the right places for intervention. It’s called the Strategic department for a reason.

“They aren’t finding anything,” Trey says, his tone sounding disheartened. “Something is blocking them. Preventing them from honing in on details they’d usually be granted. And we have so little information to go off of in the first place. Without being able to see the events clearly, we’re at a serious disadvantage.”

“Then send out field agents from the Strategic department. Have them stalk these people’s jobs and family. Give them disguises and have them hunt for information, saying they’re tax assessors, or high school reunion organizers, or serving a subpoena. Whatever it takes to get access to these people’s lives. To get information that will tell who they bloody are and why someone would kidnap them,” I say.

Trey nods. “Yours would be a good strategy at this point. We haven’t been able to dig up much from public records..”

“For bloody sake, of course you haven’t. That’s not going to give you the intricate details of someone’s life that will tell you why someone wants them. You need personal details. What they do on the weekend. Who they socialize with. What they eat for dinner. How they cope with stress.” I shake my head. “God damn, sometimes I feel like I’m the only fucker actually thinking in this five-story sterile hell hole of yours.”

A lightness springs to Trey’s face and he nods. “Okay, I appreciate the consult on this.”

“Wait. That’s not enough. That’s only going to give you intel on the people who have already been abducted. What about the other one? The one who will probably disappear tomorrow?” I say.

“Well, I’m afraid we’re running out of options and time. Our best bet is to watch the reports and get to them as soon as we learn who they are.”

I blow out a hot breath. It isn’t the first time, but I’m fairly disappointed in the man before me. “After they’re gone? Wow, your expectations have seriously gone down-fucking-hill since I took a demotion. You’re just going to allow some bloke to be abducted.”

“I don’t see what choice I have. I need more information on who is doing this. I’m having to work backwards in these cases,” Trey says in his always tired voice.

“Let me question your daughter,” I say.

“What?” Trey says, startled by the unexpected request.

“Roya saw these reports. Maybe I can use some techniques to help her see the visions more clearly. To give us some details.”

The hesitation is strong in Trey’s eyes. He knows what I’m going to employ. He knows how dangerous my techniques can be. And he knows she’s not going to bloody like it. But he, like me, knows we have limited time and resources on this case. Someone is blocking us from seeing things clearly. And someone is abducting people for a reason. Finally he nods. “Fine. You can question her, but then you are going to turn over that information to me. That’s all of your involvement on this case. Okay?”

“Sure, sure,” I say, striding for the door

And just like that I did what Trey predicted and edged my way into this case.

Chapter Sixteen

I cruise into the lab, where I suspect I’ll find Trey’s daughter. She’s in the middle of a conversation with the Head Scientist, who is really just a more primitive ape with a PhD.

“Roya, we need to talk,” I say, cutting off their chat which is probably about their My Little Pony collection.

She swivels around. “Excuse me, you do realize you’re interrupting?”

I huff. “I have an unbelievably high IQ. Of course I know I’m interrupting.”

“Hey, Ren,” Aiden, the monkey scientist, chirps. He’s nice to me because he knows it makes me want to strangle him and he secretly has a death wish.

“I’m not here to talk to you, fund waster,” I say to the geek in glasses. His Science department is responsible for the security and technology that has made the Institute incredibly successful and also more than once a target for serious and deadly attacks. Aiden’s technology also comprises half of the ridiculous budget that funds the Institute. Not a huge deal since the news reports ensure that large chunks of money are constantly flowing in, but it still always irked me that his budget was double mine. It’s more of a commentary on how technology is appreciated more than strategic thinking. Why fucking problem solve when one can just employ a shiny device to fix the issue?

“What do you want?” Roya says. She has Trey’s green eyes and his light-colored hair. She’s short though and it always annoys me that I have to tuck my chin to look at her. Short people should have to carry stools around to save normal people from backaches. They should also have to keep their mouths shut since most of them are overcompensating for their stunted growth with sassy attitudes.

“What I want is a word with you and not one with that space chimp.” I direct my finger at Aiden, who is smiling broadly at me like insults are of great amusement to him. “Follow me,” I say to Roya and turn and walk off.

I hear the heavy sigh that is trademark Roya. She doesn’t act like a spoiled little brat because she’s the Head Official’s daughter but rather because it’s a part of her ingrained makeup. Some people are just jerks no matter how nice you are to them. I turn at the door to the empty office next to the lab and as I suspected Roya is following me, her eyes narrowed. The button on the wall clicks under my fingers before sending the motorized door receding into the wall. I walk in first and take a seat.

“Sit,” I say to Roya, who has her hands on her hips and that look she reserves just for me. She pretends to dislike me, but I know better. I may not be her favorite person but I’m high up on the list. This girl is just like her father and she respects people who have a superior work ethic.

“You know you aren’t the Head Strategist anymore and I don’t have to do a damn thing you say,” she says, her voice mechanical. Another trait she inherited from Trey. A bunch of bloody robots, these two.

“When did you ever do anything I asked?” I say, an expression of offense on my face.

“What do you want, Ren?”

“I already told you. I want you to sit,” I say plainly, waving my hand at the chair on the other side of the desk.

She ties her arms in front of her chest and just stares at me, noncompliant.

Why the fuck do I have to deal with so many repugnant young adult girls lately? I thought I was an agent for the most powerful organization in the world and not a bloody Head Master at Hogwarts.

“Do you want to ram your dumb head into the wall?” I finally say, like it’s a real possibility.

Without missing a beat she gives me a false smile. “Oh yes, that sounds fantastic. What a great idea. You are brilliant.”

I roll my eyes at her failure to be clever. “Well, knocking your head into the wall is exactly what will happen if you don’t take a seat, Roya.” I say her name with an inflection on the last syllable. It’s like my little nickname for her. Ro-YA. She hates it. “Look, I’m going to hypnotize you so I can gain details on the level five case you’ve been seeing. If you aren’t sitting down then you’re going to fall over. Got it? Now sit.”

“Hypnotize me?” she says with a sudden laugh. “The hell you are. You think I’m going to allow you in my head? Who knows what delusions you’ll place in there?”

Roya isn’t as dumb as I try to treat her. She’s actually one of few people who can resist my hypnotism if she tries. That’s why I need her compliance for this to work. But she’s savvy enough to know that while I’m getting details from the vision I could also be sticking in subliminal messages. Hypnosis is really just a method for opening up the subconscious, which is where our mainframe resides. Once inside there I have access to everything.

“Your father authorized this,” I say plainly.

“I don’t care if God authorized it,” she says, that bold look always in her eyes.

“You and I both know we don’t take orders from God. We take them from his boss. Your father,” I say.

“Oh, please,” she says, turning for the hallway.

“I will only sneak in and have a glimpse at the level five vision. No funny business,” I say.

She turns back and gives me an even deeper skeptical expression than before. “Just the level five case? Do you promise?”

What is with girls and bloody promises? “No. And never, ever believe anyone who makes a promise to you. Only people with low IQs or ulterior motives have any reason to make promises.”

“Well, I know we need to obtain more details on these cases I’m seeing,” she says, her eyes angled at the wall to the right, her voice sounding like she’s weighing her options. “But I can’t allow you in my head without knowing if I can trust you in there.”

“Just let me in your head,” I say dryly.

“Why? Why should I?”

“Roya, I’m not your bestie who is trying to copy your algebra homework. I’m not some prankster who wants to rummage through the obnoxious files in your head for information I can use against you later. I’m a fucking agent trying to save fucking lives. You are a bloody news reporter. Can we end this lame negotiation since I’m running out of time to complete this case? We both know you’re going to sit in this chair and allow me to hypnotize you. Because if you don’t then you’ll be culpable for another kidnapping, which is obviously linked to a dangerous and powerful person or otherwise they wouldn’t have your vision blocked. Got it, luv?”

The frustration is heavy in her eyes, but after several seconds she rips the chair back and throws herself down into it. Nothing graceful about the movements. All hot anger. “Only the vision. That’s all you get access to. And no implanting,” Roya says.

“Oh, too bad,” I say, pulling a silver ballpoint pen out of my breast pocket, also the instrument I use for hypnotizing. “I really thought you’d enjoy speaking in a cockney accent for the rest of your life.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but underneath there’s a tiny smile, just like how her father regards me most the time.

“Now focus on the pen and my voice,” I say as I begin twirling the instrument in my hand, around my thumb and through my fingers. Her eyes glass over immediately.

***

Roya’s head drops after only thirty seconds.

“Pull up your most recent news report,” I say, setting the pen on the table. Therapists who employ this hypnosis trick have to use suggestions to take down the wall, but they are lowly Middlings not gifted with my psychic powers. Roya’s subconscious is wide open after only peering at my hand movements for half a minute. Of course if she hadn’t consented then this would have been more difficult, although not impossible.

“Do you see the vision?” I say.

“Yes,” she says, her voice half a whisper.

“It’s moving fast, isn’t it? Like it did before where you couldn’t capture any details?”

“Yes,” she says, like she’s talking in her sleep.

“And what you see is a blur, right?”

“Yes,” she says again.

“It’s only a vision, though, and those can be paused. I want you to do that now. Pause this vision.”

Her shoulders, which are usually pinned up high, are drooped now.

“Have you frozen the vision?” I say, watching her.

“Yes,” she says. Speaking during this level of hypnotism is difficult, but I only need one-word answers.

“Now hone in on the details around you. I want you to sharpen everything until you can see the image crisply,” I say.

Whoever put the psychic block on these visions did it by making it so clairvoyants can only see things in fast forward. I’m not sure how they accomplished this, since I’ve never seen that type of skill before. It’s a tampering. And it makes me incredibly concerned about this person we’re after. That would take an extremely strong individual. However, Roya still saw the vision and it’s stored in her subconscious, which is being told to see it at double speed, but I have the power to stop that transmission.

“What do you see now?” I say.

“Airport.”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “We already know that. I want you to turn around until you find Person E. Move slowly,” I encourage, knowing that anything can yank the vision out of her head. Especially if it’s being protected by another Dream Traveler.

“Red,” she says.

“What’s that?” I say, leaning forward.

“Shirt,” she says.

“Person E is wearing a red shirt?” I say.

She half nods.

It’s not much, but before Roya’s report only saw a misty figure since this major detail was being shielded from her. To be able to black out a person is a unique thing to do.

“Hoodie,” she says.

“Red hoodie,” I say, tapping the pen on the desk, thinking. That’s quite specific and should be all we need to find this person if we know where to look.

“Pivot and tell me what you see around you. Is there anything that’s distinct? Artwork? Pictures?”

She seems to squint with her eyes closed. Pauses. Turns her head around like she’s studying the empty office, but I know it’s her vision.

“Florida,” she mumbles, sounding drunk.

“What? You’re in Florida? Is it the Miami airport? Orlando? Can you tell?” I say, pulling a business card from my pocket and jotting down notes.

She shakes her head; her long blonde hair falls and stays in her face covering up one closed eye.

“No. Fleur-de-lis,” Roya says.

“Ah, got it,” I say, writing down two words.

“Now I want you to look for a clock. Tell me what time it is,” I say.

Confusion marks the space between her eyes. She shakes her head. And if she could talk properly she’d probably whine about how she can’t find one.

“Roya, it’s a bloody airport. There’s a clock. Look,” I say, my tone bordering on something that could pull her out of the hypnosis. We know where to go and who to look for but we need an exact time.

“Ten,” she stutters.

“Ten p.m.?” I say.

She nods slightly, but then shakes her head. “Ten twenty-six,” Roya says, her voice suddenly clear, confident.

I write those two numbers down and rise at once, leaving her entranced in the office. She’ll wake up in an hour or two. Maybe three. Hope she didn’t have any plans.

***

I throw the card with the three pieces of information I obtained from Roya on Trey’s desk. He flips his head up and looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

“How the fuck do you keep this spaceship of freaks running without me?” I say.

Trey picks up the card with my neat handwriting on it. “New Orleans? That’s where the abduction is?”

“Yes. Send a dozen agents to scout around a half an hour before event time. One of them has to be prepared to intervene when they find Person E. And I figure whoever is behind this, possibly Person F, isn’t going to be happy about it so have them ready for retaliation,” I say.

“Ren, this plan really should be John’s call.”

I stare at Trey, regard him with a long cold stare. “Do you think his strategy is going to best mine?”

“Well no, but it’s just it’s his department…” He trails away with a deflated breath. His torn eyes are on his hands on his desk. Then Trey looks up at me. “Yeah, fine, we will go with this plan,” he says, giving me a heavy expression. The problem with being a leader is making constant decisions. It’s this responsibility that has weighed heavily on Trey Underwood through the years.

“I want to question Person E when you bring them in,” I say, my usual authoritative voice at the forefront of my tone.

“Ren, I allowed you to consult on this. You’re still not cleared for these cases.”

“Sure, sure,” I say.

Trey pauses and looks at me. It’s one of those expressions. The ones that make him look sensitive and gross.

“How are you doing? Since Dahlia left?”

I shrug. “I’m fine. A little horny.”

“Ren…”

“I miss her. Of course I do. I also miss my mum, and level five cases, and not having a quiet flat. Shit changes. Those who dwell die. So there you go. You want to help me out, then don’t give me your pity. Give me clearance. Get shitty people out of this metal box. Let some of the Neanderthals on the news reports die,” I say. “That would be you helping me out.”

He draws in a long breath and gives me a scrutinizing expression. “Maybe you should call her.”

Nobody ever fucking listens. They hear the part of the conversation that they want to and erase the other parts.

“With all due respect, Trey, I don’t need your relationship advice. You haven’t been laid in two decades.”

His wife died that long ago. It was my fault. And only recently do I talk about it like it wasn’t. “Blokes like you and me aren’t really suited for relationships. That would involve us making compromises and having a biased frame of mind. Men who get married, they make mistakes. They’re lazy, like that fuck-up John. They want to make it home for evening meals when there’s a bloody world to save. Some people in this lifetime get to coast, tucking in early and shuffling around on lazy Sunday mornings in their bathrobes and slippers. And then there’s men like you and me. The ones who are actually protecting the fucking world.”

Trey has an almost defiant look on his face, but I’m guessing his logical side will whisk that away soon. He’s not one to remain rebellious. Trey leaves that role for me.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, pushing his hand through his silver hair. “You’re probably right. Some of us are just better off alone.”

“Of course I’m bloody right,” I say and leave.

Chapter Seventeen

I clear my throat loudly but Adelaide doesn’t stir from her place on the couch. I consider throwing a glass of water on her but I don’t want to damage my leather sofa. Instead, I grab the poker by the fire and nudge her on the back with it. She’s lying on her stomach, her mouth open, drool spilling out onto the pillow below her.

She swats at my hand. “I didn’t do it,” she mumbles in her sleep.

“Do what?” I say, jabbing her again, ash from the poker dirtying her shirt. Once more she makes a useless attempt to assault whatever is pestering her.

“Stop it,” she mumbles.

“Not likely,” I say to no effect. I drop the poker by the fireplace, causing an awful clatter. This also doesn’t wake Sleeping-Annoying. So then I grab the book on the table and drop it straight back down on the marble surface. It lands with a loud flat clap.

Adelaide pushes up at once, whipping her head back and forth, worry and bewilderment written on her face.

Her unfocused eyes blink until she finds me standing a few feet away, regarding her with an irritated stare.

“What?” she says in her own exasperated voice.

“It’s the middle of the day,” I say.

“Which is why I’m napping,” she says. “Siestas. You’ve heard of them? They’re very popular in other cultures.”

“You’re British. We don’t nap. We work so the bloody Europeans can lie around all afternoon,” I say.

“I didn’t expect you back yet,” she says, rocking back into a seated position. “You said you were going to work.”

“I’m highly efficient,” is all I say.

Adelaide sniffs and then looks down at her shirt. She twists it around to see that it’s streaked with soot. Then her eyes dart to the poker sitting in front of the fireplace. “Did you poke me with that?” she says, sounding insulted.

“I was trying to rouse you.”

“Shake my shoulder next time.” she says, brushing off the ash from her shirt and onto my couch like heathen would.

“I don’t touch people,” I say.

Her eyes then grow distant and she nods. “Yeah. I get it.”

I sit in my armchair as a new reality takes over my thoughts. Adelaide understands. All my life I’ve been a monster who was an outsider even to those in my own race. Dream Travelers are powerful but I’ve never met anyone like me, with this much power. Burdened by this power. But Adelaide gets it. She can’t touch someone without being bombarded by their thoughts. She’s felt the isolation of being able to control minds and therefore finding no true challenges. Maybe like me she thinks of this complex world as less of a Rubik’s Cube and more of a connect the dots game.

“You were with Dahlia though,” she says, cutting into my thoughts.

“What?” I say, returning my gaze to her.

“You said you didn’t touch anyone, but you were with Dahlia.”

“She’s immune,” I say, my thoughts still clouded by the strangeness of having someone to relate to. It should be a comfort, but I don’t like such things.

“Immune? Like you can touch her and you don’t read her thoughts?” Adelaide says.

“And my mind control doesn’t work on her, nor my ability to hypnotize.”

“How is that possible?”

“Bloody magic, I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, then you have to get her back.”

“Why the fuck does everyone offer up their stupid advice to me?” I say.

“I’m just saying that if there was someone my powers didn’t work on I’d slap a ring on their finger so fast,” she says with a laugh.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I say, shaking my head at her. “And Dahlia and I like each other way too much to get married. It’s a repulsive institution that should be banned so that domestic violence finally comes to a bloody end.”

She actually laughs at this. “So you think that if people weren’t forced to stick around and make it work out they wouldn’t beat each other up?”

“Or just fester with resentment for a spouse who does too many things they despise and quit turning them on eons ago,” I say.

“What about staying together for the kid’s mentality?” she asks, sounding amused now.

“Right, because two hostile people who are faking a lifetime of happiness aren’t screwing up young minds,” I say.

“Well, I wish you would have been around in one capacity or another when I was growing up.”

Her statement, which is too blunt and not carrying any emotion, sticks me in the throat. “Well, I wasn’t,” I manage to say matter-of-factly. “I was busy saving humanity so you could grow up to destroy it. Thank me later.”

“Yeah, I get it. You were too busy to be there even if you had known about me. Semi imprisoned in a place, I think you said. But still…” she says, her tone shifting a bit, sounding regretful. “I used to dream about you knocking at the door of my flat. I’d open it and—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting off words that I don’t want lodged in my memory. “Such fantasies weren’t good for you then and they are utterly useless now.”

“I’m really starting to enjoy these heart-to-hearts with you,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me, her hands on the sides of her face.

“Moving on,” I say flatly. “We’re going to discuss dream travel. It might be good that you’re rested up because it will make it less likely that you fall asleep instead of actually dream traveling, which is what I intend you to do.”

Through a yawn she says, “I don’t know. I’m still pretty groggy.”

“Well, snap out of it. Dream travel takes great focus,” I say.

“I’ve done it before,” she says, her tone suddenly snotty.

“You’ve haphazardly done it. I’m going to teach you how to control it.”

“So there’s a process?” she says.

“Yes. There’s a process for everything. Blinking, nodding off, pissing. Most just don’t think about it. But before it becomes autonomic you have to practice, like learning to walk,” I say.

“So what do I do?”

“You’re familiar with Tower Bridge?” I ask.

A frustrated sound falls out of her mouth. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. I was born in London, you know.”

“I didn’t know actually,” I say, my words terse. “Didn’t much care.”

“How can you not care about me? I’m your daughter.”

“Don’t use that word. It makes me gag,” I say, and do feel something clawing its way up my esophagus.

She huffs with obvious disapproval. “What about Tower Bridge?”

“Well, it’s easier to dream travel to places that you’re familiar with,” I say.

“Then how did I find my way to the Louvre? I’ve never been there before,” she says.

“How haven’t… Wait… Have you ever been out of bloody London before you came to Los Angeles? Never mind. I don’t care,” I say, waving my hand at her.

She narrows her eyes at me and I notice the tiniest flare to her nostrils.

Ignoring this, I say, “So you’re going to close your eyes in a minute and focus on the north side―”

“You mean Tower Hamlets?”

“Of course I do,” I say a bit impatiently. “It helps to visualize, to make a connection with the place. But just having the intention that you wish to travel to this location in your dreams is all you have to do. If you’ve done a sufficient job your vision will be blanketed in silver. This is the transport. At this point you’ve done it and the only way you can screw things up is by changing your mind. Actually there are lots of opportunities for snags and potential threats, but let’s not worry about those.”

“Wait. What? What threats?” she says, her tone urgent. I’m glad to finally get her attention. Before she looked ready to nod off again.

“Focus,” I say, snapping my fingers in the air at her. “You’re going to need every bit of that to practice this in a minute.”

She looks around at the couch. “You don’t want me to dream travel here, do you?”

“Look, this is a training session. Not a bloody slumber party. Yes, we’re going to do it right here. This is as good a place as any.”

Adelaide gives me a cautious look and then as she stares around at the surroundings it softens into acceptance. People who have no idea what they’re doing will accept perimeters pretty quickly, I’ve found.

“All right now. Lie down, stand on your head, do whatever it takes so you’re comfortable. That’s key. Because I intend for you to dream travel and if you’re successful then I’ll meet you there,” I say.

“You’re able to do that? To meet up with other Dream Travelers?”

“Yes, but only those dream traveling can see each other and interact in that realm,” I say, my head growing heavy with frustration. I’m certain my blood pressure is steadily rising moment by moment. Why isn’t there a manual for newbie Dream Travelers? Seems like we should have a bloody codex or something.

“Now close your eyes and do what I said. Don’t make me repeat myself,” I say.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she says in a high-pitched, impersonating tone as she lies back on the couch. Adelaide folds her hands over her stomach before closing her eyes.

I watch her, waiting to see if her body grows slack. This is the tell-tale sign of dream travel, since the consciousness is absent and not creating tension in the body. It’s one of the reasons our race lives longer—our bodies aren’t damaged as much by the berating tension of our consciousness and subconsciousness.

“Breathe, Adelaide,” I say, my voice tired.

“I’m trying,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut.

“It shouldn’t be something you have to try at. Just relax,” I say.

“It’s kind of difficult with you staring at me,” she says, peeking out through one eye.

I lay my head back in my chair. “Fine, I’m not watching you.” I close my eyes but decide to wait to dream travel in case the dimwit doesn’t make it.

The quiet hum of the radiator is a welcome music to my ears. The draft that usually trespasses through the large bank of windows greets my face. Mixed with the heated air, it’s half warm and then also chilly. This time of year, autumn, is my favorite. Everything is dying, getting ready for winter to seal its fate. Really a peaceful time. A time for change.

And then suddenly there’s a gagging sound. It rips my attention out of the peace that was starting to creep into my head. When I open my eyes Adelaide is running through the flat, her hands over her mouth. She disappears into the loo, and then the sounds of sickness follow.

“Oh, dear god, really?” I say in a quiet voice, looking up to the ceiling. God, I get that I’m a bad man, but this punishment is a little extreme, don’t you think?

Adelaide surfaces from the bathroom a long six minutes later, her hair pulled back and her greenish face drawn.

“Although that’s not a typical reaction to dream traveling it’s not unheard of,” I say, waving to the couch. “Let’s try this again.”

She grabs her stomach as she drags herself to the couch. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, living on sleeping pills isn’t an option for you. So you have two alternatives. You can learn to dream travel properly so you don’t create disturbances while sleeping. Or you can off yourself. Your call,” I say.

“You don’t have many friends, do you?” she says, as less of an insult and more of an observation.

“Just the one,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m surprised you have any, really.”

“All right, focus,” I say and lay my head back, hoping my offspring isn’t a special needs Dream Traveler. Our race doesn’t have any, but leave it to God to give me the first.

After a minute I send my consciousness to the Tower Bridge, hoping I won’t find myself alone there.

***

Adelaide stands, almost like an apparition, lighter in dream travel form. She’s facing out toward the River Thames, a look of awe on her face. She doesn’t look at me when I approach. The girl seems disoriented, like she’s half sleepwalking. “I did it,” she says in a half whisper.

“Yes,” I say, studying her face, wondering why she doesn’t look happier about this achievement. It’s not rocket science but usually the first few times of successful dream travel are marked by a bit of pride. So I wonder why she doesn’t look more elated.

“For all of my life I’ve felt different—”

“Don’t,” I say, cutting her off, now realizing what the look on her face means. She’s having a moment. I don’t do moments.

“For all of my life I thought something was wrong with me,” she continues like she hadn’t heard me. “Then I turned thirteen and I knew that I wasn’t like anyone else. My mum grew scared of me, saying the devil possessed me the same way he had my father.”

“Look, if you need someone to talk to then I’ll hire you a shrink. We need to discuss laws,” I say, almost in a nervous rush.

“But now I’m learning the truth, and I should be relieved that I’m not sick. However, now it feels like I have zero excuse for not doing something great,” she says, that same zombie-like tone to her words.

Adelaide turns to me now, her eyes almost glassy looking. “We’re obligated to be amazing, aren’t we?”

“No. If half my life is to answer that question, then no. You can do whatever you bloody want. You can waste away. Devote your dream travel to being a creepy voyeur. There’s no restrictions on how much a loser you can be; believe me, I know my fair share of Dream Traveler lowlifes,” I say.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s okay. I’m full of power. Now I understand that and it’s—”

“Enough,” I interrupt. “You can’t process this all in one night.”

“No, what you mean is I can’t do it with you.”

“I mean both,” I say and turn my gaze to the pedestrians strolling down the pavement on the side of the bridge. People jostle by, most not noticing that the sun is setting as the moon rises. Most are absorbed in dumb conversations. “Those are most likely Middlings, and they’re definitely not dream traveling. They’re in the physical realm.” I say.

“Which means they can’t see us?”

“Bingo,” I say.

“But why can we see them?”

“Because they’re in a physical form. In dream travel form we can see anything that’s in the physical realm, but we can’t interact with anything with a consciousness,” I say.

“So that’s why I could pick up the paints and open doors and whatnot when I dream traveled?”

“Yes. However, the Lucidites have laws,” I say, my hands behind my back as I stare out at the passersby.

“Who are they? The Lucidites?”

“They’re a society of Dream Travelers. The most powerful,” I say.

“Is that where you work?”

I stare off. Not willing to answer her question. “They have laws and although I’m not usually in favor of being restricted, theirs were carefully constructed and following them will preserve a better future for all,” I say.

“Wow, be careful. You kind of sound like you give a shit about humanity,” Adelaide says, giving me a half grin, which I ignore.

“I don’t care,” I say simply. “I care about preserving the world that provides my food and clean water and maintains the luxurious world I’m accustomed to.”

“Should have realized your intentions were purely selfish.”

“Yes, you should have,” I say. “One of the laws of the Lucidites states that during dream travel you’re never to move something in the physical realm. It appears like a phenomenon to those not dream traveling.”

“Like a ghost is doing it?” she says with a chuckle.

“Yes, although ghosts can’t really move objects.”

“There’s no ghosts,” she says with a disbelieving laugh.

My expression remains flat, which ends her laughter.

“Oh, god, they’re real?” Adelaide says.

“Most things are real, although they probably aren’t how you’ve been taught.”

“So unicorns and gnomes are real?”

I shrug indifferently. “I’ve never seen one, but I hate the outdoors.”

She’s looks amused, which lights up her green eyes, making them appear fresh.

I decide to continue with the rules. “No moving objects. No dream travel into the future.”

“Wait, I can dream travel into the future?”

I sigh heavily. “No, bloody would you listen. I just said you couldn’t, well shouldn’t.”

“But I can time travel,” she says in disbelief.

“Yes, and you can also fry your consciousness doing it, especially with future time travel so don’t…or do.” I say in a bored voice.

“Ha-ha,” she says with no enthusiasm. “Always happy to offer me ways to off myself, aren’t you?”

“As I was saying. No dream travel to spy on yourself. No time traveling too far into the past. Less than ten years is a good rule for someone like you,” I say.

“Someone like me? Are you insinuating that I’m dumb?” Adelaide says.

I give her a sideways, telling look.

“I inherited your brains,” she says.

“As of right now, it appears you’ve only inherited my powers and physical features,” I say.

“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes at me in typical teenager fashion. “So I can’t interact with those not dream traveling?”

“You pass right through them,” I say, casually.

“And can I move on to another location from here?”

“Yes,” I say.

She gives me an exasperated look. “How?”

“To change locations, wake up, use your power of mind control, or manifest a bloody cup of tea, you use your intention. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” I say, returning the eye roll from earlier. I’m much better at it. “Everything in this world is centered around intention.”

“You can’t manifest a cup of tea,” she says, sneering a little with puckered lips.

I hold out my hand as a cup and saucer appear in it, my cold tea from earlier swishing a bit. “I bloody well can,” I say.

“How did you do that?” she says in awe, her eyes wide and pinned on the china in my hands.

It disappears at once. “I summoned it. Stop irritating me most of the time that you’re in my bloody presence and I might teach you how to do that.” I then turn and walk toward the southern side of Tower Bridge. “Don’t be out late. And don’t create problems I’ll have to fix.” Then I leave Adelaide to have a bit of freedom, which I know she’s craved.

Chapter Eighteen

“Ren, have you been using the strategy that we discussed?” Dr. Dave Raydon says from his chair. It’s covered in green fabric with little red and white polo players on horses embroidered on it.

“Yes,” I say, sitting in an equally repugnant chair, this one with a hunting dog pattern.

“And how did that work?”

“Well, doc, I got to seven before I threw my tray down while in the lunch line in the main hall and stomped away,” I say.

The Lucidite Institute kindly provides hundreds of organic and fresh food options for its employees. However, they make us congregate like cattle to get said options.

“Seven, you say?” the doctor says, stroking his round chins. I don’t really like plump people but this man is more like a muscular sailor. He’s fat but also strong, probably carrying a high muscle to fat ratio. Some people just don’t carry it that well.

“Yes, I counted back from ten like you told me and your hocus-pocus absolutely didn’t work. I think you have the spell wrong. Maybe I need to count in Latin,” I say.

Dr. Raydon chuckles, his face breaking into an easy smile, which I can spy even underneath his giant mustache. Unlike most daft therapists he doesn’t have a page of notes on his lap, but rather all his attention on me. And I’m proud to say I know what most psychiatrists do during a session. I’ve seen my fair share of therapists growing up. It’s kind of a nostalgic experience for me right now, having an educated professional try to fix me. So far they’ve all waved a white flag of defeat and most scaled back their practice or retired altogether. Once a therapist gets into my head, they usually don’t want to counsel another human being. I ruin people. Make them fear what other monsters are out there lurking, in need of therapy.

“It appears to me that your anger management problems stem from a deep-seated frustration with yourself. Would you say that’s accurate?” Dr. Raydon says, none of the usual fear in his voice that I hear from other therapists. His hands are clasped over his round belly, his head sometimes leaning back to rest on the cushion of the chair. He appears as relaxed as a panda bear after eating its fill of eucalyptus leaves.

“Are you sure it’s not that I was born into a world full of idiots who God makes me endure on a daily basis?” I say.

He smiles at me, not put off by my lack of decorum. “Maybe it’s that you misunderstand the world you were born into. Perspective is key to a happy life, I’ve found.”

“Yes, happiness is an inside job, my internal system is broken in that regard,” I say.

“Maybe if you viewed the people around you differently you’d feel different about them and they wouldn’t anger you so much,” he says.

“Right, so if I realized they all didn’t know better than to be a drain on our ecosystem then I’d cut them some slack, is that it?”

Again another smile, like he finds my bad attitude endearing. I sense he’s a man who tries to see the best in people. That’s definitely a mistake. Sets a person up for all sorts of disappointment. Better to be surprised when a human being actually does something right for a change.

“We all come into this world with a different make-up, born to unique parents, given our own experiences. And we all operate based on what we are given.” Dr. Raydon’s light-colored eyes travel up to the ceiling, a dreamy look on his face. “If you look at each person in the right light you might find magic in them. If you appreciated people for who they are, and didn’t hold them to your unrealistic expectations, then maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t make you so angry.”

“Magic,” I say dryly. “Yeah, like that psychopath the Lucidites stopped from shooting up an elementary school? What a fucking magical human being he was.”

His mustache bristles a little with another slight smile. What the fuck is this guy on? Why is he so bloody happy and not the least bit offended by my brazen nature?

“I didn’t say we had to tolerate bad behavior,” Dr. Raydon says. “Sometimes it’s incredibly difficult to find the good in people. But isn’t that why we are here? To love one another even in our flawed and yet beautifully human states?”

I sigh. It’s the only thing to keep me from vomiting. “Honestly, I have no bloody clue why we are here. I exist for reasons that elude me. I’m powerful, which breeds my arrogance, which is both part of my strength and why I’m here wasting an hour of your time. I’d say I used to understand life, even appreciate it. But honestly, it’s always been lost on me. If there’s magic in this world then it’s dulled in my eyes. If there’s magic in my fellow humans then I don’t see it. I see people who waste time and resources and contribute little to the society that keeps them from turning back into the Neanderthals that they really are.”

“Your daughter,” Dr. Raydon says, twisting the end of his mustache, his eyes sparkling with a new light.

“You mean the life-ruiner?” I say.

He winks at me. “Yes, that’s the one. She’s powerful like you, that’s what you said.”

“Yes, it’s dreadful. A girl who can control minds. Like the beast with the Y chromosome didn’t own an unfair balance in this world,” I say with a sincere growl.

“She shares your powers. The ones that have made it impossible for you to connect with most other humans.”

“What’s your point?” I say.

“Well, maybe by finding an appreciation for her, you’ll find it for yourself on a new level. Because I’ve found in my practice that to understand and tolerate the world around us we must first find that within for ourselves. The giant will never love the tiny ones around him until he comes to terms with his own size,” Dr. Raydon says.

“With offense intended can I just say this is starting to sound like psychobabble?”

He clutches his round belly as he laughs softly. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it is.” The psychiatrist holds up a plump finger and shakes it at me, but no menace in the movement. “I know you’ve come a long way. You’ve accepted your powers and embraced your role in protecting humanity. But I think you, Ren, still haven’t gotten to a place where you truly value who you are and therefore the people around you. You see yourself as a monster, but you know what I see in you?”

“A growing desire to say ‘fuck this therapy bullshit’? And then steal more level five cases from the incompetent Head Strategist?” I say.

A smile precedes his words. “I see an extremely real opportunity for you to find yourself in someone else. And when you do, I think you’ll be humbled. Actually you’ll be more than that. You’ll be inspired. And after all, it is inspiration that connects us to the world. That connection grounds us not to anger, but rather to love.”

I yawn loudly, a long one that seems to stretch on forever. “Right, whatever. You know, I’m sure most lie and tell you that your advice has been helpful and this heart-to-heart really took a weight off their shoulders. However, I refuse to lie to a man who can maintain such a glorious mustache. That thing should be put on display in a museum,” I say as I stand. “This was zero help once again and as I’m obligated to do, I’ll see you again in a few days to waste more of your time.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dr. Raydon says, all cheer in his deep voice.

Chapter Nineteen

“You know your daughter has zero sense of humor and takes herself entirely too seriously,” I say to Trey as I slap a file down on his desk. “She’s just like you.”

His eyes swivel up from his laptop to mine. “You got the details on the newest report?”

“Of course I did.”

I plop myself down in the chair in front of his monstrosity of a desk and throw my expensive shoes on its top, knocking over a cup of pens and displacing papers. He eyes the new mess on his desk and then me.

“And I secured the location and person in question over a week from the time of the event. Now the pea brain you employ has time to strategize and hopefully not screw this up like the last case,” I say.

Although agents were able to intervene in the last level five case, the one at the airport with Persons E and F, they also fucked up the whole thing. Half of the agents passed out after suffering from delusions and don’t have a memory for what really happened. Person E was saved but has zero information to help us with. Persons E apparently has the gift of super strength. Yes, a handy skill that in the wrong hands could be dangerous. However, we don’t know who those wrong hands are since the perpetrator, whom I suspect was close by, wasn’t apprehended. All we learned from questioning Person E was that Person E’s girlfriend, a Middling, was successfully abducted at the same time. Just as with the first two cases. Two simultaneous abductions. One seen by the news reporters and one not. This time one was successful, and the other stopped.

Now we have another case where a supposed Dream Traveler is going to be abducted. Again in a busy public place. There are more unanswered questions this time. Like how is this person, whom we’re calling the Blocker, since that seems to be their main skill, blocking clairvoyant and other psychic energy? That’s obviously what’s happening and what is stopping Roya and investigative reporters from doing their jobs. I suspect Blocker’s gift is a part of a bigger skill, something more sinister. And based on the research I demanded Trey dig up on the first individuals who were abducted we know dreadfully little. In the first case, the individuals, two women, were abducted separately. They are both dead now, their bodies washed up on different beaches. One on the west coast and one on the east.

The second case offers more details, but not much more. The report that Roya obtained but couldn’t see well was apparently of a Dream Traveler girl who was abducted. She has just hit prepubescent, the time a dream travel gift surfaces. But hers hasn’t surfaced yet; even the parents don’t know what her skill will be. And they’re grieving the abduction of two children, the one we saw in the reports and another we didn’t, a ten-year-old girl. So even though we know more, we don’t know what kind of Dream Traveler was taken. Their skill is key here. Still, this case isn’t my problem. Something this complex and mysterious is almost better than sex but I’ve been banished to abstinence.

“John quit this morning,” Trey says after a long silence where we both sat thinking.

My sudden surprise quirks up one of my eyebrows. “So he’s gone back to giving blow jobs at the two-bit country club in his hometown then?”

“John was an asset to the Institute. Ren, he didn’t have your skills and experience, but he had been successful in some regards.”

“He was weak and couldn’t hack the stress. Hire someone with balls next time,” I say.

“I plan on it. I was actually hoping that would be you,” Trey says, his eyes rising to meet mine. “I want you to take your old job back.”

I draw in a long breath. Let it out even slower. “No,” I say, the word tightening in my throat.

“We’ve been through three Head Strategists since you took a demotion. This is your job. I created it for you,” Trey says.

“Well, golly gee, pops, as much as I appreciate you sharing the family business with me I don’t want it,” I say, trying to sound flippant. I do though. I do want my old job back. Every night I walk through my dream travels missing the rush of being overwhelmed by cases. My brain was always challenged by trying to find a holistic integrative solution to a hundred problems. I miss bossing around the scrawny agents at my disposal. I miss going to bed knowing as bad as I was, I wasn’t as despicable as they all thought. In my own mind my honor was preserved a little and that’s what counted. That I knew I wasn’t an entirely bad man. But that solution to self-preservation always came at a cost. I was imprisoned here, too slammed by the work to even visit my pops if that had been an option, although it hadn’t been. And I took the agent job for different reasons, mostly so I could be with Dahlia. And although she’s gone, I have an obligation to Adelaide. The agent job doesn’t make me happy but nothing really does anyway. And finally I need the action that the agent role provides. Honor is one thing, but experience is almost better. I need to be out in the world after my almost two decades of imprisonment.

“Look, I don’t want to be the general manager of your shiny car dealership. I just want to sell the bloody cars. You’re going to have to find someone else to take your life-sucking job,” I say.

Trey sighs with reservation. He obviously expected this answer. “Fine. And you can have this level five case.”

I don’t blink, just regard him with a measured stare. “Don’t play with my emotions, Trey. You know how fragile I am.”

“I mean it. You haven’t been cleared. Your blood pressure is still too high. But Dr. Raydon says you’re making an effort and with everything new in your life I think you need this,” Trey says.

“No, what you think is that you’re bloody screwed and I’m the only one who can save your ass.”

His mouth remains neutral but I spy the smile in his eyes. “Well, I figured if I was willing to give you back the Head Strategist job that I also had to be willing to offer you a level five case. But to work on this case I do have some demands.”

“Of course you bloody do,” I say.

“We made some nearly fatal errors with the last cases,” Trey says. “We weren’t successful at apprehending the perpetrator, Blocker, let alone even getting eyes on him or her. I want technology employed this time. We are useless just intervening if we don’t find out who is behind this. And since they block energy I’m thinking there are devices that can make our job easier.”

“You know I despise technology,” I say.

“I know,” he says simply.

“And you know I hate working with that monkey scientist.”

“But if you want this case, that’s exactly what you’re going to have to do.”

“Fine, but I want permission to hypnotize Aiden until he passes out if he’s too chipper with me,” I say, meaning it.

“I’m sure you can keep your interactions with the Head Scientist brief so that’s not an issue,” Trey says.

“Let’s hope so or you’ll have two open positions at the Institute.”

***

Music that sounds more like a chainsaw plays overhead when I stroll into the daft scientist’s lab. Aiden is bent over a counter, his face screwed up with intense concentration. He has a tiny screwdriver in his hand as he tinkers with some rubbish object.

“Boo,” I say louder than the music.

Aiden startles and then freezes. He sets the tool and technology down and turns and looks at me, trying and failing to mask his frustration.

“Deep down I don’t think you enjoy being a bully,” he says, blowing out a stressed breath.

“I bet you’d love to find out what’s deep down inside of me, you bloody pervert,” I say.

Aiden pulls the pencil out from behind his ear. I didn’t even see it there since his black mound of chaos he tries to pass as hair is taking over his small pointy head. He jots something down on the paper on the counter like he’s afraid it will skip out of his monkey brain if he doesn’t. Then he turns and flashes me a wide repugnant grin. “So what can I do for you, old friend?”

I ignore his ridiculous effort to get under my skin and say, “You can start by turning down that noise that’s making my ears bleed.”

“Lightbody, volume three,” he says to no one but then the music fades but not completely.

“And if you’d quit inhaling toxic chemicals in this bloody lab then you’d know why I’m here. Trey is forcing me to use one of your brain cell–zapping devices.”

“Right,” Aiden chirps, throwing one finger in the air like he’s somehow been triumphant by remembering something trivial. He grabs a black handheld device from his pocket. I recognize it. There’s a small screen on the device now, but it used to have a dial. It looks like a mobile and then also too big for that.

“You remember the frequency detector I had you use in your first case, right?”

“Like it was cursed to permanently sit on the top of my memory,” I say.

“Well, I’ve updated the device so that it’s more powerful.”

“More powerful? Like blast more gamma rays into my brain?” I say, eyeing the device with disdain.

“Uhhh no. It’s perfectly safe,” Aiden says.

“Get on with it. Talking to you melts my soul.”

He laughs at this, like it’s a joke. Everyone in the bloody Lucidite Institute is chipper. It’s like Trey puts happy pills in the water. One of the reasons I can’t return to living here as the Head Strategist. I’m allergic to happy people.

“So before, you had to have close range to a person to detect if they were a Dream Traveler. And they had to be attempting to use a psychic power at the same time,” Aiden says.

This device measures frequencies, which register differently for a Dream Traveler than a Middling. They’re higher due to our psychic gifts. Since we know this we can spot a Dream Traveler by measuring frequencies. This is apparently how Trey hopes for me to locate Blocker in a busy public place. Not a bad idea, although I’d never tell him that.

“Now I’ve upgraded the device so that it works with broad range,” Aiden says like a ten-year-old who is announcing he stayed dry through the night. “Anyone in a thirty-foot radius to you will show up in the screen as a dot, in their respective position. Black dots indicate a Middling’s frequency. A red indicates—”

I yank the device from his hands and turn and walk for the exit. “Got it,” I say, in a hurry not to look at Aiden’s face any longer.

“Don’t you want instructions—”

“I’m a fucking genius. I’ll figure it out,” I say.

Chapter Twenty

The mobile buzzes in my pocket when I enter my flat. I expect it’s my pops checking to see if we’re still scheduled for our usual dinner. That’s why I’m surprised by the caller ID. I accept the call and press the mobile to my ear, although I remain silent.

“Ren,” she says and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in over a week.

I still don’t say anything, mostly because words are frozen in my throat.

“Are you there?” Dahlia says.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice gruff.

“What are you doing?” Dahlia says and she almost sounds like she’s demanding the information.

“It’s none of your business, dear Dahlia.”

“So nothing, as I suspected,” she’s says, now sounding unimpressed.

I flash a look at Adelaide, who is dutifully as ever holding down the couch. Her mouth had popped open when I entered the flat but slammed shut when she realized I was on the phone.

“I’m shagging someone, if you must know,” I say, making for the bedroom, where Adelaide can’t hear. Still, she heard my last statement and a laugh jumps out of her mouth.

“Oh, and you answered the phone while having sex? It must be an awful lay,” Dahlia says, her tone amused.

“She’s okay,” I say, shutting the bedroom door behind me. “What do you want?”

“Was that Adelaide I heard in the background? She’s laughing. Sounds like you two are getting along,” Dahlia says, and the hint of disapproval flares in her words.

“Would you not pretend to have the slightest bit of knowledge on my affairs? I’m training her. It’s going as it always has in these scenarios. I bestow lifesaving and priceless knowledge on a snotty reject and they ungratefully take it,” I say.

“So you’re not having fun?” Dahlia says.

“Not now or ever have I had this fun that you speak of.”

“We used to have fun,” she says.

“What in the bloody hell do you want?” I say, my voice bordering on yelling.

If I know Dahlia, and I do, she’s probably smiling at my flared anger.

“I was just calling to see how you’re doing,” she says, a false innocence in her voice.

“Why?” I say with a growl as I unfasten my cuff links and change them out for the pair my pops gave me when I left home.

“Because I care about you, Ren.”

“Oh, is that how that caring bit works? You should write a book.”

“Another one,” she says, faking an overwhelming tone. “And I know what you’re thinking. So yes, when you care about someone you do kick them out when a major life-altering event happens to them. You turn your back on them in their biggest time of need just as I have done to you recently.”

“It is because of love like this that I am the man I am today,” I say dryly.

“Yes, one with an extremely cold heart and practically impossible ability to give.”

I fake a long yawn. “Well, although this is murdering my very will to live and I’ve been looking for that final way out, would you cut it short? I have to go do nothing at all and this is keeping me from it,” I say.

“Ren, I don’t want to get back together,” Dahlia says flatly.

And then the strangest thing happens. The bloody mobile shakes in my hand. Well, it’s my hand that caused it to shake, but still. That’s never happened. Most of the time I’m steady enough to be a surgeon.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I manage to say. “I’ve decided to take wives.”

“As in more than one?” she says with a laugh.

“Polygamy really is the only way.”

“It does fit your past,” she says casually.

I ground my teeth together. Only with her can I feel equal in a conversation, knowing she’ll stoop as low as I do.

“Yes, and life is too short to allow STDs to deter one’s dreams,” I say.

“True. Although I’m remaining celibate in your absence.”

“Good for fucking you,” I say.

“So I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Why don’t you take a recording for the next time you get that urge? I’ve got a message I’d like you to hear on replay. Dear Dahlia, you’re such a bi—”

“I know I’m not being fair,” she says, cutting me off.

“I wasn’t through. It’s a really good message.”

“Ren, this is hard. I miss you and yet I’m not ready to invite your craziness into my life.”

“Dahlia, you do realize in your diva brain that the Earth doesn’t revolve around you? I’m trying to save this bloody world, which is populated by apes who have nothing better to do than chew bubble gum and listen to your songs. I don’t have time for your games.”

“I suspected that, but I wanted to talk,” she says simply.

“And now we have,” I say.

“I love you, Ren. No matter what. Even if we can’t make things work. I love you.”

I switch off the mobile and throw it across the room, where I hear it crack and break, or break something. Or both. What I feel is something in me break.

***

“Was that Dahlia?” Adelaide says from her normal spot on the couch.

“If you keep sitting around all day you’re going to get fat,” I say.

She sighs and stretches out her legs, propping her feet on the coffee table. “Someone won’t let me leave the flat.”

“An incredibly smart someone who is keeping you from destroying the world I work so hard to protect,” I say.

“In that super-secret job of yours? The one you go to by disappearing in your room and then stomping through the front door a few hours later? Is that when you’re protecting the world?”

“Yes, that one,” I say, buttoning my suit jacket. “And I don’t stomp.”

“You’re always grouchiest after work,” Adelaide says.

“Did you not hear the part about saving the fucking world? It’s a little stressful.”

“What do you do for these Lucidite people?”

“Mostly I tolerate them,” I say.

“Will you take me there? To their headquarters? To your office?”

“No, not yet. Maybe ever.” I check my hair in the mirror. It’s perfect as usual, all red spikes going in the perfect directions.

“You can’t keep me hidden forever,” she says.

“I don’t plan on it. And I’m doing you a favor. The Lucidite Institute is full of happy people.”

“Happy people are the worst,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “The majority of them have no bloody reason for being happy. If most people really saw themselves for the rejects they are they’d wipe that stupid grin off their face.”

I pull my eyes off my image and gaze at Adelaide in the mirror. “That sounded rehearsed,” I say.

She nods. “I’ve said it before. I hate people.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the feeling is mutual.”

“Ha-ha,” she says with zero inflection. “So what did Dahlia want? Are you two getting back together?”

“That wasn’t Dahlia,” I lie. “It was Santa Claus.”

“Why would you tell Santa that you’re shagging someone?”

“Because I like to be on the naughty list. It’s an annual goal.” I turn and face her directly and snap, “Now go and get dressed already.”

“Don’t snap at me like I’m your terrier,” she says, glaring at me.

“Don’t be absurd. You’re not smart enough to be compared to a loyal terrier.”

She looks down at her body, which is swimming in a sweater and jogging pants. “I am dressed.”

“Those aren’t clothes. Those are things that should be banned in Great Britain and made the uniform of fat Americans.”

“Prideful, are we?”

“Infinitely so,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my suit jacket down, snug with my wrist. “My motto is, dress like you give a fuck.”

“What if I don’t?” she sings.

“Fake it in my presence. I had clothes purchased for you. Go put them on and brush your hair.”

“Why?” she says, looking at me with both skepticism and hope. “Are we going somewhere?”

I sigh loudly. “Not if you don’t get your ass dressed.”

“We’re going to the Lucidite place?”

“No. To get there you have to know how to use a GAD-C to generate your body,” I say with an exaggerated sigh, like she should already know this information.

“What’s that? A GAD-C?”

“I’m going to teach you that, if you hurry the fuck up. I don’t like to be late,” I say.

“For what?” she says, peeling herself off the couch which shows evidence of her long stint on it.

I bulge my eyes at her.

Adelaide throws up her hands. “Fine. I’m going. I’m going.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Where are we?” Adelaide says as she bustles to keep up with me as we make our way out of the train station. Thank God we’ll be dream traveling back using a GAD-C. I loathe public transport.

“The holy pits of hell. Also known as Peavey, England,” I say my, eyes low so that no one recognizes me, although I kind of stick out no matter what with my dashing looks and vibrant red hair.

“Why are we here?” she says, sniffing a bit. “And what’s that smell?”

“Shit. It’s the town’s currency,” I say.

“Why did you bring me to a Podunk town? Is this a part of a dream travel lesson?”

“Don’t use that word,” I say, grimacing.

“Which one?”

“That ‘p’ word,” I say like it’s something foul. “And yes and no.”

“Because it’s an American expression?” she says.

“Because it’s a dumb one.”

She looks around, her eyes studying the drab surroundings. Peavey is a mostly colorless town this time of year. Well most times of year. “So let me guess, you’ve brought me out to the middle of nowhere, but aren’t going to divulge why. I’m on a need to know basis, and you’re not revealing anything until you feel like it.”

I pause in the middle of the road, which doesn’t matter since traffic is unheard of in Peavey.

Adelaide turns and looks at me. “What?”

“I do believe against your efforts to resist evolution and education, you’re actually learning. Be careful, your head might explode.”

She tosses her long hair off her shoulder and wraps the scarf tighter around her neck. “Oh, whatever.”

“We’re down here,” I say, pointing to a dirt lane. When we pass the Gretchens’ farm my chest tightens, the same way it does on every one of these visits. They don’t feel forced, but it definitely doesn’t feel natural. I stop a few feet from the old oak door. It’s still the same faded red it’s always been, although it gets repainted every few years.

Adelaide looks at me, curiosity heavy in her eyes.

I open my mouth to say something. To give her information. To explain why I’ve brought her here. Why I’ve been, in my opinion, charitable. And yet there are no words that sound right. So I just shake my head and knock at the door.

Since he was probably sitting close by on the couch in the living room, my pops opens the door within a minute. He was no doubt expecting me, since this is our normal time to catch up. He’s brandishing a large grin, his clear brown eyes sparkling with life when he sets his focus on me.

“Right on schedule, as always,” he says, a chuckle in his voice, and with a grace I inherited he throws an arm around my shoulder, clapping my back once as he tugs me into him. My pops then freezes. I feel the tension press throughout his body. He pulls back his large frame and as I suspected his eyes have found Adelaide at my back.

“Hey, Pops,” I say, feeling an unsteady sensation spread through my abdomen. Suddenly this decision to bring Adelaide here seems like the worst one ever. Well, besides the one where I shagged her mum, thereby knocking her up. I just thought Adelaide could use this. And really I’m doing it more for my pops than anyone. I know he’s always wished our family was bigger; well, and not estranged.

“This is Adelaide,” I begin. “She’s—”

“My granddaughter,” he says, his voice cracking, his eyes glued to the girl in front of him. The one who is watching my pops, studying him in that way she does. That one where I know she’s cataloging.

“Yes,” I say, my voice deep.

He presses past me, his back straight, the position of his shoulders telling of his excitement. “Jesus Christ,” he says, awe written in his words. “You look just like her.” He’s addressing Adelaide.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The word streams through my head as I press my palm into my forehead. It does little to ease the growing pressure in my head.

“What? Who?” Adelaide says, and from my dizzy vision I spy her step forward, toward my pops, her eyes wide and intrigue written on her face.

“Mary,” Pops says, and the way he speaks my mum’s name makes me miss her, makes me realize that almost twenty years later and he does too. “Your grandmum. You look just like her. Like the girl I married.” He chuckles loudly now, but it’s covered in a weighty emotion. When he turns back to me there’s a smile on his face I haven’t seen in too long, the smile he used to adorn when she was alive. It burns my insides. “She’s gorgeous, Ren. Your mum in every way. Uncanny, really,” he says, shaking his head and turning back around to stare at the girl who even I admit reminds me of the only woman I ever truly trusted. My mum wasn’t the type who people grew to trust. She earned that the moment she turned her earnest green eyes on a person and smiled with the light of an angel. She gave people too much credit. Loved them more than they deserved. Bestowed her unwavering attention on them. And it’s because of her that there’s any good in me. Most boys love their mum because they are their mum. I loved my mum because she was remarkable in every way. I knew why my pops chose her, a Middling, over partnering with a Dream Traveler. He would rather have had a short fifty years with her than a long eighty with someone from his own race.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, well, she’s—”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Reynold,” Adelaide says with that grace, the family one. She extends her hand to my pops and curtsies slightly.

“Granddad,” he says, the smile in his voice again. “You call me granddad. And we hug in this family.” And then the old man has his arms around hers so fast, pulling her tiny frame against his as he hugs her. He’s all arms and legs. All unyielding spirit.

Adelaide lets out a muffled laugh and the whole exchange is too much for me. I turn and walk into the house, preparing myself to stare at the wall for the next several hours as un-pleasantries happen. That’s what I’m expecting from this reunion. A preponderance of un-pleasantries.

Over-spiced beef stew is strong in the air when I enter the house. Pops can’t cook. It’s not like I’m comparing him to my mum. Compared to a blind man with no sense of taste, he can’t cook.

“You’re Ren’s pops?” Adelaide says as she enters the house. She has a confused expression on her face like she’s still struggling with disbelief and bewilderment.

“I am,” Pops says, that familiar disappointment already in his voice. “And you called him by his first name?” my pops says to Adelaide.

“Yeah,” she says a little sheepishly. “He told me to.”

“It’s my name. That’s what everyone calls me. Well, to my face,” I say.

“But she’s your daughter,” my pops says, wrinkles connected to his sudden stress surfacing on his face.

“Don’t call her that,” I say and grimace. “And before a week ago she was a stranger.” I grimace again.

“Has he always been like this?” Adelaide says, stepping up close to my pops. Both of them are glaring at me like I’m a gorilla on the other side of the glass at a zoo.

“Always,” my pops says, nodding. “But deep down inside, on a good day, Ren can be incredibly loving.”

“That’s completely false,” I say but get the sense they’re pretending not to hear me.

“You know, Ren was the best thing Mary and I ever did,” my pops says, his eyes now glowing with pride. Both he and Adelaide are regarding me with different levels of interests.

“Oh, for the love of God. Why did I bring you here? You two are going to cohort against me now,” I say.

“Why did you bring me here? That doesn’t seem in line with your usual actions,” Adelaide says, her proximity too close to my pops as though being near him is automatically natural.

I roll my eyes and then throw my hand in my pops’ direction. “I did it for him. He likes people and family.”

“Is there more family?” Adelaide says, turning to my pops.

He lets out a long sigh and presses his hand to the back of his head. “There is, but—”

“My sister is insane,” I say, cutting him off, relieving him of saying what I know he doesn’t want to admit. “She’s a permanent resident of a mental hospital. So be warned, crazy runs in the family.”

“I kind of knew that since we met,” she says, sticking out her tongue at me.

“She has daughters though. They’re American. Maybe you can be pen pals,” I say.

“I’m not looking for a family reunion. And honestly I don’t really get along with girls. Or Americans,” Adelaide says.

“Because they’re wasteful?” I say.

“Because they think they’re better than everyone else,” she says.

“No arguments there,” I say.

“So you recently found Ren, I’m guessing,” my pops says to Adelaide.

“Yeah, he wasn’t happy about it,” she says.

“He will come around,” Pops says.

“I won’t,” I say.

“Having a child is a wonderful experience, Ren,” he says.

“For those with a soul,” I say.

He turns to Adelaide and winks. “Give him time and he will fall in love with you. I’m already endeared to you like a kindred spirit. Must be those eyes you inherited from my Mary.”

Adelaide gets an all wrong happy look on her face.

“She has my powers,” I say, cutting into their sappy-ass moment.

My pops drops his head a little, his eyes closing for a beat. When he looks at me, there’s the stress I knew would be caused by my admission.

“Yeah, not the little angel that you were thinking. When you hugged her she probably stole all your current thoughts out of your brain,” I say.

“I didn’t,” she says, and then hesitates. “At least I tried to ignore them.”

“I need to have a disclaimer plastered across your forehead,” I say.

“You don’t have one,” she says to me.

“I don’t touch people…anymore,” I add a second later.

“Having powers like Ren’s must have been very confusing for you. Is your mum a Middling?” Pops asks.

She nods.

“So you had no way of knowing what was happening to you, did you?” he says to her. Always the intuitive one, my pops.

“Right,” Adelaide says.

“Well, that must have been difficult. Ren has always known who he was and I fostered his skills, helping him to develop and control them,” he says.

“Which is exactly why I’ve taken the little monster in, and also another reason I brought her to you. Since you’re retired and bored to hell I figured you’d take on some of her training when I’m earning a bloody living to support her,” I say.

“Ren…” my pops says with that tone he thinks works on me. No tone works on me, I’m only compliant when I care to be.

“So you’ll train her when I’m busy, which means I won’t have to worry about her defacing parts of London. And as a bonus, then you won’t have to sit around here all day staring at the bloody walls. Haven’t I thought of everything?” I say smugly.

“I’d love it if you trained me instead of Ren,” Adelaide says.

“Not instead,” I say sharply. “My pops is good, but he only has one skill and it isn’t one we share. You still need my unique knowledge to make it out in the world. Or there’s always the option of offing yourself. That one is still on the table, you know.”

At this my pops actually laughs. “Oh, Ren, you and your jokes. They always sneak up on me and produce a laugh.”

I thread my arms together. “Not joking.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand and then turns to Adelaide. “I’m happy to help. But firstly, are you hungry?”

And although my reasons had been solid, I still knew that introducing these two was only going to create more problems for me. Adelaide is going to sew herself into my life until she is a permanent part of the patchwork.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“So you really think that teleporting is a skill that people can learn?” I say to Trey from my kickstand place against the wall to the training studio.

“Yes, but not every Dream Traveler could learn to teleport so easily, or maybe at all. Your powers as a Dream Traveler make it possible for you to hook in to potentially any skill,” he says, sitting on a chair in the corner, his elbows on his knees. “Really I think that your skills make it easier for you acquire powers. However, I firmly believe that any Dream Traveler with enough practice can obtain any gift.”

“So why aren’t you reading minds or controlling them?” I say.

“Who says I’m not?” Trey says, no smile on his face. “I got you to work for me.”

“I did it out of guilt,” I say.

“Control is a funny thing.”

“You’re a funny thing,” I say.

Trey pauses, then his face shifts. “Everything is energy, Ren.”

“Don’t patronize me like I’m one of your bloody residents. I already know the ‘everything is energy’ speech. I fucking wrote it,” I say.

“Well, then you know that our skills are just us accessing different energies. When you touch someone you feel the energy of their thoughts. When you control people you’re accessing the energy that produces their desires and actions,” Trey says.

“This is all very boring. You should leave the lectures to me. I’m theatrical when I teach,” I say.

“Yes, your students have mentioned that,” he says, a disapproving look on his face. “They also say some of your teaching tactics are a bit radical.”

For decades I’ve been teaching the employees of the Institute, training them on the dreamscape and its assorted powers. It was an extra duty I took on to ensure those who went through orientation got a proper education. Well, and also it was a way to entertain myself by berating halfwits.

“Well, under the right circumstances I think you’re powerful enough to teleport,” Trey says. “And if you’re going to work level five cases regularly then it’s a good idea to have an arsenal.”

“I will be working level fives,” I say.

“That’s yet to be determined. You’re getting this current case,” Trey says.

“Teleporting. Teach me your hocus-pocus,” I say, circling my hand at him.

Trey nods and then says, “The whole process works similarly to the one you use for creating illusions. You’re pulling from already present energy to manifest something that doesn’t really exist. In some ways you’ll find that illusions are harder because you’re creating that which isn’t real. With teleporting you’re only pulling your already existing energy to a new location using the fabric of consciousness.”

I pull out my pocketknife from my trouser pocket and immediately go to work cleaning under my nails, which I keep all the exact same length. One centimeter. Not too short. Not too long.

“You really do love to hear yourself talk,” I say, my eyes on my hand.

“Focusing on location is important, but you’re already comfortable with being precise with that due to dream traveling. The thing that makes the process of teleporting unique is belief. Remember how you reacted the first time you saw me teleport?” Trey says. “You didn’t believe it was real. You were in disbelief that I actually teleported.”

“To my credit, I thought you were trying to kill me,” I say, my mind flashing back to the long ago memory. Trey had intersected my path in an alleyway. Materialized out of the fucking air. Thinking he was an illusion, I ran straight into him. One of my palms is still scarred from the fall that resulted from that collison.

“The point is that you couldn’t fathom the possibility that teleporting was real and doable. That’s the hurdle for most people. Belief,” he says, tapping his head. “It’s the major prevention to a successful teleportation. You first learn the science and then you believe you can.”

“And then I chant some ancient babble and poof, I teleport?”

He shrugs. “Or you don’t and you sever your body from your consciousness. Or mangle your physical body. Or you disappear altogether. Never to be see again, stuck forever in the cosmos.”

I nod, having expected something like this to be unveiled casually. “And now you’ve finally disclosed why everyone in this bloody Institute isn’t popping around, teleporting their asses off.”

“Yes, it’s quite dangerous.”

“It sounds as though,” I say.

“That’s one of the reasons I’ve never taught this to anyone before. No one has ever had the right talents and level of power,” Trey says.

“So either your crush on me has gone too deep or you want me dead,” I say.

“The decision to make your first attempt to teleport is yours now that you know the risk. If you’re still interested in proceeding then I’ll share the process, which is surprisingly easy. But you have to be sure you want to do this, since it is incredibly dangerous,” Trey says.

“I’m not a fucking pansy. Tell me how to do this awesome party trick,” I say.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As I intended, I teleport behind the center column in the atrium of the Galleria mall in Dallas, Texas. Even after practicing a hundred times, the experience of teleporting makes me feel like my skeleton is being ripped through the pores of my body. It’s way worse than using a GAD-C, which I no longer really need. Hell, I don’t have to walk to the bloody post box if I don’t want to. I can just pop wherever I want on the globe. However, Trey has asked that I limit teleporting since apparently materializing out of the polluted air is somewhat uncommon. I’m only to use teleporting when traveling to secure locations or when I’m in desperate need. I deem this situation as such, since I’m here to intervene in something that although we don’t know much about, we suspect is of great threat.

Worse than feeling like my bones have been reduced to dust and then reassembled is visiting a bloody mall. I fucking hate malls. Hundreds of repulsive people milling about with their dumb faces and their sick obsession with scoring a buyer’s high. They fill up their shopping bags with rubbish they don’t need all while emptying their already pathetically low bank accounts.

The toxic fumes wafting from the food court assault my nostrils at first landing. Trey better double my salary after dealing with this shit. I withdraw the brain cell–frying gadget from my pocket. If this thing works then it might have even been worth the torture I endured listening to Aiden’s nasally-ass babble.

The screen registers each individual in my thirty-foot proximity when I switch it on, which unfortunately is more bloody dots than I care to count. There are so many dots that they overlap. Worse than that is that only one red dot sits on the screen. Mine.

Roya’s description of the person being abducted was pretty worthless. Sixty years old. Gray. Male. The only detail I got her to see was a football helmet which in the state of Texas does me no bloody good. Shit related to football is plastered everywhere. It’s like books were banned in this city and head-crushing sports assigned as a mandatory obsession.

A black dot moves on the screen and reveals a single red dot at my two o’clock. I whip my head in that direction, but there’s a sea of people in front of a shiny store front, some passing by, a few pausing to browse. I turn my attention back to the device. Another red dot appears. Then another. There’s four now. Two at my back. I swing around to find more hordes of people. But my photographic memory is excellent at snapping a picture and sifting through it until something meets the criteria of what I’m looking for. And that’s when I see him. A man, sixty-something. Gray receding hair. But the thing that grabs my attention is what he’s wearing. His back, which is to me, is covered in a huge emblem of a Cowboys football helmet. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and wind pants. Two articles of clothing that should be outlawed.

The man stands stock-still, the moving crowd parting to make their way around him. His hands hang loose by his side. His shoulders slack. This position is reminiscent of a person under hypnosis, but he’s still standing. He’s the abductee, which means… I flick my eyes to the screen. The closest red dot has moved in. It’s right in front of him. Something else on the screen catches my attention. The first red dot is moving. Roya’s vision only centered on Person G, who is to be abducted by Blocker. There should only be three Dream Travelers. This other one on the screen could just be a random Dream Traveler, but we only make up less than ten percent of the population. So to find a random one here is odd. Then that strange red dot moves in my direction. I can’t worry about this. I have to intervene and identify the blocker.

I switch my gaze to the man, Person G. He’s still in place but now beside him is a woman. She’s excessively blonde, her hair obviously the result of too many chemicals. And if that isn’t distracting enough she’s wearing a corseted red dress; the length is conservative but the slit up the side is the opposite of modest. And her heels make it so she’s eye to eye with the man beside her. She leans in and whispers something in his ear. He lifts his hand like it’s weighted by lead, slow and deliberate. Then she wraps her hand around his fingers, and I’m overwhelmed by the idea that it’s not a deal that’s been made, but rather a partnership.

And I just watch. Lamely stand and watch. Unmoving. The scene in front of me shifts suddenly. It swirls. Turns into large pixels. It’s an unnatural change. One that almost feels drug induced. I press my eyes closed. Throw my focus on strengthening the shield I already had in place, the one that is supposed to prevent anyone tampering with my mind or getting into my thoughts, which is what I now suspect has happened. When I open my eyes the scene is clear. The hallucination gone. But things have progressed. The woman is leading the man away, her hand in his as if this twenty-something vixen is stealing herself a new daddy.

No, I think but that’s the only resistance I’m allowed. My feet remain planted. My muscles somehow paralyzed, although I remain upright. Again my vision starts to morph, like it’s made of cotton candy being spun on a cone. I fight the assault on my mind and too briefly the image of the pair snaps into focus. The woman, Blocker, turns back, her hand still pressed into the wrinkled man’s. Her eyes connect with mine and she winks one large dark eye at me. And then as the corners of my vision turn into singed pieces of parchment, burning in on itself, the woman’s eyes snap to something just behind me. I whip around and there standing before me is a figure. A blur of a figure, like I’m seeing it in a funhouse mirror.

Stop, I think but am disallowed from saying the word. Too strong is the hallucination in my head. And then the face of the girl flickers into focus before everything heightens. The colors grow too bright. Sounds too loud. The space a cacophony of an exaggerated world. My brain is close to exploding. Teleport away, I tell myself. Teleport. I throw all my remaining focus into that thought, but I know any real hope of getting away is useless. And then my vision is overwhelmed by a bolt of lightning. It strikes the space right before me, a lethal distance. One that I can’t survive.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A cramping sensation awakens me. It’s in my brain. Something is pinching at my frontal lobe. The light is dim when I awake, but immediately I recognize the location. I’m safe. I thought I was dead. Feared where I was headed when God finally caught my soul. But I’m not dead. Not yet. Somehow I’ve been relocated to the Lucidite Institute. The implications of that boggle my mind at first. But then I piece together exactly how I’m in my current location.

I sit up, pushing away the now stabbing pain in my head. “You put me on a bloody plane?” I say to Trey, who has his head down, a book pressed into his hands. He looks up from his place beside my bed. Then he sets the book to the side and calmly folds his hands in his lap.

Finally he says, “What option did I have? You had passed out. You couldn’t Dream Travel. There were no other means to transport you.”

“I loathe flying,” I say with a groan.

“You were passed out,” he repeats.

“Tell that to the insane heaviness I have in my head. I can’t do pressure changes. You know that,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Well, that could also be a result of the submarine trip.”

I sit up more completely to find I’m wearing repulsive white scrubs, which are stiff against my skin. They’re the uniform of the Institute. Each position is colored coated. White means I’m a resident of the infirmary. “Why didn’t you leave me to die?” I say, pulling the shirt away from my chest.

“You’ve been out for over twenty-six hours,” Trey reports.

“An agent brought me in?” I ask, already having pieced together a great deal since I awoke a minute ago.

“A few actually. We sent the private plane once we learned the severity of your situation. Getting you away from the authorities was complicated,” Trey says.

“Well yeah, I passed out in the middle of a mall. I bet all sorts of people had their gross hands on me,” I say, looking over my freckled arms.

“Yes, they were about to load you onto an ambulance when we intervened. Memories have already been erased,” he says as casually as if reporting that our office supply order has arrived.

Trey is one of those men who have the power and brilliance to make almost anything happen. And yet he uses it to save the bloody world and keep the identity of his organization and its employees a secret.

I squint down at the blanket lying over my lap.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Like a fucking idiot,” I say. And I do, and it’s a first. This must be how the majority of people feel most of the time. It’s awful. Makes me pity them.

“Ren, I’m not sure what happened is something you could have avoided, but to determine that you’ll have to share the events that transpired.”

“The girl who was abducted in the second case,” I say, my voice scratchy from unemployment. “The one who had just hit puberty, but no one knew her dream travel gift. She was there, at the mall.”

“Person D,” Trey says, nodding. “Yes, her name is Sophie, we now know.”

“She has the ability to make someone hallucinate,” I say, my eyes narrowing with anger.

“That’s what happened to you? You hallucinated?”

“More than just that. The hallucination is why I passed out. And I think it was supposed to kill me,” I say, blood thundering in my head. This shit just got personal, which isn’t good for Blocker, if living is her goal.

“Yes, Mae says your subconscious had been overloaded with images. That there was little she could do and that you’d wake if and when your mind repaired itself,” Trey says, and only now do I notice the new stress on his face. He appears more tired than usual, which is incredibly impressive since the man always looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

Mae is the Institute’s healer, and it’s probably due to her help that I awoke at all. “I bet you’ve been worrying yourself sick,” I say with a chuckle that makes my head feel it might shatter.

A sliver of a smile forms on Trey’s face. “So Sophie has the ability to kill thorough hallucination. That’s extremely troublesome.”

“Well, I’m certain she could probably use that skill for good, but people rarely ever do. And it appears in this instance she’s employing it as a weapon,” I say.

“You said more than just the hallucination happened,” Trey says.

“Yes, I was paralyzed also. I couldn’t will myself to move. That’s why I couldn’t intervene when the man was abducted. And that’s why I couldn’t fight the hallucination.”

Trey nods, probably having deduced that I’d failed and Person G has been abducted. “So that’s how Sophie got close enough to put you under a hallucination. You were paralyzed.”

“Yes, but my instinct tells me that she doesn’t have both powers. I think Person G has the skill to paralyze. Or Blocker, who by the way is a hot ass blonde with the eyes of a succubus,” I say, seeing the vision of her swim into my head. Blocker doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever met. She was overdressed and overdone in every way. And it was strangely incredibly attractive, showing her unmistakable confidence and power.

“Oh good, you did ID Blocker,” Trey says, the first bit of relief jumping to his features.

“Yes, but she got away too easily. The witch just walked in and grabbed Person G’s hand and walked away,” I say.

“James. We know now that the person abducted in Dallas was named James. He’s been reported missing by his family,” Trey says. “And as you’ve already guessed his skill is paralysis. On multiple levels he can paralyze a person.”

“Oh fuck. That stupid bitch. She had him paralyze me. I knew it,” I say, throwing my head back into the pillow, which of course was a horrid idea and sends a stabbing pain to my frontal lobe.

“Yes, it seems as though you’re right and Blocker was controlling him somehow,” Trey begins. “James is pretty powerful according to his wife, who we’ve already interviewed. His skill is based on his proximity to a person, but even still it operates at a pretty impressive distance. And he doesn’t have to be looking at the person to paralyze them, only focusing on them in their respective location.”

“I was twenty feet away and directly behind him,” I say, slightly overwhelmed by a person with that kind of power. My powers can operate remotely, but most people need to be close to the person they are trying to use their skill on, like the way I sense Sophie needs proximity to make someone hallucinate. She had been just in front of me when I passed out.

Trey nods. “And James can freeze a person in place or just a single part of them, although that takes more focus.”

“He can freeze a heart,” I say.

“That’s my thought,” Trey says, and the weight of the implications behind all this is perfectly written on his face.

“Blocker is abducting an army of assassins,” I say.

“I think so. But the thing is that these people, James and Sophie, are good citizens. Everyone has vouched for their honor during our investigations,” Trey says.

“But they have skills that are dangerous,” I say, not concerned with other people’s opinions. I operate on facts.

“Yes, it appears so. And based on what happened to you it’s unnerving how Blocker has control over them,” Trey says.

“How does she have this control? She walked up to this man, who is seemingly a stranger, whispered something in his ear, and then led him away. No fight, nothing.”

Trey shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery. But there’s more. James’s best friend, who lives in Flint, Michigan, was also abducted on the same day. We’ve been able to link the news reports.”

“What’s his skill?” I say.

“He’s a Middling.”

I press my finger to my throbbing temple. “That makes no sense. Blocker must have abducted him, but why?”

“Well, maybe it will come to you when you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” I say, pulling the collar of the scrub shirt away from my neck. I’ll probably get a nasty rash from wearing something so gross. “Who can I yell at for putting me in this get-up?”

“Mae and her staff. Your clothes are over there,” Trey says, pointing at my suit which is neatly folded and lying on a chair next to the bed.

“They no doubt peeped at my knob when they changed me,” I say, hating the idea that I was seen in such a ridiculous state. It might take therapy to deal with this.

“Yes, people will no doubt be even more obsessed with you now. You’re the talk of the Institute,” Trey says, rising from the chair.

“Next time just leave me to die,” I say, mostly meaning it.

He walks for the exit on the other side of the bed-lined infirmary and then pauses at the door and turns to look at me. Trey’s sincere eyes have that look about them now. That subtle fondness. “Ren, I’m relieved you woke up.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Still too weak to dream travel, let alone teleport, I’m forced to take the Lucidite jet to London. If I didn’t want to die already, then I do now. How Middlings handle their lowly lives, I will never comprehend.

Adelaide is actually sitting at the dining room table sketching when I drag myself into my flat.

“Well, well, well. I see you’ve decided to stop contaminating the couch with your odor,” I say, throwing my suit jacket on the chair beside the door. Usually I’d hang it up, but that would take energy I don’t have presently.

Adelaide scowls at me and it’s almost satisfying to see that look on her face. “I get bored hanging around this place you’ve imprisoned me.”

“Soon your training will be complete and I’ll set you free,” I say, pretending not to eye the sketches sprawled out around her. “I’m thinking of releasing you in the Sahara or some other equally dangerous territory.”

She runs her eyes over me, a not quite concerned look on her face, but the emotion is simmering under the surface. “Are you all right?”

“Not even a little bit,” I say, throwing myself down with a grunt in my armchair.

Adelaide turns from her place at the table, a dozen or so colored pencils meticulously arranged by hue beside her drawings. “I met your boss,” she says, a teasing quality to her voice.

“Trey is more like my contemporary,” I say.

“He said you work for him at that place, the Lucidite Institute.”

“Trey pays my salary. I don’t work for anyone. I do things and receive money,” I say.

“Have you always been so pedantic?” She grabs one of the colored pencils and busies herself sharpening it.

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Big word. And used correctly. I do believe some of my cultured ways are rubbing off on you, Miss Eliza Doolittle.”

“Oh, shove it up your ass,” she says and then blows on the pencil, sending bits of shaving and dust on the floor.

I click my tongue at her. “Well, maybe not.”

“When Trey came by he said you were hurt and he couldn’t advise on when or if you’d recover,” she says, laying the pencil back in its spot, careful to put it even with its brethren.

“God decided he wasn’t ready to deal with my sorry ass just yet,” I say and then I’m overwhelmed by a yawn, which makes my head feel like I’ve had a brick dropped on it.

“Yeah, I bet you’re going to burn when your time comes,” Adelaide says casually.

“Probably,” I say with an indifferent shrug.

“Trey, who by the way is really nice and nothing like you, said you’re an agent for the Lucidites. He was surprised when I didn’t know that you intervene on world affairs to create peaceful solutions,” Adelaide says.

“Oh, for the love of fucking God. Why does Mr. Do-Gooder have to be such a blabbermouth?”

“I am your daughter. I think him sharing that information with me was acceptable,” she says.

I lower my eyes but leave my response to that statement tucked in my mouth.

“I think it’s cool that you’re a secret agent for a secret organization,” she says.

“And I don’t care what you think.”

“If you’re so evil, then why do you do things to help the world?” she says, her voice rising in pitch with curiosity.

“I got bored,” I lie. “I ran out of books to read so it seemed like a nice distraction until death takes me away from this bloody planet.”

She kind of smiles, looking amused. “And how long have you been distracting yourself with this hobby of sorts?”

“Nineteen years.”

Adelaide’s mouth falls open, an idea dawning on her. “That’s why my mum could never find you. She said she searched for you. That she wanted your help with me, but you had disappeared.”

“Right,” I say, remembering how Dahlia spent millions of dollars trying to find me when I disappeared and she was unsuccessful. Adelaide’s mum had zero chance. I was as good as dead while stationed inside the Institute.

A sudden knock hammers on the front door, almost making me jump. My nerves are frayed after my encounter with Blocker and her minions.

“Are you expecting someone?” I say to Adelaide.

She narrows her eyes at me. “What do you think?”

“Has the cleaning woman been by today?”

“Yes, and the woman has a name, you know,” she says.

“Oh really, what is it?” I say, although I don’t care.

“I don’t know. She told me but I always call her some random name that I know isn’t hers,” Adelaide says with a proud smile.

“You don’t…” I say, an irritated heat in my voice.

“I do,” she chirps. “And I eat crumbly biscuits with a dangerous force in places where she’s already cleaned.”

I catch myself before I smile.

The knock sounds again.

“Well, go get it already,” I say, waving my hand at the door. “Maybe it’s a solicitor and you can berate them for the better part of an hour. I’m quite bored and could use the entertainment.”

“Me too. I hope it’s a Jehovah’s Witness. I love messing with those people,” Adelaide says, making for the door. She opens it and releases a frustrated sigh that sounds like she’s half gagging. “It’s her,” she says with a growl. She leaves the door open and turns, walking back to the table. “And she’s wearing enough perfume to make me barf.”

There, just framed in the opening of the door, is Dahlia. Two guards stand at her back. She’s wearing a black mink coat and winking out under it is the red dress I always tell her clashes horribly with my hair.

She leaves the guards in the hall, closing the door behind her. Her eyes on me the whole time. Everything about her is rushed, all worrying movements. “Ren, are you okay?” she says, her heels hammering across the parquet as she crosses the space. “Trey called. Told me your condition was uncertain.”

“Fuck that man,” I say under my breath.

“Then he just phoned again to say you were well and he felt it was his responsibility to update me on your state,” Dahlia says.

Because he knew I was unlikely to, I think. “Isn’t he a doll,” I say, throwing my head back on the cushion behind me. My skull feels close to splintering into a thousand gross pieces. “I’m fine,” I say, feeling Dahlia too close. Smelling her.

“That’s not what you told me,” Adelaide sings from the dining room. “I believe you said ‘not even a little bit’ when I inquired into your physical state.”

“Shut up, little girl,” I say, my voice monotone.

I catch Dahlia give Adelaide a look over her shoulder. Not a nice look.

“What happened?” Dahlia says back in my direction.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, irritated on a new level. Dahlia staring down at me with a half pissed, half concerned look is more than I care to wrap my mind around right now. Honestly, God couldn’t be shoving any more down my throat presently, which means there’s probably a shit storm brewing just outside the walls of my flat.

“It does matter. You were almost killed,” Dahlia says, click-clacking to the other side of my chair. She sits on the couch so we’re eye level, but I keep my gaze off her.

“Almost doesn’t count,” I say.

“Trey says you were in a coma of sorts. That they had done everything they could for you and were just hoping you’d wake up,” Dahlia says, really working herself up with each word.

“Wow, that’s kind of cool,” Adelaide says, her eyes on the sketch before her.

I ignore her obvious eavesdropping and say, “And I woke up, so there.”

“It was a level five case, wasn’t it? You convinced Trey to give you one,” Dahlia says, her voice punishing.

“What’s a level five case?” Adelaide asks from the dining room.

“Color me a picture and mind your own bloody business,” I say to Adelaide.

I hear a long exaggerated gasp from the table.

“Ren,” Dahlia begins. “I knew this kind of thing was going to happen. It’s just a matter of time―”

“What?” I bark at Dahlia. “Before I get myself killed? Yes, the life expectancy of level five agents isn’t entirely long. I wrote the fucking book for them. But now it’s my time to jump in the bloody book and be one of those agents.”

“Even if it gets you killed?”

“Dahlia…” I say, using all my reserves to keep myself from exploding with anger.

“I don’t think he wants to discuss this further,” Adelaide sings from the table, a strange glee in her voice.

“Shut up,” I sing back. Less song in my voice.

Dahlia’s eyes narrow into slices at Adelaide, then she directs her half-moons at me.

“You don’t have to be taking chances like this,” Dahlia says to me.

“It’s what I want to do,” I say, on the verge of blowing up, my head the detonator.

“Even if it gets you killed?” Dahlia roars.

“I can get rolled over by a vehicle walking across the motorway,” I say.

“Ren, we both know this is way more lethal than crossing the damn road,” Dahlia says.

I press my eyes shut and try counting back from ten. When I’m at seven Adelaide says, “It sounds like he’s made up his mind.”

“Would you mind your own business?” Dahlia screams, her eyes still on me.

“You’re the one having the argument for me to hear. Stop parading your business right in front of me and I’ll stop offering my incredible input,” Adelaide says over the sketching sounds she’s making.

“When is her training done? When will she be gone?” Dahlia says, looking almost madder than I’ve ever seen her. Almost.

“I don’t kno—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Adelaide says, cutting me off.

Both Dahlia’s and my heads spin around to face the girl at the table.

“What?” I say, surprise in my voice.

“Well, not in the foreseeable future,” Adelaide says with a casual shrug. “I like it here. Feels natural.”

“Oh, no fucking way,” Dahlia says.

“Way,” Adelaide says and there’s a hint of pride in her voice. Then she brings her eyes up to look at me. “And Ren, you probably don’t want to hear this, but I like you. I’m sure most don’t, but you make sense to me. You help me to feel like I make sense. We’ve both been hardened by having these powers. And it’s nice to have someone I can finally relate to. I need that in my life.” And she says all those sentences so calmly. So matter-of-factly. Like they aren’t the ammunition that’s about to rip my life right apart.

“Adelaide, I think you’d better go,” I say, watching new lines form on Dahlia’s face.

“But, I-I-I…” And the girl sounds afraid. Rejected.

“Not forever,” I say, cutting off her nervous stuttering. “Just pop down to the market or take a walk. Give Dahlia and me some privacy, would you?”

And then the girl nods, but suddenly she doesn’t look like a girl at all, but rather like a fragile child. “I won’t talk to anyone, I promise,” she says, pushing up from the table. “Or touch them.”

“Good,” I say, realizing she’s trying, really trying to show her compliance. And I don’t know what to say to that. It should satisfy me, but it doesn’t because I know that she’s being this way so she can stay in my life. And I don’t know if I can have that. I pictured that when I trained her that would be the end of it. Sure, she’d come round to my pops’ on the off weekends that I wasn’t visiting. We’d keep a distance. Separate lives. But she wants more from me. And not only is that a burden, it’s a decision and I’m not prepared to make it.

When the door clicks shut Dahlia spins around to face me. I rise at once, realizing that I need to be on my feet to properly have this fight. She matches my stance.

“Ren, where do I even begin?” Dahlia says, throwing her arm wide at the door.

“How about with an apology,” I say, crossing my arms in from of my chest.

“You’re out of your mind. I have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m a man, Dahlia. A real one. I’m not one of your lemmings who bow to your every command.”

“I love that about you,” she says.

“Obviously you don’t. If you did then we wouldn’t be apart,” I say.

“We’re apart because of her,” Dahlia says, pointing at the door where Adelaide exited.

“And because of this job. You want to dictate what I do and who is in my life, but that’s not how this arrangement works.”

“I just find it stressful, is all,” Dahlia says, her voice a little calmer.

“You’re speaking to the man on blood pressure medicine. I get it. But this is my life and I’m not changing. You don’t like that I’m working level five cases. Would you rather that I was still scamming? Still stealing old women’s retirement funds? Taking businessmen’s gambling money?” I say, feeling on the verge of passing out again. Never have I been this exhausted.

“Well, no. But if you were then I would be okay with it knowing you were safe,” she says.

“Dahlia, you’re fucking ridiculous. I’m finally doing something I enjoy and you want me to stop because it makes you worry. When have I ever told you what to do? Not to go on tour? Not to kill yourself churning out another album? The answer is that I haven’t. You live your life by your rules and I do the same. You must really misunderstand me to think that I’d allow you to control me. I’m not that kind of man. I’m the kind who does whatever the fuck I want and you either accept it or you leave me alone. There is no negotiating over this. I am not the compromising type and you had better know that by now,” I say.

“I get that there won’t be any compromises with you. But still. There’s a lot that you’re asking me to accept. A dangerous job. A bitch of a daughter. And after—”

“Don’t call her that,” I say, cutting her off.

Dahlia pauses and regards me with a sideways stare. “You’re starting to like her, aren’t you?”

“God no!” I say, arranging my face so I appear offended by the question.

“Of course you do. She’s exactly like you. Adelaide is you with a vagina,” Dahlia says with a humorless laugh.

“No…I mean…maybe.” Then an almost smile breaks across my face at a sudden memory.

“What?” Dahlia asks, having read the look on my face.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, hesitating a little. “It just the other day Adelaide told the doorman that he was a worthless piece of shit and a monkey could perform his job. And then she told him, ‘Open the door for me, chimp.’ She’s fucking hilarious. About like you. I’ve been wanting to say that same thing to him forever.”

“I don’t think your daughter and I are anything alike,” Dahlia says.

“I get that you don’t trust her and don’t know how to assimilate her into our lives but—”

“I didn’t think I was going to have to. I thought she’d go away eventually and then we could try getting back together. But as of now it appears she’s stapling herself to you. Soon she’ll monopolize all your free time and you two will be like an inseparable duo,” she says.

“Dahlia, you’re not being fair.”

“No, I’m not,” she admits at once. “But you’ve changed since she’s come into your life. I see the way you look at her.”

“What?” I say, and I’m actually offended now. “What are you talking about?”

“Not in a weird way. She’s your daughter. You look at her with a strange fondness,” Dahlia says.

“I don’t,” I growl.

“You do. And it’s kind of cute, but then also not at all. It’s not how I’m used to seeing you. It changes things between us,” she says.

“You realize you’re sounding like a possessive witch right now?”

She purses her lips slightly, tightens her eyes. “I do. But that’s how I feel.”

“I’m the same person I’ve always been. You’re the one trying to change me,” I say, feeling almost zapped of the will to live from this bloody conversation.

“I’m not. I just don’t like how your life is changing. I’m allowed to say that,” Dahlia says.

“Get out,” I say in a low voice.

“What?” She blinks at me like she misheard.

“Get out,” I repeat.

“But—”

“What? You thought we were fixing this?” I say, cutting her off. “Is that what you really believed? Dear Dahlia, what you’re too small-minded to realize is there’s no fixing us when you’re so much a part of the problem. After almost two decades, I came back to you. I put aside my pride. I apologized,” I say with a disgusted shiver. “But you don’t want this. Maybe you never did, only thought we worked. Maybe you romanticized the idea of having a relationship with a Dream Traveler. But what you, Dahlia, fail to understand is I was given these powers and can’t waste them working in a ticketing booth in the Underground. I’m a fucking agent for the Lucidites. And yes, as much as I don’t love the idea that I have a daughter who shares my powers, I’m not abandoning her for you. For anyone. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not the kind of person who avoids responsibility,” I say, and feel my heart hammer too fast in my chest from all the angry words and frustrating truths I’ve spoken.

There’s something breaking in Dahlia. I see it so plainly in her eyes. A tragedy writing itself deeply inside her and welling to the surface little by little. “Ren, I can’t be with the person you are now.”

“I know. That’s why we won’t ever be together,” I say. “I don’t plan on changing.”

And too fast she pivots and marches across the space, the urge to exit heavy in her every movement.

I whip around and with an incredibly blinding force I throw my foot into the side of the coffee table. As the leg cracks and pieces spray in the opposite direction, a hot pain rockets through my foot. Immediately I know my shoe failed to protect my toes from being broken. The table leg finally gives way, buckling to one side, and all its contents slide down at my feet. Behind me I hear the gentle click of the door closing. Wondering if Dahlia has changed her mind and wants to act like a civilized and reasonable human being, I turn. But to my disappointment I find Adelaide, her eyes wide and on the broken table behind me.

“I’m guessing you’re not up for a hug, huh?” she says, her voice flat and her words strangely making me feel better somehow.

“You didn’t leave the building, I guess,” I say.

“I sat in the hallway and antagonized her goons.”

I nod.

“I’m afraid of being out there,” she says, pointing to the window, meaning the world.

I nod again. I acutely remember having those same fears. It’s hard being in a world that doesn’t understand me and that I can so easily break. It’s a wretched combination, like God was hoping I’d try to destroy his world and was just testing my self-control.

“Well, you can stay here,” I say, turning and almost falling over with the next step. My toes are definitely broken. I manage to save myself and shuffle my foot forward, hopefully in a way that doesn’t attract that much attention.

“For a while?” Adelaide says, a bit of hope in her question.

I slide my head over my shoulder and briefly glance at Adelaide. “For as long as you need to,” I say and leave.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It’s rustling that awakens me. A small sound, but sharp in my head, like brittle leaves underfoot on an autumn day. She’s a blur but I still catch Adelaide as she throws something on the side table next to me and darts for her room. Like a sloth I push up from my slouched position, everything turning sideways in my vision before righting itself. I twist my head to the side table and my brain overheats at once.

“Adelaide,” I bark once, loud enough it makes my head feel like it’s being put through a sieve.

“Huh?” I hear from her doorway.

“Don’t fucking ‘huh’ me,” I say, my own voice making my sleep-hungover head burn with pain.

She materializes as first a wavy figure and then a solid girl. I bloody hate having emotions. They mess with my head in the worst ways.

“Do you know what I did to the last person who went through my shit?” I say.

“Let me guess, you can’t bring them forward to tell me because they’re dead,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her and giving me a snobbish glare.

I narrow my eyes at the girl who is too clever for her own good. “Would you like to join them in the afterlife?” I say.

“Depends on the day,” she says, a real melancholy in her voice. She looks pale. Those dark bags always under her eyes look worse. How hadn’t I noticed that until now?

“Why were you peeping into my files?” I say, pointing to the classified folder that sits half open on my side table.

“Because,” Adelaide says, throwing herself down on the rug in front of the half burnt out fire. She ties her legs together, sitting tailor style.

“Because is not an answer, it’s the beginning to an answer,” I say, rolling my eyes at her, which also makes my head hurt.

“Because you keep me in the dark and I’m tired of it. You took me in, but you keep me out,” she says, her face suddenly angry.

“Oh, how very poetic of you. Entertain me more with your clever phrases,” I say through a yawn.

She narrows her green eyes at me. Shakes her head. “You introduced me to your pops but refuse to talk about your mum, who you obviously loved a great deal. And I realize after hearing your chat with Dahlia that you love what you do too. But you won’t tell me a bloody thing. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t tell me about fair,” I say, my voice neutral. “People who complain about fairness—”

“I’m half your blood and DNA,” she says, cutting me off. She’s worked up I realize now. “And I expect that it means nothing to you that I’m your daughter. But to me, to finally have the opportunity to know my father means something. I don’t idolize you or anything. Hell, half my life I despised you for abandoning me and cursing me with what I thought was mental problems. And currently you madden me more than I thought possible. But I still want a chance to understand you, don’t you get that?”

I don’t respond and a whole minute goes by. It’s a minute full of our frustrated stares and her nervous fidgeting. Finally she says, “I get that you prefer to keep people at a distance. I’m not asking for that to change. I’m just curious about who you are and what you do. You’d feel the same if the opportunity was stolen from you to know your parents.”

“I can’t say how I’d feel in your situation. No one can speak from a place of unknowing,” I say, realizing I’m dodging.

“No, because it appears you had two accepting and loving parents,” she says, her words slow and full of a long harbored resentment.

“I did. Sue me,” I say plainly.

She pins her hands on the ground behind her and leans back. “You’re an agent. Tell me about that.”

Adelaide is relentless. I simultaneously want to squash that out of her and also help her preserve that characteristic. I purse my lips at her and make an impromptu decision which I’ll probably regret. “I’m a fixer.”

“What does that mean? You go and fix things, like FEMA does?” she says.

“Bloody no. I don’t wait around like those jerks until things happen. They clean shit up. I fix things before they happen,” I say.

She leans forward, looking suddenly perplexed and intrigued. “How do you do that?”

“News reports,” I say with a bored sigh. “I receive reports from a department full of clairvoyants who see future tragic events. They see other types of events too, but my responsibility is to work on bad cases.”

“Level five? That’s what Dahlia called them. She doesn’t want you working those kinds of cases. They’re really dangerous, that’s why, right? ” she says.

I grind my teeth together, mostly angry that the mention of her name affects me. “We aren’t talking about her,” I say simply.

Adelaide holds up her hands in surrender. “Sure, whatever. Just keep talking.”

“I was assigned a level five case,” I say, indicating the file.

“It said you failed. That the lady, Blocker, abducted the man, Person G,” Adelaide says.

“My memory is still intact and therefore I don’t need you reminding me of all of that,” I say, my voice aching for some reason.

Adelaide eyes me as she knits her hands into her oversized shirt sleeves. “You’re not used to failure, are you?”

“No, maybe you can tell me how to deal with it,” I say.

A solid laugh bursts from her mouth and the action shifts her usually melancholy face, seeming to give it color.

“Why was that funny?” I say, feigning confusion.

“So the report says that you suspect that Blocker is recruiting an army of assassins.”

I nod, steepling my hands in front of my face and looking down at the girl.

“And it also said there were still investigations surrounding the persons abducted connected to Person C and Person G.”

“Sophie and James,” I say, disbelieving I’m actually giving her information.

“Right. So you’re still investigating why James’s friend and Sophie’s sister’s abductions weren’t forecasted by the news reporters,” she says.

“Yes, we suspect that Blocker can shield those events somehow,” I begin. “And I’m thinking that maybe Blocker can’t entirely shield the events from news reporters where she abducts the person she plans to use as a weapon. However, I’m not certain why. Currently, with my brain on fire, none of this makes much sense.”

She huffs with a half laugh. “Because she’s there,” Adelaide says, a great deal of confidence in her tone.

“What did you just say?”

“Blocker can’t entirely shield events that’s she’s a part of,” she says.

I turn my head to the side, struck by this seemingly simple idea. “Go on,” I say.

“Well, if one of her skills is to block psychic energy then she’d have no trouble doing that with events where she’s not directly involved. But I read something one time about psychic energy. Specifically it was about the conservation of energy and how it can be transferred but never created or destroyed. So if that’s true then that means Blocker is diverting it. And I’ve also heard that psychic energy of certain types can be absorbed remotely but that same energy will always set off a flare when in the presence of a reflector.” She says all this slowly, like pulling up an almost forgotten memory.

“Where did you hear all this or read it or whatever?” I say, my adrenaline spiking.

She shrugs, her eyebrows crinkling together. “I can’t remember. Maybe I didn’t and it’s just a piece of archetype information I’m pulling from the subconscious mind, like Jung talks about,” she says with a chuckle like she only half believes what she said. But I believe it all. More importantly, I know she’s onto something.

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed by a rush. I bolt to a standing position as an idea springs to my mind. “Collected Works of C.G. Jung. That’s it,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Adelaide says. “I’ve read parts of that. There’s a lot about psychic energy in his books.”

I’m at my bookshelf, scanning for the right book in seconds. “She’s not a blocker at all. She’s reflecting. Of course,” I say, my voice a hush as it all fits together.

“Huh?”

I turn and glare at Adelaide, who has pushed to a standing position. “Take that word out of your vocabulary. It isn’t a word at all actually, but rather a sound uncivilized apes make.”

“Aw, and here I thought you didn’t know me at all,” she says.

I turn back to the bookcase and pull volume five, Psychology and Alchemy, from the shelf. It’s not going to detail my theory precisely, but it will give me the inspiration to decipher this. I’m sure of that. I flip through the pages until I find a passage that catches my attention.

My eyes suck in the words at once. Jung wrote, “In seeking to explore it he projected the unconscious into the darkness of matter in order to illuminate it.” I look up from the pages, my mind spinning, trying to catch a thread I can pull out to unravel this more completely.

“I don’t know what this kidnapper’s other skill is,” I begin, half talking to myself, “but it might have something to do with this. Because in light of this new information, I don’t think she’s blocking these events from us at all. She’s reflecting the energy. That’s why we can’t see the visions of the other people she’s having abducted. But we do see the events where she’s there because a reflector can’t reflect off of themselves. Not entirely anyway.”

“So how does this work?” Adelaide says.

I flip to another section, my instinct leading the way. “Listen to this,” I say, unprepared to answer her questions. “‘I am therefore inclined to assume that the real root of alchemy is to be sought less in philosophical doctrines than in the projections of individual investigators. I mean by this that while working on his chemical experiments the operator had certain psychic experiences which appeared to him as the particular behavior of the chemical process,’” I say, reading from the textbook.

“What does that all mean? This is kind of mind-boggling,” Adelaide says.

I nod, having no choice but to agree. “It means that I suspect she’s reflecting off an element. That would be the only way.”

“What? That’s possible?” she says.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I say, staring down at the page, but not seeing words. “And I suspect she must have a clairvoyant aspect to her skills. That would allow her to take the events she doesn’t want the news reporters to forecast and reflect so much energy on them that they aren’t something we can see. She’s transferring it,” I say, my mind sifting through the possibilities.

“Like when you blind someone with a mirror and light?” Adelaide says, sounding lost in thought as well.

“Exactly,” I say, thumbing through the book.

“Well, although that’s highly interesting, how does it help you with the case to know those specifics?” she says.

I snap the book shut, having found exactly what I needed. “Because firstly, it’s important to know everything about the people you’re working to stop. And, secondly, now that I know how she does it, I can stop her from blinding our clairvoyants,” I say, confidence filling my recently thundering head.

“How? How are you going to blind her?”

“I’m going to break her fucking mirror,” I say.

“How are you going to do that?” she asks.

I grimace. “Technology,” I say, making for my bedroom. I have work to do.

“Oh, and another thing,” Adelaide says at my back.

I turn and regard her with an impatient stare.

“The file said that her reasons for abducting the people connected to the potential weapons wasn’t clear,” Adelaide says.

“Right,” I chirp, my feet antsy to move. “There isn’t a common thread to me. Some are Middlings. Some kids. No real powers that she can employ.”

“But in all cases it’s the person that is closest to the weapon,” she says, an expectant look on her face.

“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word.

“Well…” Adelaide says with a conceited tone.

“Well what?” I say.

“Well, if you wanted me to do something and ensure I did it properly then you’d have to have something to motivate me. Like steal my best friend and threaten to kill them if I didn’t comply,” she says in a rush, like it’s streaming easily out of her brain. “I bet you anything that in that first case, where the two women died, the one taken as an assassin was unwilling to comply.”

“So Blocker killed them both,” I say, my eyes unfocused as this all pieces together.

“Yeah, that makes sense to me. And then Blocker has proven that she’s not messing around, which earned her compliance when she abducted the next pair,” Adelaide says.

I blink at her, struck by how simple an idea that is and yet never occurred. How is that possible? I think of everything. “Right, good point,” I finally say.

“Excellent point, I’d say,” she says proudly, tying her arms in front of her chest.

“Well, I guess no one’s getting your compliance,” I say.

“Oh, because I don’t have any best friends,” she says, not hurt by my remark but rather looking amused.

“Exactly,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t know, they could take you,” she says with a devilish grin.

I give her a repulsed look and then turn. “Well, I’m going to go be sick now. Thank you very much,” I say and leave.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“What you’re saying doesn’t make sense,” Aiden, the daft scientist, says, pushing up his ridiculous oversized black glasses on his face.

“It makes flawless sense. Don’t point fingers at me for your inability to understand elementary concepts,” I say.

A laugh bursts out of his mouth. He’s always doing that. Laughing. Like he’s got a bloody condition where everything triggers him to open his dumb mouth and allow that repugnant sound to fall out.

“A person can’t block the presence of psychic energy, only reflect it? Are you sure this isn’t a case of semantics?” he says.

“No, it’s not bloody semantics,” I growl. “Since you obviously know nothing about theory then I’m not sure why you’d comprehend the specifics of what we’re dealing with.”

Another dumb laugh. “I have a Ph.D. in quantum physics. I think I can wrap my mind around a few theories.”

“I have a Ph.D.,” I say in a mocking voice. “Then fine, listen up, Mr. Smarty-Pants. If we were up against an actual blocker, which I’ve never ever heard of, then we would be powerless to stop them. They would shield the energy. End of story. But this gal we’re dealing with, she’s not blocking the events. In essence, she’s reflecting onto the events and that’s why we can’t see them. I hope you’re following me when I say ‘in essence.’ I mean metaphorically speaking. As in not really, but this is how I’m attempting to explain it in a symbolic manner. Got me, monkey boy?”

He nods profusely at me and waves his hand. “Yeah, I’m following. Go on,” Aiden says impatiently.

I smile inside a little as I sense his frustration. “Well, as I was saying, our villain is shining something on the events so they’re impossible to see. And the reason we are getting glimpses of the ones we do see is because she’s there.”

“And you can’t completely reflect off something if you’re in it,” he says, half to himself, his tone excited.

“Now you’re getting it, chimp,” I say.

He scratches his head, his long brow crinkling. “Maybe I’m getting it. Sort of. But I’m not sure I really understand how you think this woman is doing this reflecting.”

“Probably not a woman. Probably a demon in a tight dress and sexy shoes. But here’s what I found,” I say, thumping the book on his countertop. “In here there’s a case where a subject could direct their mental prowess at an element and stop psychic energy,” I say.

“Wait, so you think that she’s not shielding the event from being seen?”

“No, she’s stopping Roya specifically from seeing them. She’s a reflector. She’s the light, that’s her power anyway, and when she directs it at an element then it reflects, creating a blinding force,” I say.

“Stopping a clairvoyant from being able to see? That’s her power?” he says, sounding mostly confused, but also a little excited.

“Bingo bango, dumbass,” I say in a bored voice. “Actually I think she could direct the energy a lot of ways, but this is the choice the vixen has made.”

“Right,” Aiden says, scratching his head, still looking confused. “So then if she’s the light, what’s the mirror she’s using?”

“Ahhh, yes. That’s where my friend alchemy comes in,” I say.

“I didn’t know you two were friends,” Aiden says with a stupid laugh.

“Shut up,” I say dryly. “Now pause briefly from shutting up to tell me something. Does Roya always report from the Institute?”

“Of course. She’s hardly ever away from here for any reason,” he says.

“Well, to reflect off something one would need the proper surface. A shiny element,” I say, holding up a hand and angling it at the walls. Aiden’s eyes fly to where I’m indicating and then pop open wider. Then his gaze darts to the metal walls all around us. The ones that surround everyone everywhere no matter where they are in the Institute. Metal is what the Institute is comprised of.

“Oh shit. Metal is her reflector. When she directs her power at it then she can block a psychic’s powers,” Aiden says.

“Very good, you decided to come to the party,” I say.

“How did you figure that out?” Aiden says, sounding impressed with another one of his foolish grins on his face.

“I’m a fucking genius,” I say, thinking of how Adelaide’s words triggered the whole thing.

“You’re bloody right,” he says with his repulsive American accent.

I scowl. “Don’t make me hypnotize you until your head explodes.”

Aiden laughs. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” I say.

He flippantly waves his hand at me. “Oh, you can put up your tough guy act but you and I both know you’re a big teddy bear.”

“Who will rip your fucking head off with my mind control,” I say.

He sighs softly with a bloody grin on his face. “Well, it appears that we make an excellent team. While you were figuring out this reflection business, I determined how to combat this person Sophie, who has the skill of forcing hallucinations on people.”

“We’re not on a team. I tolerate your practically incompetent work,” I say.

He smiles slightly. This idiot loves my abuse. It’s almost no fun. “You see, after researching the neurology behind hallucination—”

“Get to the bloody point,” I say, cutting him off, realizing that hearing him speak too much will give me an aneurysm.

Aiden’s eager grin falls. Disappointment covers his long face. “Well,” he says, drawing out the word as he pulls something from his lab coat pocket, “Sophie’s gift disturbs the temporal lobe, creating a disruption in the equilibrium of one’s mind. I’ve deduced that what she does is similar to motion sickness. And it’s quite interesting that messing with this zone causes—”

“What’s the fucking point?” I say.

Aiden’s voice was growing again with dumb enthusiasm. If this guy looked in the mirror and saw his ridiculous black hair he wouldn’t be so happy.

“If you wear this device in your ear it should protect this area, shield it from her skill,” he says simply, then he hands me a teal blue device that is shaped like an inner ear. It looks like a hip, next generation hearing device.

“I call it the ESD, equilibrium stabilizing device. What do you think?” Doctor Dumbass says.

“I think that if it works, then I won’t kill you at our next meeting. If it doesn’t I’ll haunt you for the rest of your ridiculous life, which regardless I hope is short,” I say.

“You’re absolutely welcome,” he says, holding up his hand. It’s a gesture to encourage a friendly high-five.

Aiden, I realize now, is incredibly unhappy and wants me to end him. He’s obviously provoking me. But I think he should be sentenced to live out his sorry days and so I turn and stroll off, leaving him, as Adelaide would say, “hanging.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

San Francisco is one of those overly loved cities. It’s overcrowded, has a sad homeless epidemic, and has a history that makes me disappointed to be a human. And like all things in life, I’m always forced to go to the places I loathe, to do the things that I would rather not. The Moscone Center is a sea of pencil skirts and navy blue suit jackets. Due to my superior logic, Roya left the Institute and made a week of reports in a lake house free of metal. It was the first time in months that her old intuitive power ran through her, giving her access to hundreds of future events. Clear events that weren’t blocked. And one of those events gave me the details that brought me here.

Reflector is here. Not only is she in attendance at this IT/software conference but she’s brought James and Sophie. They’ll be located close to the main stage during the keynote address. That’s all I know, and it’s way more information than I knew on the last case. And I’m prepared for Sophie. The ESD sits just inside my ear, invisible to most. What I’m not prepared for is an attack from James, the paralyzer, or from Reflector, who I know has the skill I’ve nicknamed her for, but I’m not sure what other skills accompany that.

I’m careful to hug the perimeter of the busy lobby as I make my way to the main conference room. The acoustics absorb the incessant chatting of the sales executives, computer nerds, and lowly interns as they babble on about something that really deserves less attention than life on other planets. I have yet to deduce why we invest billions in technology, which while I admit makes our lives more convenient, also dumbs us down more with every generation. Yes, I’m a fan of electricity but also I’m a fan of the human experience, which the evolution of technology is destroying. Soon we’ll all be pale bags of bones lying in dark rooms and hooked up to simulations that deliver an artificial experience that we forgot was much better in the physical form. I’m a Dream Traveler. I can go anywhere with my consciousness and I’m not so conceited that I won’t admit that waking life is better even with all its restrictions. The physical realm has smell and touch and a pure essence that no dream can ever truly mimic. Most will never understand this. They’ll turn their bloody lives over to soul-sucking technology.

Although Roya observed three important details in her vision, we still haven’t discerned what Reflector is after. Our best guess is that she’s going to take out the keynote speaker. Ted Smith. He’s actually a Dream Traveler who works in Congress and has been in the front line of measures to devote more funding to private firms to develop technology for infrastructure nationwide. Automated travel systems. Self-driving cars. Smart homes. He has a solid reputation and is generally well liked but does have a horde of citizens and contemporaries who think his ideas are too revolutionary. I’m actually one of them. However, my job is to intervene in Reflector’s attack, even if it’s against someone I think should be taken down, or at least demoted to a less powerful position.

The crowd parts in front of me. It’s enough for me to spy the girl. Sophie. Her black hair hangs loose. She’s tiny and tall. A strange combination. And her dark eyes are unmistakably on me. At this distance her hallucinatory abilities won’t work. That’s why I do exactly what she won’t expect. I approach her. Each step I notice her masked confusion break out from behind her attempts to hide it. I should be running, she’s probably thinking. Avoiding her if I don’t want to end up on the dirty carpet below me, probably swallowing my tongue from the hallucination-inducing seizure she causes me. And with each step I accept this potential fate. Do I want to die? Of course not. And in such a gross way? Not at all. But what frightens me more is her attack not killing me, just zapping a chunk of my brain cells, thereby forcing me to live like a halfwit like everyone else on this bloody Earth. And I’d know. Know I was daft. That I was operating and not like I used to, but I’d be powerless to fix myself. I’d probably off myself after three days. I have high expectations for myself and a low tolerance for losers. I’d rather be a quitter than a moron.

When ten feet separates me from Sophie I know that the ESD is successful. Her powers aren’t working and it’s writing fear all over her face. Reflector has Sophie’s little sister. That’s what’s making this girl use her powers for evil. I don’t sense she’s inherently bad. Most people aren’t really. They are irrational with low self-control, reactionary, or motivated by something bigger than their moral and logical side. This girl has a job to do and I suspect her failing right now will prove disastrous for her sibling. And although we’d like to save everyone, we lose some taking out the bad guy, or bad woman in this case.

When I’ve closed the space between Sophie and me so that I’m speaking distance away, the girl’s eyes dart behind her. I then notice a figure standing beside a curtained wall. Then Sophie whips around and sprints past me, running from her failure and the woman who no doubt will deliver her punishment after this, but not if I’m successful.

Out in plain sight, like an antelope unafraid of a hunter, Reflector stands. She’s just outside the auditorium, an all too proud look on her carved face. Her hair reminds me of Marilyn Monroe’s. It’s classy with its rounded edges style that has since died out of fashion. And she sticks out like a zebra in a pack of horses in her leopard print dress, which has too many distracting elements about it. This woman isn’t striking like a goddess, but rather like a demon she has an almost luring aspect to her. And the sinister expression on her red lips seems to say “come check me for fangs, I’ll open up and we’ll see if I bite.” I approach her.

She hooks her hand on to her hip as I near, her demeanor oozing with confidence. I grind my teeth. I fucking invented that look on her face. If she knew what I was about to do to her she’d run as fast as that ass-hugging dress would allow. Instead, the vixen extends a petite hand to me, her nails the color of her lips. I regard it with a disdainful look. Reflector obviously knows many details about me and the Institute since she had the insight to block Roya’s clairvoyance. However, maybe she doesn’t know I have telepathy linked to touch. And although she’s a deadly villain who I should probably stay away from, I’ve never missed the opportunity to get in an enemy’s head.

A chill from her hand almost makes me yank mine away. It feels like it’s been sitting on a block of ice. And then the familiar surge of someone’s thoughts pours into my head. However, it’s not just a thought, but rather a message.

I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Ren, she says in my head, a sadistic smile on her face.

I pull my hand away. My first instinct is to bore straight into her head and take control. Disarm her and keep her held here until the Lucidite agents stationed outside can swoop in. I made the bloody gits stay outside so they didn’t screw up my job. But before I have a chance to use my powers on her, the demon opens her mouth and says, “No using mind control on me.”

She doesn’t quite say it, but rather sings it. Her voice is deep, but soft, hauntingly beautiful. A violent shiver tingles up the back of my neck, sending a web of shocks over my scalp. And instantly I know I can’t use my mind control on her. Won’t. No matter if I’m going to die. I can’t use it. The function is shut down in regards to her.

“What have you done?” I say, my voice the opposite of hers, gruff and shaking. Something is wrong. She’s done something to me. Laced something into her words, like a siren. And I need to turn, run away from this woman who can control me with her voice.

Before I can she sings, “And no mind control on James.”

Again something switches in my cognitive center. A command in mission control has been made and I the soldier have to follow it.

“What are you?” I say, almost stutter.

“I’m a woman who makes demands,” she says and maybe it’s my imagination but she appears to sway like a plume of smoke in the air, move like a cobra. “Right now I have to go and punish a certain little girl. A promise is a promise,” she says. “But I want you to know that being in your presence is far more enticing than I imagined. I look forward to many, many more long hours with you.” And then she lays a single finger on my shoulder and swipes it down to my breast pocket where she pauses. I narrow my eyes, trying to determine how to proceed with an opponent who doesn’t appear to be fighting me. And yet instinctively I know I’m in danger but in a completely different way than I’ve ever been before.

“Who are you?” I manage through a hoarse throat.

“Your future, Ren,” she says, her lips pursed. “One day you and I are going to rule from the cliff tops.”

“What are you talking about?” I say, trying to sound like this is ridiculous instead of an intriguing notion.

“You’ll see. I’ve put it all into motion. You have to do nothing and there’s nothing you can do to stop it,” she says, an elegant confidence in her tone.

I turn my head down to stare at the hand she still has splayed on my chest. “Get your hand off me,” I say with a sneer and it’s also accompanied by a fear that she’ll listen to me. Fuck! What’s going on here?

“One day you’ll beg me to touch you. And although I could make you beg me, I want you to do it all on your own. And you will,” she says, with a wide strong smile. One that does something to me. Something wrong and also something that uncages hedonism within me.

I’m speechless. This is obviously a dangerous situation and yet I remain staring into the dark sapphire eyes of the woman in front of me.

“Vivian,” she says, a beautiful precision on each syllable. Her name sounds like a code. A way to unlock something. Something important. Something inside of me.

“Vivian,” I repeat and a seductive smile spreads on her lips.

“Until we meet again, my love,” she says, dropping her hand from my chest, and just then I feel the cold, the residual chill of her icy fingers. She turns, but keeps her gaze on me, her soul-splitting eyes searing me. Then she fades forward and prances through the sea of people who all immediately notice her as she approaches and part in a daze. I find it hard to shake my attention from her although I know there’s something important I have to do. For an instant I forget what that is and have to shake my head to clear the fuzz.

James. I have to stop James. And yet I know that it won’t involve using mind control. I can’t. No matter how much I want to. She told me I can’t. Made it so I can’t. Somehow. My greatest weapon taken out of my arsenal.

The doors to the main auditorium are closing. The keynote address is starting. I should have been in there already. I should have located James. Disarmed him. The man is dangerous and not just to his target but also to me. If he wants to kill me using his powers then I can’t stop him, and still I race for the room filled with a seated audience. Thousands of people. There are over a thousand people seated, facing forward. Eyes on a man in a loose-fitting suit standing at a podium. Why most men can’t figure out how to get a suit that properly fits continues to elude me.

Ted looks about like most, not young, not old, not attractive, not horrid, not distinct, not plain. Just a man with regular colored hair and a regular face. I wonder what that would be like.

The crowd falls still when he begins speaking, his words passing over my ears as I scan the thousands of bodies in what feels like a worthless attempt to find James. Unconcerned for social etiquette I march down the center aisle. My photographic memory takes snapshots of the people as I pass and my mind combs through the images, trying to find a positive match. I don’t stop until I arrive at the front of the auditorium and put my back to Ted, who is driveling on about the future like he’s a bloody God. Some people stare at me with mild curiosity but my demeanor of authority almost at once zaps their interests. People are hardwired to recognize authority and then feel safe in its presence. People want someone else in charge. Thankfully for them I was born.

Unavoidably, I’ve put myself straight into James’s line of sight, which would also force me into his control. At any point I could be paralyzed and then meet a deadly end. But he has a job to do and now after reflecting on my interaction with Vivian I know I’m not it. Maybe he’d attack me for self-preservation, but he won’t do it under Vivian’s orders. For some oddly interesting reason she wants me alive.

Any second now I expect Ted’s speech to be interrupted by the sound of him choking on his lack of oxygen. His lungs paralyzed, unable to pull in life-sustaining air. And every second James continues to elude me. Infuriatingly, I’ve scanned the crowd three times and found no one who matches my memory of him. But he has to be here. Somewhere unsuspecting though. That would be what Vivian would do, and instinctually I know that. I feel I know her well without knowing her, like now that I’ve met her a connection that was always there has sparked to the front of my consciousness.

A man at the front coughs at my back as I peel to the right side of the auditorium, concerned now that James is stationed backstage, unseen. I whip around, sure that it’s Ted coughing, on the verge of starting his end. He’s not. He has paused though and his eyes are directly on me, a look on his face that reeks of worry. Does he know he’s in danger? Does he know I’m here to save his sorry ass? The congressman clears his throat as he readjusts his tie. Maybe if I get into his head I can prevent the cue from James that will send his body into paralysis. It’s such a horrible idea that I almost bark out a scream due to my frustration.

There’s more coughing. Two or three people, which grabs my attention at once. That isn’t right. I scan and catch the sight of three red-faced men, all separated by different rows and seated in different sections. The one closest to me grabs his throat. He’s the victim. And the other men. But not Ted. Instinctively I know this. Know it in my core. And the men still cough, desperate for air.

Here we go. Show fucking time. And I still haven’t located James and I’m powerless to stop him. I’m going to stand by like a bloody Middling and just watch these men die, and their death will be linked to something. Each of them is no doubt someone.

Ted speaks in broken sentences, undeniably distracted by these men’s coughs and gasping fits. Not distracted, I realize when he pauses and stares straight at me, a strange expression on his face, and it’s definitely not one of concern. People have turned to regard the coughing men. A man slaps the one gasping for air on the back. He’s clutching his throat. The slap to his back does nothing. The man on the far side stands up, tethers out to the aisle, holding his throat as well.

“Are you all all right?” Ted says, but there’s no concern in his words. There is a strangeness to his voice, a pleased tone. I whip around to look at him. And then I’m bombarded by an idea. One that again I know to be true. My instinct is never wrong and right now it’s screaming a clear message at me. Ted is in on this. Has to be. But that’s not my concern. And then I spy it. The thinnest of eye movements from Ted, the congressman. His eyes swivel up to the balcony, far opposite side from where I stand. I shoot my focus in that direction. For fuck sake, why didn’t I think of that already? There by the railing in plain sight stands James, his face tight with concentration. How is he doing this to three people at once, paralyzing their lungs so they can’t breathe, and from such a far distance?

I’m running in the opposite direction for the stairs when a crowd of people stand and block my path. They’re rushing to help the three men who are suffocating. One has already collapsed. A woman is administering CPR. Ted’s security hurries him off the stage, guards on either side of him speaking into ear pieces. And the chaos in front of me has thickened. Getting to James would be impossible for most. I close my eyes. Focus. Which for some it would be impossible with the chaos all around them, but I’m not most and my skills are exemplary.

My gut rockets to my throat as my heart echoes like it’s going to explode. And although most might think they’re dying, I know that the sensation means I’ve been successful. I open my eyes to find I’m standing right beside James. We’re perched on an empty balcony. I’m guessing it was heavily guarded or blocked off altogether. Ted probably got him up here. And Vivian probably didn’t count on me having teleporting ability. Most don’t. Most don’t know Trey Underwood.

James’s concentration briefly falters when he realizes I’m standing just beside him. Then his brow wrinkles and his focus tries to maintain contact on the figures below on the main floor. His skill is obviously working to paralyze the breathing ability of three men. I can’t use mind control. As much as I want to, I can’t. It’s like the ability to fly. I could wish for it all I want and still I couldn’t do it. With his focus firmly on the subjects he’s been assigned to I know I can’t hypnotize him. I would need eye contact and right now this man is firmly motivated to complete his assigned job. Maybe it’s Vivian’s persuasion that’s keeping him locked on his task. But my guess is that it’s also the threat of losing his best friend. That is a strong motivator.

I have only one option left. One I’ve never ever considered and never employed. I hope I do it right.

I pull back my arm and then launch my fist at James’s jaw. His chin is thrown back first, followed by the rest of him. The man tumbles back, falling into a row of stadium seats. And for my first time physically assaulting someone, it looks like I’ve been successful at knocking James out. Well, and his fall caused his head to careen with the hard plastic chair and I know by the stillness of his body and closed eyes that he’s passed out. At least for now. I press my finger to my left ear. The one with the connection to outside agents.

“I need backup to apprehend the subject on east side of balcony. Mission a success,” I say.

“Copy,” I hear in my ear. I stare over the side of the balcony where three crowds have gathered around fallen men’s bodies. Maybe it was a success. Maybe they aren’t dead. That’s not my job though. My job is done. I teleport away.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Adelaide is sitting just beside Pops when I enter my childhood home; an album I recognize at once is lying across her lap. They both look up at me. My pops smiles, as he usually does when he sees me. Adelaide smiles, unlike she’s ever done before. It’s one of relief.

“You’re back,” she’s says, jumping to a standing position, clutching the album to her chest like a prized doll.

“No, I didn’t die,” I say.

She’s too close to me suddenly. “Are you okay?” she says, looking at my bandaged hand. I apparently don’t know how to punch and broke a couple of fingers. Between those and the toes, I’m feeling like a first-class idiot. Next on my list is learning physical combat. Then I’m going to punch Vivian’s gorgeous face.

“I’m alive,” I say.

“Did you save the world?” she says, a playful pride in her tone.

“Hard to say at this point,” I say. Actually, the first man, in fact died. The other two are in serious comas. And they happen to all three be connected to the same company. One that manufactures technology related to smart homes. The one who died was the CEO. The other two were majority shareholders. We don’t know what Vivian is up to. But something tells me I’m going to find out, and soon, when I pay Congressman Smith a visit.

“What’s this business about you saving the world?” my pops says with a light chuckle. He knows I work for the Lucidites, but he doesn’t know who they are or much care. He’s always been strangely repulsed by things related to Dream Traveler societies, probably because most weren’t accepting of him since he married a Middling. I told him I consult for them. That seemed like the easy answer.

“Well, you know how Addy lies, right,” I say.

There’s a gasp. “I don’t,” she says, flushing red.

I half smile at her. “Easy now, only those who do lie defend themselves. The righteous know they don’t need to.”

My pops shakes off this exchange. “I was showing her your baby book.”

I swallow something sharp in my throat. “Sounds boring.”

Adelaide turns the album around and looks at a small photo framed on its center. “It wasn’t.”

She’s staring at the photo on the front with a strange nostalgia. In the photograph my mum’s face stares down at me in her arms. I’m probably an hour old. We’re locked on each other, the only two people in that moment.

“These photos are sweet,” Adelaide says.

“Children are innocent. Then they receive life-altering gifts,” I say. “Then they are dangerous.”

“Yeah, but even after that,” she says, flipping through the pages with one hand, her arm supporting the book, “even after you hit puberty, you almost looked kind of nice in these photos,” she says, pointing to one of my mum and me standing in front of the prized pig Darla at the county fair. I was fifteen.

“Mary had a way about her. She was the only one who ever made Ren soft. What can I say, she was a rare woman,” my pops says.

“Yeah, you looked very fond of her in these photos,” Adelaide says, tracing a finger over another. I’m taller than my mum and have a long arm draped over her shoulder, pulling her affectionately into my side.

“I’ve never been fonder of anyone my entire life,” I say simply. “And now it’s time that we take our leave.” Instinctively I know I have to get as far away from this moment as quickly as possible. It only serves to break me if only just a little. I can never afford to soften. Ever.

***

I tap the table in front of me. “Sit,” I say to Adelaide, who is making her way to the kitchen. We’ve only been back to my flat for an hour.

“Why?” she says, staring at the seat I indicated. “I’m starving.”

“No you’re not,” I say. “What you are is exaggerating. Sit, already.”

“Why?” she asks again.

“Because,” I say, drawing out the word.

“Because isn’t an answer, it’s the beginning of an answer,” she says in a mocking tone.

I pull the black leather case out from beside me, the one I requested from the Institute. “Because I need to take a blood sample,” I say.

As I expected her eyes widen. Her mouth pops open. “You what?” she says, offense covering her face.

I could avoid this by being upfront about my motives, but I’d rather play a game with her. More fun for me. And later, more humiliating for her. “God, you don’t bloody listen. I need to take a blood sample,” I say slowly, like she doesn’t speak English.

“Why?” she says, her voice half shaking.

Unzipping the case, I say, “Obviously to have a paternity test done.”

“Ren, how could you not think…? After everything… I don’t understand…” she stutters out.

The way she just said my name sounded strange. And then I realize it’s one of the few time she’s called me that. She usually doesn’t call me anything, well, except for vulgar names.

“Well, if things check out and you do prove to be my DNA then we’re sending you to uni so you can learn to form a real sentence,” I say.

With a hostile force she ties her arms across her chest. “Why? Why do I have to go to school? You never went. Granddad said as much,” she says, all her words hot, her green eyes smoldering.

My gaze reflexively narrows at the mention of her calling my pops that and with such ease. “No, I didn’t go to uni, but I can speak in a manner that others easily understand. You cannot. I hardly know what you’re driveling on about half the time.”

“I can’t believe you!” she shouts. “After everything.”

“Just covering all my bases,” I say with a shrug. The mischievous grin I’m suppressing is begging to surface.

“Fuck you,” she says, jerking the chair out and slamming herself down. “I’ll do it just so you realize what a bloody git you are for questioning me.”

I nod, pulling out the syringe. “That’s right, give me what I want to show me I’m the idiot. Great plan,” I say and then withdraw an empty vial. “Now roll up that ridiculous huge sleeve so we can get this done.”

***

“I fucking hate you,” Adelaide says as she secures a bandage over the small prick.

I despise the sight of blood but I can manage the task of drawing it for clinical purposes. I snap the cap on the vial of crimson liquid before securing it in the leather pouch. “Well, then you must be my daughter because all girls hate their fathers. Just ask my dear sister, Lyza,” I say, and then realize I actually called Adelaide my daughter and didn’t vomit.

“Your pops says she’s unstable,” Adelaide says.

I raise an eyebrow at her, noticing how she’s changed the way she’s referring to Pops. “You know I don’t really doubt that you’re my blood,” I say, leaning back in my chair, casually pinning my hands behind my head.

“You don’t?” she says, giving me a practiced skeptical stare. “Then what’s with the blood test?”

I push up off the floor, leaning the chair on its back two legs. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after you’re fully trained? You know, like what do you want to be when you grow up sort of thing?”

Adelaide blinks at me, and then a fear springs to her eyes. She’s used to hiding it but I’m used to spying it in others. “What do you mean? Like move out? Get my own place?” Her voice rises in pitch with each sentence.

I shake my head, still pinned in my hands. “No, I mean occupation wise,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, a little bit of relief filling her eyes. “So no, I guess I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, I have,” I say, and this conversation suddenly makes me feel odd. Sentimental. It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever harbored, like fish are swimming around in my gut.

“You have?” she asks, perplexed.

“I’m going to tell you something and firstly, I don’t want it going to your head. Secondly, I don’t want you reminding me of it ever again.” I pause, watching for her reaction, which she doesn’t give me, just remains frozen, waiting. “You know, I didn’t make the connection to the hostages in my case until you mentioned it, which was a full on shock to me.”

“Well, I am a fucking genius,” she says, her voice deep, impersonating mine.

I almost smile. “Your insights might have been helpful.”

“Might have been?”

I release my pressure on the floor and the chair tips forward back on all four legs. “Yes, you have good instincts. And therefore, I think you might make a good agent. Well, once the attitude is sufficiently whipped and beaten out of you.”

“Agent? That’s why you took my blood? You think I’d make a good agent for the Lucidites? Doing what you do?”

“Yes, for the Lucidites. But no, not doing what I do. You might qualify to work level one cases, but not for a while. Agents have a long training program they have to pass. Most don’t because I created it to weed out ninety-five percent of the losers who can’t hack an agent role. But if you pass, then one day you might find yourself working a level one case, maybe even a level two,” I say.

Something skirts across her face. I pause to study her. It takes me a long moment to realize I don’t know what it is in her expression that’s wrong, but there’s definitely something not right about it. Then she says, “I don’t want to be an agent.”

“What?” I say, leaning forward suddenly, my eyes low, staring at her. “How can you not want to be an agent? You thought it was so cool that I was one and worked for a secret agency. Why wouldn’t you also want to be cool like that?”

Adelaide shrugs. Diverts her eyes. “I just don’t,” she lies. It’s plain on her face, but she isn’t giving anything else away.

“What do you want to be, a bloody artist?” I say, throwing my hand in the direction of her artwork, which sits at the end of the table.

“No, I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t want to be an agent.” Her eyes still aren’t on me, but the lie is so evident on her face and in her words. I’m a master at reading people and spotting their deceits.

“Yes, you do,” I say through clenched teeth.

“No, I don’t,” she says. “Don’t try to push your profession on me. I may be your daughter but that doesn’t mean I have to go into the family business.”

“Adelaide, do you realize how difficult it is to be elected for a position as an agent?” I say, stunned that we’re even having this argument. I honestly thought that she’d be thrilled. Zero hesitation. “Agents are hand selected. Few make it through training. Hell, few pass the blood test that says that you’re fit and genetically stable enough to even enter the training. But I hand selected those agents for twenty years and I suspect you’ll pass. Why wouldn’t you want that?”

“I just don’t!” she says, bolting to a standing position, knocking over the chair behind her.

I’m about to scold her for probably scratching my mahogany chair when a knock sounds at the door.

“Go the fuck away!” I yell, my eyes on Adelaide, who is shaking with sudden anger. She can’t be angrier than me. She should be thanking me. The girl should be on the verge of having her first happy emotion, but instead she’s shaking her head at me and regarding me with tense eyes.

The door at my back opens and the gait that I know so well click-clacks across the floor. And then I smell that familiar perfume. When she halts three feet from me I say, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Adelaide’s eyes are on Dahlia. Dahlia’s eyes are probably on my back.

“Apparently interrupting a family feud, by the sounds of it. I could hear you two in the hallway,” Dahlia says.

“And if you had any manners you would have stayed the fuck out of my flat and not interrupted. You know how much I love to fight,” I say.

“Well, I do apologize for barging in, but we need to talk,” Dahlia says.

I turn and look at the woman who all too well knows she has a force over me. “What do you want?” I say, not making eye contact. Still I notice her run those intense blue eyes over me.

“Are you all right? I saw the news. That was you, wasn’t it?” Dahlia says.

“No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t kill that CEO, or put those shareholders in a coma,” I say.

“No, I meant that you stopped it. You did, didn’t you?” Dahlia says.

“Yes,” I say, turning back to Adelaide. “Looks like I get the pleasure of fighting with two people today. We will finish this later. Go to your room. Dahlia and I are going to berate each other for a half hour. Then it’s your turn.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Dahlia says, stepping forward beside Adelaide and me, creating an uneven triangle. “I want to say something to both of you.” Dahlia then looks at me. “And Ren, we aren’t going to fight. That’s not why I came here today.”

“Well, then I’m uninterested in talking to you,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest a bit childishly.

“Ren, I came to apologize,” Dahlia says plainly, her hand on her hip.

“Oh fuck, how can this day get any worse?” I say.

She brandishes a smile at me and then looks at Adelaide. “Fine, then I’ll start with you. Maybe your father will soften up then.”

Adelaide regards Dahlia with a menacing stare. It’s a good one, cold and hard and the perfect degree of intimidation. “What do you want to say to me?”

“That I haven’t been fair to you or Ren. I kicked him out because of all of these recent events,” she says, all composure. “And I realize that I communicated that I didn’t approve of you in his life. I was being selfish. But you see, Ren and I have a sordid past and our relationship has been a hard thing for me to accept. I’m afraid…” And just then Dahlia’s voice breaks. It’s an odd thing for her to do. “I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me again.”

“Dahlia, this is not her business,” I say, cutting in.

She turns and looks at me, that old pain in her eyes “No, it’s not. But it’s my business and I want to share it with Adelaide so she understands why I acted the way I did.” She then returns those soulful eyes to Adelaide. “When you showed up in Ren’s life, I realized that the dynamics were going to shift dramatically and it scared me. It made me think that again I’d been deceived to think Ren and I had a chance. I’m the most selfish person you’ll ever meet, Adelaide, and I didn’t want to share him. Not only that but I wanted to punish him for making a mistake so long ago.”

“I’m not a mistake,” Adelaide says, her eyes murderous.

“No, you’re not,” Dahlia says, not deterred. “From everything I’ve seen, you’re an incredible young woman with many of the characteristics that I love and cherish in your father.”

“Dahlia…” I say, wanting this unbelievable circus act to end and then also needing it to continue. I can’t hear any more and I simultaneously want to slow down this moment. To bottle it. Keep it preserved in my memory forever.

“I’m not done yet,” she says to me, her eyes on Adelaide. “I’m sorry for how I treated you and for how my actions might have made you feel.”

Adelaide’s expression shifts from one of quiet anger to one of soft composure. Then she simply nods her acceptance.

Dahlia turns and looks at me and I know I should run right now. I should teleport to Morocco. Leave my life behind. Start a new one. One where I’m neither happy nor sad but complacent nonetheless. One where this woman can’t chisel past the barriers around my heart and make me want her. Need her.

“I’m sorry, Ren,” Dahlia says, and there’s a raw emotion in her words. “I’m incredibly sorry for how I acted. I was unfair to Adelaide and a complete bitch to you. I shouldn’t have kicked you out or voiced disapproval about you working level five cases. I understand if you don’t want me back, but I will never ever stop trying. Even if this time you relocate to the Institute I will hunt you down. I won’t stop until you take me back, because my life without you in it makes zero sense.” And when she stops I’m instantly regretful that she isn’t still speaking, singing words I’m so incredibly grateful to hear from her.

I lift my eyes to the ceiling, apathy written on my face. “Go away,” I say plainly.

“What!” And it’s Adelaide who voices her disbelief of my response. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

I look at my daughter, a slight bit of my delight shining through. “Abso-bloody-lutely,” I say.

“Don’t worry, Adelaide,” Dahlia says. “He’ll cave. He’s my soul mate and can’t deny it.”

Adelaide turns and heads for her room. “I’m going to pack.”

“Why? Are you moving out?” I say.

“No,” Dahlia says. “She’s smart and knows she’s moving in with me.”

“Exactly,” Adelaide sings, shutting her door. Giving us privacy.

Dahlia then steps forward. “I want you to move back in with me. And Adelaide as well, because I know that she belongs with you. You two have a lot to learn about each other. You have a lot to teach her. And I suspect she has a lot to teach you. And you, Ren, belong with me.” And then Dahlia is directly in front of me, her eyes staring at me, her hand reaching for mine. None of her thoughts pour into my head from the embrace. I don’t pull away. I can’t even fake a hateful retort. Without Dahlia I was the Sahara, stretched in a maze of lost possibilities. And I know who I am with her. I’m the man I want to be, the one who is proud to be a monster.

“I love you, Ren Lewis. Take me back. I deserve you, and you know it. And you deserve me. Don’t fight me on this,” Dahlia says.

“You kicked me out,” I say, reminding her how hard she pushed me away.

“I know. I’m sorry, but I had to.”

“You put me through hell,” I say.

“Need I remind you that we aren’t even on that. Three months of abandoning you doesn’t even hold a candle to the eighteen years that you abandoned me,” she says.

“Oh, who is counting?” I say, pulling her hand up and placing it around my lower back. I didn’t know I was going to do that until I did, like I didn’t have a choice but to grab her, pull her closer to me.

“I’m really sorry. This has been hell on me too,” she says, sliding her other hand up my chest and around my neck.

I breathe her in. “You realize that you’ll have to be punished for this.”

“I do,” she says, a delicious smile on her mouth. “My body is ready.”

I lean in, knowing that there was never a reality where I didn’t do this, seal this reunion with a kiss. I would always take Dahlia back. Always. There is nothing this woman could do to me that I wouldn’t forgive her for. When she expects me to caress my lips across hers I bite down on her mouth, soft but with a force that still pinches. And then I cover her lips with mine, pulling her to me with a force that speaks of my need for her, my undying, unyielding need.

Chapter Thirty

The bodyguard falls after only ten seconds of staring at the silver pocket watch I swung back and forth. Stupid people take less time and effort to hypnotize. They also look straight at an approaching stranger when he says, “Hey, watch this.” Idiots. The same trick worked on the guards in the outer corridor. Stupid people really make my job too easy. I wished they’d stop breeding, but fat chance that will happen. They’re fucking bunny rabbits.

The handle clinks when I push the door open, causing Congressman Ted to bristle with frustration, but he doesn’t look up.

“I told you no disturbances,” he says, his brow wrinkled and his eyes on his computer screen to the side of his desk. The man has red blotches down his cheek and neck. Probably due to stress. He doesn’t have the knack of aging gracefully like me; his thinning brown hair is laced with wirier grays.

“And I don’t take my orders from you,” I say, taking my position squarely in front of his desk, my feet shoulder width apart, my arms crossed in front of me.

Ted whips his head up and his expression quickly shifts from surprise to disbelief, then to fear.

Perfect.

His eyes dart behind me. “Ren!” he chokes out.

“I see you know who I am,” I say, watching his eyes study the guard on the ground behind me, just on the other side of the door. “How did you…? Was that you? You did that?” he says, pointing, his arm already shaking.

“It’s really not important,” I say, drawing in a slow relaxing breath. “Now we are going to play a game. If you win, you live. Otherwise you can guess what happens if you lose,” I say.

“The Lucidites don’t kill people,” he says, almost stutters. He doesn’t look confident at all anymore, not like he was when he was giving the keynote address at the convention in San Francisco.

“And I see you’re also acquainted with who I work with,” I say.

“I know a great deal and none of it can I tell you. But you’ll find out soon enough. I’m sure of it,” he says.

“I want to know now!” I say, not caring that my voice booms through the hallway at my back. “And you’re right, the Lucidites don’t kill people. But sometimes we fail to intervene, to stop a suicide.”

Ted’s eyes meet where mine are resting, on a sharp brass letter opener sitting on his desk. It has his initials engraved on the handle. T.S.

“You wouldn’t,” he says, his gaze shifting back and forth between me and the would-be death instrument lying on top of a stack of letters.

“No, like I said, I wouldn’t kill you, but I won’t stop you from relieving the world of your arrogant presence,” I say and then point to the letter opener, which is probably not sharp enough to slit his throat, but stabbed at the right angle into his neck would do the job. “Pick that up,” I say.

His gray eyes widen with disbelief as his hand covered in age spots reaches for the weapon. He’s not intending the movement and yet he can’t stop it. I wait until it’s firmly locked in his hand, which vibrates like a car engine.

“Now let’s play, shall we?” I say in a sing-song voice.

“Ren, I can’t tell you anything. She’ll kill me,” he says.

I could just make him give me the information but that’s an exceedingly boring strategy. Not only that, but doing that will only make Ted feel defeated after I leave. I want him to shake with fear for the rest of his life. I want him to resign from his cushy political position. I want him to retreat to a rusty cabin in Montana in fear that one day I’ll show back up to finish him off. It is this kind of planning that makes me a master of strategy.

“Now, why don’t you start by telling me who she is? Vivian, or as I’m calling her, Medusa,” I say.

“She’s not ready for you to know that. That’s mostly what she’s mentioned anyway,” he says, his voice a rush.

“I think that letter opener would look better closer to your neck. Go ahead and do that now,” I say, putting a force behind the words that can’t be ignored. Or resisted. The whites of his eyes spread as his trembling hand drags through the air until the dagger-like device is clean up to his chicken neck.

“Vivian is a powerful Dream Traveler,” he spits out.

“Details,” I say in a bored voice.

“She has the power to control people with her voice,” he says, hurrying through the words.

“Yes, like a siren. I’ve deduced that much. And she can block psychic energy. Tell me something that will make me spare your life,” I say.

His eyes drop to the instrument held in his own hands against his will. Ted’s stupid Dream Traveler power is that he’s telepathic, which is what makes him such a successful politician. He knows what people want to hear and says it. However, telepathy can’t get into my head when I’m shielded, which I am.

“She took those Dream Travelers to build an army of assassins,” I state.

He nods, which unfortunately for him makes the blade pinch his neck.

“The CEO and shareholders. Why did she have James go after them?” I ask.

“Because,” he says, through a gurgling cough. “She needed them out of the way.”

“Why?” I say.

“So she can take over the company, Smart Solutions.”

“She’s in line for that, is she?”

Another nod.

“Why didn’t she just tell them to give it to her, use her power?”

“Vivian’s power doesn’t work on them,” he says.

“How?”

“The CEO, Frank Bishop, he’s her father. But estranged. No one knew it. She recently found him,” Ted says.

I sneer. I can relate to poor Frank. “He has…I mean had her power of control through voice commands. Is that right?”

Another nod.

“And therefore, he would be able to resist her control, correct?” I say.

“Yes,” he says in hush.

“So she killed her father. Sounds like a delightful woman,” I say. “Who are the shareholders? Why go after them?”

“They’re her uncles. They own majority shares in Smart Solutions.”

“Again, they share her powers and can resist,” I state rather than ask. “And they have control of the company.”

“Yes,” he says, sweat beading down onto his eyelids. “But they revert to the fourth shareholder if anything happens to them.”

“Vivian,” I say, wondering how convoluted the company is set up that the Lucidites didn’t see this with our recent investigation. None of the connections between these men was realized, nor Vivian’s connection to the company. It must have been shielded somehow. “And why does the witch want control of her father’s company.”

“He wouldn’t sign off on her newest project,” Ted says. He pauses and wheezes.

I sigh. “Which is?”

“Smart Pods.” Again another pause while he tries to breathe past his racing pulse.

“Will you fucking get on with it and tell me what that is? What are Smart Pods?” I say, my short bit of patience having long past run out.

“They are devices that go in homes. They pick up on voice commands,” he says, now talking at an acceptable speed. “They can control everything in a house: lights, temperature, security. They are connected to the internet and store all conversations in a house to provide family history. Furthermore, they play music, games, read books, control all the digital entertainment for a family. And Smart Pods make purchases when directed or offer facts when asked. There’s a voice that members interact with. She’ll answer or do anything a person asks.”

“Vivian’s voice, I’m guessing,” I say.

“Yes,” he says and his arm shakes. It probably feels like lead since he’s been holding it up all this time.

“And she’s going to use this technology to control any households nationwide, is that right?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says with hiss.

“And you helped clear all the bloody red tape so she could get clearance from the government to help,” I say. “That bit about recording conversations for family records, that’s a true invasion of privacy.”

“I had to. She made me,” he says, and I might spy a bit of guilt in his voice. Just a bit though.

“I’m sure she did, but you’re still going to hell, Teddy. So what does she plan to do once she’s got the evil devices in homes?” I say.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head erratically. “She never told me.”

I’m sure it will involve evil and destruction. “Did she tell you what she wants with me?”

His eyes widen and a look of repulsion covers his face. “Please no. Please not that. You really are better off not knowing everything.”

This man is such a politician. His manner reminds me a bit of Trey. They both seem to think that individuals are better off knowing little, like too many details will keep us up at night. I’m already up at night, wondering what Vivian’s plan could entail and how it relates to me.

“Go ahead and stretch that hand up so that the point of your pretty letter holder is directed at your jugular,” I say with a flick of my wrist, the heavy intention loaded in my words.

He does as I say, his eyes watching his own hand like it’s a diabolical murderer, moving closer.

“Please no, please,” Ted begs.

“It will take little force for you to stab yourself. Or…” I leave the alternative hanging in the air.

Ted’s eyes jerk to me. “She’s obsessed with you,” he says in a rush. “Vivian pretends you’re already with her. Makes me acknowledge you when we meet although you aren’t present. She pretends to consult with you. Has conversations. She knows everything about you. Laughs at jokes you don’t tell. She’s insane. You can’t mess with her. You should go underground. Get as far from her as possible. There’s no getting around her voice control. I’ve tried. Only her father and uncles could resist her.”

Ted’s admission makes me smile inside. Crazy bitch who is obsessed with me. Kind of like the sound of this more and more. “I’m not a coward,” I say to the trembling weakling in front of me. “Don’t you worry about me. But do tell me how she knows so much about me. About the Lucidites.”

Ted hesitates. His eyes fly to the hand holding the knife, which is shaking against his neck now.

“Just a few ounces of your own pressure should do the job,” I say, rocking forward on my heels and then back again. This kind of thing really is too much fun.

“There’s a mole,” he says in a rush.

“Mole?” I say.

He nods. “At the Lucidite Institute. That’s how she knew how to block Roya, that news reporter, and she’s had this person watching you for all these years.”

“Who is it?” I say.

“I don’t know,” he says, and unfortunately he isn’t lying. I can tell. “I only heard her speak to them over the phone a few times. You see, Vivian was trained at the Institute years ago but went on her own. However, even after she left, she kept eyes on you. This person reports on all your activity.”

Thousands of Dream Travelers are brought into the Institute when they come of age. They’re trained, given a set of dream travel rules, and then released back into the world with the hopes they’ll contribute to society, not harm it. This is another of Trey’s long-running agendas. And in promoting it, he’s obviously allowed traitors into the Institute. I may have even trained Vivian. My photographic memory will have to shuffle through the back catalogue to figure that out. And then I’ll have to hunt down this mole and make them kill themselves.

“For how long?” I say, my head fuming with anger. “How long has someone been spying on me?”

“I don’t know. This is mostly just what I’ve learned during her imaginary conversations with you.” His hand shakes violently now, his muscles obviously fatigued from holding up the weapon for so long in one position. “That’s all I know. Will you release me, please?”

“Tell you what, Ted. You stay like that until the sun sets,” I say, gazing out the window. The city landscape to the west spreads out in all directions. It’s about ten minutes until the sun starts its final descent. “When that sun kisses the horizon you can lower your arm and go about your repugnant life. That is, unless your hand fatigues too much before then and you kill yourself.” The mind control I’ve placed in those words will wear off in roughly ten minutes, which means my planning worked out perfectly. As usual.

“Cheers,” I say, teleporting away.

Chapter Thirty-One

One week later

Winter time in Los Angeles is about like any season in this congested city. Most of its residents still fashion their stupid shorts and have their sunglasses sitting on their tanned faces. People pay a high premium to live in Los Angeles because of the weather. They fail to realize God ripped seasons from the city, which is what creates a balance. Not having winter isn’t a blessing, it’s what’s going to cause the city to fall into the bloody ocean. Sadly, I’ll be part of the collateral damage, but at least I’ll be taking Dahlia with me.

“How does that look?” Adelaide says, standing back and tilting her head to regard the Christmas tree from a different vantage point.

“It’s horrid. Absolutely the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, my eyes on the book in my hands.

“It’s beautiful, dear,” Dahlia says, throwing a hand back and slapping me on the shoulder. She didn’t really look either and I know because her head is partially on my lap. She has her own book sitting in front of her face.

“You know, Dahlia has people she pays to do that,” I say to Adelaide, who is now hanging a crystal angel on a branch.

“Ren, she wanted to do it. And she’s better at it than my people,” Dahlia says, and now lowers her book to look at the tree and its decorations. “It must be your artistic eye.”

“I’m glad you think so. It’s my first time to decorate a Christmas tree,” Adelaide says.

“No,” Dahlia says, popping into a seated position. “But you said your mother was religious.”

“Well, yeah, but we were as poor as shit,” she says with a shrug.

At this Dahlia slaps my arm again.

“Don’t slap me,” I say, my eyes still on the sentence I’ve been trying to read for ten minutes. “It’s not my fault her mum couldn’t get a better paying job.”

“Well, she had the burden of raising your child,” Dahlia says, and by the tone of her voice she’s offended.

I look up to find Adelaide with a slight smile on her face. She’s enjoying this. “I grew up in the lower class too,” I say. “It builds character. And now you’re rich. Happy? It’s bloody great being rich.”

“You’re rich actually,” Adelaide says, her eyes on the tree, an intent focus on the arrangement, like she’s trying to figure out what needs adjusting.

“Yes I am. But what’s mine is yours. That’s how this whole repugnant arrangement works, right?” I say.

“I don’t want your damn money,” Adelaide says, straightening a fake robin on a limb.

“Oh, then you just want to live with us and have us pay your way while you sketch ponies all day and hone your evil dream traveling skills? Is that it?” I say.

“Yeah, that seems about right,” Adelaide says. “Does that work?”

“Sure,” I say with an indifferent shrug. I’m pulling my book back up when my mobile rings on the tabletop.

A brief glance at the caller ID earns a long sigh from me. I consider not answering, since I’m supposed to have the week off to readjust after the move; well, and to spend dozens of hours shagging Dahlia.

“What?” I say into the phone.

“Ren, I have news,” Trey says.

“Is this about Vivian?” I say and at once notice Dahlia tense. She knows who Vivian is. Doesn’t like the way I told the story, which was matter-of-fact. “She said we were going to rule from the cliff tops. The Marilyn Monroe lookalike definitely has the hots for me.”

“Get that look off your face,” I say to Dahlia.

“Excuse me?” Trey says.

“Not you,” I say. “Although you probably have that wrinkled brow thing going on. So go ahead and get that look off your face too.”

“And no, this isn’t about Vivian. We still have the investigative reporters looking into things. I’ll let you know when I have more information,” Trey says.

“I cannot wait,” I say, my voice dead of emotion.

“This is about Adelaide actually,” Trey says, and his voice shifts. Tightens.

“Go on,” I say, my eyes flicking to the girl who has no idea her name has been mentioned, her eyes pinned on her task of decorating the tree.

“I had her blood test run,” Trey says.

“Why would you do that? I told you she didn’t want the job,” I say and Adelaide’s attention is ripped from her work. She stares at me with uncertain eyes.

“I know, but I thought that if she changed her mind, then we’d be ready to go. I kind of figured in time she’d come around,” Trey says.

“Well, maybe she will,” I say, giving Adelaide a look, the one I keep giving her when we discuss this topic and she fights me on it.

“Doesn’t matter if she does,” Trey says. “She doesn’t qualify at the current time to be an agent.”

“Wait. What?” I say, not having expected Trey to say that. “How is that even possible?”

“It’s her blood test,” he says. That’s all he says, which is insufficient.

“Why?” I say at once.

“She has a condition, and the test states that she’s had it since before you met her. Four, maybe five months,” Trey says.

“A condition,” I say, my voice suddenly higher than usual. Dahlia’s eyes are wide with worry as she listens to only my part of the conversation.

Adelaide has shuffled to put some garland back in a box, her fast hand movements making her nervousness known. Then she turns and rushes for the door.

“Yes, a condition. Ren, Adelaide is pregnant,” Trey says.

“Oh fuck,” I say, hanging up on Trey at once.

Epilogue

I’ve wondered for quite time if stupidity would be the thing that killed the human race. Now I realize how wrong the question was. Yes, being stupid could kill us. However, I never considered that it was in fact stupidity that kept us on this bloody Earth. Stupidity may just be the very reason that humans have continued to exist when we should have died out long ago. This is because stupid people are prone to breed more stupid people into this world, creating a never-ending cycle. Actually, stupid people are the ones breeding. The ones too daft to take care not to overpopulate our crowded cities and overburden our resources with babies. These babies then grow up to do the same as their parents, creating an epidemic of stupidity that can’t be erased.

And I never realized that one day I’d discover that I was one of those stupid people. I’ve bred stupidity into this world.

I’m Ren Lewis and I’m a part of the problem.

Keep Reading for the Next Installment in the Ren Series!

Acknowledgements:

I have some amazing readers. I’m not just saying that. I wouldn’t. I don’t give lip service. Today a reader made me my very own personalize Pokémon card. That makes me a big deal. And then another made personalized pillow designs for me. Wait, what? I’ve dreamed about this…well, not specifically. But still to have people, real people, make memes for me and all sorts of other awesome stuff. Well it’s the things I’ve dreamed about. I wrote alone for so long and just wanted someone to care one day. Actually, I wanted a lot of someone’s to care. And now I have so many supportive and super fun readers. I’m serious when I say that you all make my day, each and every day. There’s too many awesome moments where I’m so glad I chose this profession. I love teaching, but my students don’t make GIFs for me, let’s be honest. They’re cool and all, but you all rock. So thank you.

Thank you to my editor Christine LePorte. I think this was the rare book where you really had to give me direction. And that you did and I’m supremely happy with the edits. Here’s to number eleven.

Thank you to my cover designer Andrei Bat. Fastest cover ever. And that was even with me totally mucking up the instructions in the beginning. Good thing we can laugh about it now. Well, I’m not laughing. But go ahead, laugh at the things I do. That’s fine. You’re allowed, because you’re awesome and I love your work. Can’t wait to work on the next cover with you. And the next and the next. You get the point.

And then there’s my awesome beta reading team for this book, which makes me feel like I’m a mastermind with a cabinet who advises. I heart my beta readers for a lot of reasons. One they make me better. Two they make my books better. And three they make the world better, but I’m not sure they know this last one. It’s still true. So a huge thank you to my first chair Colleen. You may ask why she’s called that. Well she puts in the time, the effort, the awesomeness. And she sits in the first chair for that reason. Colleen is my first reader. The person who sees my books when they’re still crap. She overlooks the roughness and polishes them until they are near perfect. And she tells me things. Things that helps, like this scene blew my socks off and this one I didn’t understand. And we converse and in the process my books get better. All because this lady cares and loves me and Ren and the books that he’s in. Lol. And then there’s my other amazing beta readers. Heidi, Heidi, Kelly, and Melinda. You all gave me such fantastic input. Each different. Each helpful. And can I just say that discussing the nuances of the book with each one of you really helps my journey when creating. I don’t discount any of it. Every bit we talk about is vaulted away, analyzed and used in some regard. This is the weirdness that is me.

Thank you to Katie for checking my British vernacular. I’m not British, only obsessed with a man who is. And it’s important that I get him and his city spot on. Your input on the first Ren book was so helpful and since then I’ve had many a Brit tell me how accurate the book was. All thanks to you.

And a big thank you to Dominic and Maja who run the fan group on Goodreads. I know that Dominic can’t read these books yet because Ren is a filthy man. But still that kid makes each day better when he sends me an email. His support is awesome. He makes bookmarks, advertises and creates tons of threads about my books. I only wished that I would inspire someone like this one day. Now that I have, well I’m feeling like doing a cartwheel. However, I won’t because I can’t. I’m at a desk right now.

And thank you to BOD. I say it over and over and it’s never enough. You all run my parties. You all share my posts. You all buy my ebooks, then signed paperbacks and audiobooks. I’m not sure what hocus pocus surrounds BOD members, but I’ve yet to find one who isn’t amazing. Who didn’t give me amazing support. And who I don’t freaking adore. Seriously in love with this group. The ladies who run it are superb. And so grateful to Katy for running the release party for this book. You rock, but you kind of know that by now.

Thank you to my friends. Seriously, I’m the weirdest introvert most have ever met. I hate to socialize and then when I do, I’m in love with the experience. I guess it’s because I have awesome friends. You all go above and beyond to support me. Some of you read the books and love them. Some of you just support me. And then there’s a few of you who I suspect don’t care for me, but love the books. Whatevs. It all works in the end. Thank you to each and every one of you.

Thank you for entering the contest and suggesting the dark classics mentioned in this book. Stephanie, Cheryl, Elizabeth, and Katy. I love you all for so many reasons. Your comments keep me laughing and uplifted. So happy to share this book with you.

Thank you to my street team and to the main person on it. Kathy. You’re more than awesome and I love getting the notifications that you’re talking about the books.

Thank you to Stephanie, Jessica and Christopher. Wow, if it wasn’t for your major derailments on Facebook I would have written twelve more books this year. And I would be super unhappy and in need of laughter. You all rock. Thank you.

Thank you to super fans everywhere. I really can’t do this without you. Thank you to Anne, Katy, Kathy, Katie, Anna, Elizabeth, Shelah, Stephanie, Heidi, Melinda, April, Kelly, Cheryl, Vikki, Cheree, Casey, Maria, Cheryl, Belinda, Christopher, Derek, Clint, Marcus, Jamie, Tiffany, Marie, Susi, Nicole, Ashely, and many more. Love you all. I do this writing thing to keep you proud and entertained. Well, really I write just to keep Kelly entertained. The rest of you, it’s just extra that I publish these works. That’s the way it goes. You get it, I hope.

Thank you to my family. I really feel that I’m in good hands with you all. Thank you to Luke for the love and support. You rock. With a capital K.

Thank you to Lydia. You’re always my muse. The one I turn to when the plot doesn’t work. One might not think that a four year old should be helping with such things, but I know better. And you just keep getting better and better. Love you.

One-Twenty-Six Press.

Ren: The Monster Inside the Monster

Sarah Noffke

Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Noffke

All rights reserved

Copyeditor: Christine LePorte

Cover Design: Andrei Bat

All rights reserved. This was self-published by Sarah Noffke under One-Twenty-Six Press. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are seeking permission send inquiry at http: www.sarahnoffke.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary: A bordering psychopath must face the monster inside him before it tears him apart.

Published in the United States by One-Twenty-Six Press

ASIN: B01GZ97RVO

To Melinda, for loving Ren as much as I do and being an amazing supporter.

REN: THE MONSTER INSIDE THE MONSTER

Prologue

Change always gets its praise. If we don’t change we die. That’s what my therapist likes to tell me. John F. Kennedy said, “Change is the law of life.” George Bernard Shaw said, “Progress is impossible without change.” Winston Churchill said, “To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”

Fuck change. Fuck those people who think that a constantly evolving life creates perfection or progress or satisfaction. Nothing changes more than a butterfly. It starts as a larva and changes rapidly during its life. Only a small percentage ever progress to a caterpillar. And the life expectancy of a butterfly is ridiculously short. The male’s is especially short, not surprisingly. Sure a butterfly goes through incredible changes, but at what cost? Is it worth evolving to a beautiful being to only fly for a few days?

Not all butterflies have such short lives. The ones who seek shelter from the elements or migrate can live several months. So I’ve decided to follow the logical ways of the butterfly, an insect with a tiny brain, and that means I should retreat. Find a place where the winds can’t damage my symbolic wings. Where people can’t pollute me with their incredibly illogical behaviors and wrong ways of thinking.

I’m Ren Lewis and I fucking hate change.

Chapter One

The fluffy strand of garland falls to the ground with zero noise. Adelaide’s feet tangle in it as she makes for the door. I’ve already bucked Dahlia off my lap and shot to a standing position, my mobile close to breaking in my tight grasp. Trey’s words echo in my head from the call I just ended.

“Ren, what’s going on?” Dahlia says, standing too.

“Not so fast, Adelaide,” I say just as she reaches the doorway.

She halts, her body reeking with tension. Her shoulders are pinned up high. Her chin tucked. And even in the oversized sweatshirt she’s swimming in I can still spy the stress she’s holding in every one of her limbs.

The fucking sweatshirt. Of course. How didn’t I see the clues before? Her constant insistence to wear baggy sweaters although I had fitted button-ups bought for her. The napping, the sickness, the greenish bags under her eyes. I’m a fucking master of strategy and never realized the girl living with me for the last three months was pregnant. The word feels like a firecracker in my head. Pregnant.

“What the fuck, Adelaide,” I say, five feet from the girl who is visibly shaking now. She turns but the movement is so slow that for a moment she reminds me of a sloth, a terrified one.

“What is it?” she says, her eyes on the ground.

“Don’t what is it me. You know bloody well what Trey just told me or otherwise you wouldn’t be rushing for the exit,” I say.

Her eyes meet mine, a cruel pain in them. A shame I’ve seen there every day I’ve known her but just now completely understand. She’s a girl living a lie, one she’s in over her head with. How many times did she try to tell me her secret, only to fail to say the words? How long was she going to let this go on?

“I can explain,” she says, her hands knitted into the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

“I don’t want you to explain,” I say and then pause, shake my head. “Well, I do, but I want…” I trail off, strangely confused. In this scenario I don’t know what I want from her. What the fuck? That’s a first. I do know I don’t want Adelaide to be pregnant. It ruins everything. Everything.

Dahlia has just come around and accepted that I have a daughter. We’re back together. Adelaide makes sense in my life now. I mean, as much sense as a dog giving birth to kittens. But still I was starting to accept this bizarre fate I’ve been delivered. And now Adelaide has ruined it. Ruined it by breeding. By fucking up her future. Weighing herself down with a burden. She had so much potential. The potential to become an elite agent for the Lucidites. But now, now she has a monster inside of her. One that’s going to fuck up our lives.

“Ren, what’s going on?” Dahlia repeats at my shoulder.

“Why don’t you tell her, Adelaide,” I say.

The girl drops her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I was going to when we got back to Dahlia’s house this week. And then also I’ve tried to tell you a thousand times before then and a hundred times since then.”

“Stop with the lyrical language and fess up, little liar,” I say.

“Things have been so hard between you and me, Ren,” Adelaide says, and then she looks at Dahlia. “And you, well, we didn’t get along at first. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Dahlia tucks her chin to the side. “Adelaide, how I treated you is my burden. You shouldn’t punish yourself with it anymore. We’re past that. Making a fresh start.”

“Oh yes,” I say, my head burning like my hair is on fire. “So fucking fresh.”

Adelaide crushes her teeth down on her lip, nods. Tears well in her eyes.

“Don’t you bloody cry. Spill the news so I can kick you the fuck out,” I say.

“Ren!” Dahlia says, slapping me on the arm. She then turns to Adelaide. “What’s going on, dear? Tell me so I can help and don’t worry, you’re not going anywhere. Your father just loves making threats. It’s a hobby of his.”

Adelaide’s mouth pops open, but nothing comes out. It closes and she shakes her head. Loses the ability to keep eye contact with us. Her shaking hands find the hem of the extra-large sweatshirt which would be baggy even on me. She tugs it up in one fluid motion, and to my relief she’s wearing another shirt and not actually stripping. Adelaide can’t say the news, so instead she’s showing Dahlia. Showing me her secret. Her lie.

The tank top is stretched to a deadly capacity, hugging the bump on her stomach. Trey said six months, but she’s probably a bit underdeveloped at this stage, due to many factors.

“Oh, dear god,” Dahlia says, her hands clapping to her mouth as she simultaneously takes a step back like she’s afraid Adelaide has a contagious disease.

“Like I said, I tried to tell you,” Adelaide says and now tears stream down her red freckled cheeks.

I turn, unable to stomach the sight before me. I’ve never been able to look at a pregnant woman, not since Eloise, the woman I watched murdered during childbirth. The one whose death I am responsible for. Culpable in every way.

“Adelaide, you’re…” Dahlia says but like me she sounds unwilling to believe it even as we stand face to face with the evidence.

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d turn me away in the beginning if you knew. Ren kept telling me to off myself so I figured if I told him I was pregnant he’d—”

“You’re right, that’s exactly what I would have told you to do. I would have told you to get rid of it straightaway,” I say, my head pinned between my hands.

“Well, I want it,” Adelaide says. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

“You’re a child. You’re not responsible enough to take care of yourself. How do you expect to take care of another person?” I say, realizing I understand nothing about the girl in front of me.

“That’s exactly why I sought you out. I needed to understand what was wrong with me so I could figure out what to do with my baby. And at first I thought I might abort, but then when I learned who I was and how incredible I was, I couldn’t get rid of it,” she says, stalling on the last word.

“How did this happen?” Dahlia says, stepping forward again, her eyes on the girl’s swollen stomach which Adelaide is now holding with a light affection.

“Sex,” Adelaide says plainly, an almost laugh in her voice.

“Right, but when? Who?” Dahlia says

“I figure I’m five or six months,” she says. “And the boy, well…” And the look of shame deepens on her face.

“Oh, bloody hell! He wasn’t consenting, was he?” I say, realizing she used mind control to make someone sleep with her.

“I don’t know, maybe he would have been. I didn’t understand how my powers worked then,” Adelaide says.

“Wait, what?” Dahlia says, looking back and forth between Adelaide and me.

“She used her mind control on some innocent boy,” I say, cringing that I’m even having this bloody conversation.

“He wasn’t innocent. He was the most popular boy in my old school. He had quite the reputation for womanizing,” Adelaide nearly screams, more tears in her throat.

“So you decided to go back to your old school, did you? And then show this boy by being the one to finally take advantage of him. Is that right?” I say.

“Don’t you act so innocent, like you’ve never forced someone to be with you using mind control,” Adelaide says.

“Oh, I’m not innocent. I’ve forced hundreds of women to be with me. Every women I’ve ever been with was forced into the act,” I say. “Well, except for Dahlia. She’s demented though.”

“I had to force guys as well. You know my record. I was a freak at every school,” she says. And then I spy something new in her. A loneliness. It makes her look so fragile, like a porcelain doll dangling over a marble floor. She’s always been dangling there too, terrified that one day she’ll fall and shatter.

“So that’s why you did it?” Dahlia says. “To feel close and accepted, didn’t you?”

Adelaide opens her mouth to answer but I cut her off. “We aren’t diving into the monster’s insufficient reasons for ruining her life,” I say.

“I didn’t ruin my life. I made a mistake,” Adelaide says and now she looks mad. Good.

“Adelaide, come here,” Dahlia says, extending a hand to her. “Let’s sit down and discuss this calmly.”

Dahlia’s cool-as-ever demeanor makes me want to punch a wall. She should be livid that this burden is about to burden us even more. I can’t turn Adelaide away now and I can’t have her in my life. I don’t want a child around. I can barely stomach teenagers. Babies make me want to barf. The thought of a baby brings a long ago memory rushing to the surface. The babies I took to Trey Underwood. They were covered in blood, tiny and squirming. On my way to Trey, I was running for my life, or so I thought. And although that horrific run through Stockholm, Sweden, was riddled with threats there were other things pressing in on my conscience, lamenting itself there. All I could see in my head was their dead mother, her throat slit.

Babies mean death. Babies mark the mistakes in my life. The ones I thought I’d atoned for but now realize still live in my bones, threatening to break me.

“No, I can’t sit,” Adelaide says, shaking her head at Dahlia and her offer.

“Adelaide, you haven’t had medical attention. You and your baby need to see someone pronto,” Dahlia says.

“Oh fuck!” I say, throwing my hands back to my head. Both women turn to look at me. “You’ve been dream traveling.”

“Yeah, so?” Adelaide says with a shrug.

“Well, if you would have told me you were pregnant I would have forbid you from dream traveling. I would have told you that as soon as that monster’s consciousness sparked to life around the fourth to sixth month that dream travel could kill you both. You can’t pull your consciousness into the dreamscape without risking creating a schism when you have another human consciousness within you,” I say, spit flying from my mouth from my rushed words

“Wait, what?” Dahlia says. “Pregnant women can’t dream travel?”

“Sometimes they can, but it’s risky. A risk I would have never allowed you to attempt if I knew!” I yell and I do now throw my fist into the wood-paneled walls. My finger, still broken from punching that bloke James in the face, screams when contact is made. And to my frustration the wall stands up to my force, not even denting. What’s the bloody point in hitting something if it doesn’t create damage?

I cradle my hand to my chest at once, careful to keep my eyes off Dahlia, who is probably giving me a punishing look of disappointment. From my peripheral I see her turn to Adelaide.

“I’m calling my doctor right now. You and your baby are having a full checkup today,” Dahlia says.

“It’s really not nec—”

“No arguments,” Dahlia says, cutting Adelaide off. Then she rushes for the phone on the corner table. She pauses and just then looks at me. I bring my eyes up to look at her. “This is unexpected, Ren, but we will deal with it. Don’t worry and stop hitting things.”

Chapter Two

The clock has ticked three hundred and sixty times since the therapist opposite of me has spoken. I had started counting the ticks and hadn’t cared to stop. It was almost soothing now to wait for the gentle click that happened every second and count it.

“Ren, I’m all too happy to sit here in silence with you if that’s what you need,” Dr. Dave Raydon says. His hands sit in his lap, his eyes resting on me. “I’ve learned in my practice that talking helps, but not always. Sometimes we need time to process our thoughts.”

Having lost track of my counting I manage a nod.

“However, if talking about the recent developments will help, if there are thoughts sitting on top of your mind with a desire to be voiced, then I’d like you to express them,” he says.

Now I shake my head.

“Ren, for over a month we’ve sat here, sometimes talking but usually in silence. I’m not going to push you. However, I would like to ask you the question that I think we’ve both been thinking but are unwilling to voice. I, for one, didn’t think you were ready to address this question. Maybe you still aren’t, but I’m willing to anger you a bit to ask it now.”

Usually I’d have a crafty retort or an insult at the ready, but this time I don’t. Not only am I unmotivated to berate a person lately but I have no desire to criticize the man in front of me. I’m a wicked person, but one would have to be a demon to be rude to this man. “Go ahead. Ask your burning question,” I say.

A smile twitches under his mustache. “Ren, don’t you think it’s obvious what you’re doing? How long are you going to keep hiding?”

A frustrated breath falls out of my mouth. “That was actually two questions. And I hid for eighteen bloody years. I’m thinking of doubling it this time.”

The smile reaches up and touches his blue eyes. “Before, you were in danger. Now the circumstances are quite different.”

I tie my arms in front of my chest. “There’s a deranged lunatic who’s out there, need I remind you,” I say, pointing at the stainless steel wall, but meaning America. “This lunatic, Vivian, is obsessed with me. And she’s instigated the murder of her father and attempted murder on her uncles. She’s seeking to implant devices into homes so she can control people. Vivian Bishop is one of the most cunning and dangerous adversaries I’ve ever encountered and she can disable me with a couple of words. I am in danger, but no, I’m not hiding like you think or for the reasons you think. I’m fucking trying to save humanity. So keep running your judgmental eyes over me but you’ll be thanking my ass when I save this bloody circus we call the Institute.”

Dr. Raydon tucks his head to the side like he’s just thought of something. “I do believe that’s the most you’ve said in a month. Good progress.”

“Yeah, and now I’m bloody exhausted,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

“I do realize your position with the Lucidites is extremely demanding. And I commend you on the commitment you show. However, you haven’t left the Institute in over thirty days,” he says.

“I’ve been busy. There’s a fucking mole in this place who is giving all our secrets to Vivian. And the only way I’m going to find this dipshit who’s reporting my actions to Vivian is by hanging around this hell hole and investigating,” I say.

“So,” he says, drawing out the word. “You’re not avoiding your pregnant daughter then?”

I fake a long yawn. “Oh, I totally forgot the little dumbass got herself knocked up. Thanks again, Doc.”

Even under his bushy mustache I still spy the purse of the doctor’s lips. And even adorning a skeptical expression, he looks accepting. “Don’t you think that at this time in Adelaide’s life she could use her father?”

So now the good doctor has decided to play hardball with his questions. I wondered how long he’d allow me to take up a spot in his armchair and only answer his questions with one-word responses.

“No, Doc, I don’t. She doesn’t need me and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t really need anyone,” I say. “This is a girl who has spent her entire life alone in one regard or another. I have every confidence that she’s fine growing that little monster in her womb and plotting how they are going to be a drain on my finances for the rest of their lives.”

“But have you at least spoken to her?” Dr. Raydon asks.

“No!” I fire back, an inferno erupting in my head.

“Then how do you know that she’s fine as she embarks on this incredibly scary change?” he says.

“Because I know the girl. I know her better than she knows herself. I know how she thinks and how easy it is for her to cut off emotions. I know how incredibly deluded she was to make the decision that got her pregnant. And I know that’s she’s strong enough to get through this,” I say too fast, the words seeking to tear out my throat if I don’t finally say them all.

Dr. Raydon presses back into his chair, a knowing look on his round face. “To have this level of understanding of another person is quite the gift, Ren. You do see that, don’t you?”

“I also understand how criminal minds work. So excuse me for not indulging you with your attempts to make this sound like a sentimental relationship,” I say.

The day I found out Adelaide had hidden a pregnancy from me I moved back into my former residence in the Institute. I told Dahlia that I had to fill in as interim Head Strategist until Trey occupied the position with some half-wit. I told her that intervening in the Smart Pod/Vivian case was top priority. I told her that I’d return as soon as I could. Dahlia just nodded, listening to my excuses. Not once did she object. Not once did she accuse me of running or hiding. And that’s why I love her.

Dahlia set up for Adelaide to see a doctor. She hired a midwife and made other arrangements that would ensure my spawn would be safe and taken care of. And then just like me Dahlia threw herself into her career, disclosing that her recording contract required that she spend the next month or two in New York. Maybe Dahlia would have stuck around if I did, but without me there she probably felt uncomfortable. And since I ran away she had every excuse to do the same.

I get daily reports from Dahlia’s staff on Adelaide. It involves more details than I care to know. Her activity, mood, health, and sometimes a message from her. I haven’t returned the messages nor do I have any plans to do so.

“Are you mad at Adelaide for getting pregnant?” Dr. Raydon says.

“Of course I am,” I say before I consider my answer.

“Now you probably think that you’re mad at her for being irresponsible, am I right?”

“Yes. She had her whole life ahead of her. One full of potential. Now this kid is going to ruin it for her,” I say.

“Is it also possible that you’re afraid this kid will change the relationship you and Adelaide were forming?”

“No,” I say, biting on the word.

“Because if I remember correctly, you two, against your mighty attempts to keep distance between you, were bonding.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth. I was training Adelaide, just as I have thousands of snotty teenagers,” I say.

“But none of the Dream Travelers you trained here at the Institute were your own flesh and blood and mirrored you like your daughter.”

I shoot into a standing position. “I do believe we’re over our time,” I say, my eyes firmly centered on the clock on the wall.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, waving a hand to me. “I don’t mind spending another half hour with you. I dare say we’re making progress.”

“If by progress you mean you’ve figured out how to bring my breakfast back up then sure. And I can easily believe that you have nothing better to do than ask me daft questions. I however don’t have the luxury of hanging around with you discussing absurdities. I have a fucking mole to catch and club over the head,” I say.

“Yes, best of luck with that,” the doctor sings as I exit.

Chapter Three

There are roughly two hundred residents and employees in the Lucidite Institute. Of those, I’ve cleared fifty, having firmly determined they aren’t the mole. Dr. Raydon is one of those that I’ve cleared. Trey Underwood another. And all twenty in the strategic department have passed my investigation. That was a fairly simple task because I know how my agents’ minds work. I trained my agents. Hell, I know every-fucking-thing about the people in my department. It’s how I vetted them and thereby determined they could hack an agent position.

Now the real detective work begins. There are a lot of suspicious types in the other departments and it won’t be as straightforward to investigate them and determine if they’re the mole. The clairvoyance and telepaths in the news reporting department are the sketchiest people around. And they have the ability to lock down their minds or just feed certain information to an agent detective. Conversely, the scientists are dumb little sheep that split atoms and ask big questions. And they follow their doctrine of facts while dismissing anything unexplainable. They lack the creativity to realize that that which is a mystery holds the greatest power. That’s mostly why I loathe scientists. They want answers to everything, not realizing that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that everything has an answer. That’s the most pompous short-sighted thing a person can think. Investigating the science department will indeed not be brain surgery. However, the last thing I wish to do is pollute my body sitting in a room with a bunch of sticky, crusty scientists. And then there are the administrative positions and maintenance workers. I suspect that they’ll be the easiest to investigate and therefore shouldn’t be my problem.

I pause at the door to Scapes Escapes, my old department room. I took pity on Trey and assumed my old position as Head Strategist. It’s only in an interim capacity. And I only agreed because I recognize how desperate the situation is with Vivian planning a secret diabolical takeover of the American home. Furthermore, I only agreed to take the position if at my discretion I could work as the agent on this case, which we’re calling Smart Pod Takeover since that’s apparently the role of the devices in homes. To take over minds using voice control. We don’t know any more than that. Vivian’s powers of voice control will no doubt echo through the little handy devices that some techy father thought would be fun technology to add to his entertainment center. And once installed, the thing will listen and then give orders. And who knows what she plans to do to people, but anyone who would recruit an army of assassins can’t have a wholesome agenda. So I wasn’t lying when I told Dr. Raydon that I didn’t have the time to leave the Institute. I’m giving orders on hundreds of cases, managing a dozen agents, investigating a mole, and trying to cut the head off of Medusa aka Vivian.

I check my watch before tapping the button for the department room. I’m right on time as usual. The motorized door slides back into the wall and I rush into the room, head held high, footsteps thundering. This type of entrance always sets the tone for these meetings, thereby setting all my agents on edge. An alert agent is one who’s thinking and observing; anything less results in a dead agent.

All noises in the room are instantly sucked away as everyone’s attention centers on me. I clear the short hallway and halt in my usual position after a few strides. Around a large oval table twenty agents between the ages of eighteen and thirty stare back at me. It’s not that older Dream Travelers don’t make good agents, it’s that they either burn out or die on the job. It’s a dangerous position and so I do lose a fair percentage of agents each year. However, the biggest reason for turnover is that most people want to know what a typical life feels like. They desire a life where they aren’t on call or having to take orders from an abusive boss. Most of my agents last about five years before they decide a mortgage and breeding sounds like a fun idea. It’s a rule that those are two things my agents can’t have. And yes, I broke my own rules but they don’t apply to me. That’s my fucking privilege as the Head Strategist.

People with no lives make the best agents. They aren’t distracted by responsibility. While in my service their thoughts belong to me and that’s the precise reason I’ve been so successful in this position. And it’s the reason that the Head Strategists who tried to take over for me all failed. They treated these agents like people. Maybe they even had lives of their own. When you treat people like humans then they start acting like humans, employing feelings and making mistakes. Treat people like machines and they perform in a way that brings about consistent results, not polluted by emotions. Intervening on a hundred potential disasters a day takes great planning and the skill of hardwired soldiers.

“Inside this fucking metal box that all you rats call home is a bloody mole,” I say so loud that the newest recruit jumps slightly. She still isn’t used to my endearing nature. Several agents exchange nervous glances. “None of you is the traitor, hence the reason that I’m disclosing this information to you.” I begin striding around the table clockwise, my hands clasped behind my back. “If you have a spy amongst your community the last thing you do is give them any signs that you’re aware of their existence,” I say and stop. Then I slam my hand down beside a guy with a nose ring and a name that makes me want to take the privilege away from parents to name their children. “Bird boy, I have a question for you,” I say, leaning down low, the reflection of his shiny nose ring catching my attention briefly.

“Raven, sir,” he says.

I grimace. It’s a common joke amongst my agents that they correct me every single time I mess up their name or call them something belligerent. It’s almost kind of cute and as they know, it encourages the name calling. I might have ripped the human out of these people but I left their sense of humor intact. Sometimes it’s the only thing that will keep an agent sane.

“Right, right,” I say. “How are you like a writing desk? From my perspective you’re flat and shallow and lacking a complex composition, but still in search of one.”

His crooked teeth show when he flashes a grin. “You had a question for me, sir,” he says.

Pigeon boy has been an agent for only one year and already he has the confidence of many senior agents. It’s impressive really, and also highly irritating.

“I did have a question. Let’s play a game. Let’s pretend that you run this bloody department. There’s a mole reporting the activity of the Lucidites to an extremely bad villain. What would you do?” I say.

He tilts his head to the side, thinking. I hate it when people have to do that, take the time to think.

“Come on, pigeon brain, I haven’t got all day,” I say.

“Well, I, Raven Ottomon the second, would send my agents out to question each of the residents of the Institute,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest.

“That’s the worst idea ever,” a guy on the far side of the table says.

I flip my head up to see the boy with skin as dark as chocolate leaning back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.

“And why is that, dread boy?” I say, angling to the guy who has decided that wearing his shoulder-length hair in strings of thick ropes isn’t completely gross.

“I prefer to go by Trent, sir,” he says.

“And I’d prefer not to look at your face, but Trey says I can’t fire you. Apparently a perk of dating his son. Good thinking. Sleeping your way to the top,” I say.

Trent chuckles, unoffended. “As you were saying, sir, the last thing you want is to question people openly thereby giving the spy a chance to hide evidence and arrange their story.”

“So, it’s your department for the day, what do you do?” I say.

“I send the eyes of my agents out around the Institute to observe. I assign a certain number of residents to each agent and that way they can focus their attention and look for behavior that is suspicious. I’d have my agents track the communications of these residents, get permission to search their computer history in the labs, and watch for interactions they have with outsiders. Because that’s the key to finding this person. The tipoff that a person is a mole isn’t when they’re collecting information but when they’re handing it off.”

I narrow my eyes at the agent. “Well, then how about we go with your strategy and if it works then you can stick around for another month or two. If it fails and we don’t find the rat using this strategy then you’re fired. How does that sound?”

“It will work,” he says, his typical confidence in his voice. Trent is my best agent and the reason for that is simple. He thinks from the end. A strategic mind only considers things in a way that presents real solutions. They don’t consider what-ifs. It’s about seeing what you want and working backward. Most take a problem and look for a solution. Solutions aren’t discovered, they’re bloody created.

“There’s one hundred employees in the administrative, healthcare, facility, and infirmary departments,” I say, pointing to the file sitting in the middle of the table. It’s where I leave my notes for after the meeting. The one with detailed assignments for each agent. “In there you’ll find the five residents you’ve each been assigned to watch. Do not under any circumstance make what you’re doing known to them. Being inconspicuous is of chief priority in this. Report any suspicious act—”

“Wait,” Trent says, daring to cut me off.

I stop and regard him with an angry stare.

“If you’ve already made assignments then that’s not my plan we’re following but rather yours,” he says.

“Very good, Tiny Tim,” I say.

“Name’s Trent, sir, and I’ve been working here for almost two years.”

“Feels like longer,” I say with a bored sigh.

“So, I guessed your plan, didn’t I?” he says, looking confident. “And also, if it’s your plan then if it doesn’t work, I shouldn’t be fired.”

“As I was saying, you all will follow your five leads,” I say.

“What about the rest of the employees in the Institute? The scientists and news reporters?” Trent asks.

“Leave them to me,” I say.

“You’re taking on fifty employees, but only giving us each five?” he says.

“Yes, and I’m certain you all will screw up the assignments I’ve given you while I’m finding the fucking culprit,” I say as I exit the department room.

Chapter Four

The walls of the residence where I lived for the better part of my life hold a strange comfort. For almost two decades I lived in the executive housing in the Lucidite Institute. And although I swore I’d never again imprison myself in this windowless dwelling, here I am. The walls are bare now, not punctuated with artwork or bookshelves like they were before. Presently, I just have my luggage and the worn plaid armchair. That piece of furniture, like me, has moved around. And like me, the majority of its years were spent in this eight-hundred-square-foot, three-room space. I never minded that these living quarters in the Institute were half the space of my flat in London. What I minded most was the dull lighting and lack of windows. I never got used to it. I always woke up missing the presence of the sun marking the start of a new day.

The knock at my door produces a growl from my mouth. The executive housing in the Institute can only be accessed by other Head Officials or housekeeping. Not one of those people do I wish to stomach right now. Well, ever.

“I’m not home,” I yell, narrowing my eyes at the file on my desk. I’ve been working for twenty hours straight. Soon I plan to dream travel back to this spot and work for another eight hours. That was the schedule I kept before as Head Strategist. There’s a reason I left the job. It’s demanding. But there’s now an excellent reason why I’ve returned to this job.

The knock sounds again. People really are persistent. It’s annoying and a trait that should be discouraged in those with a low IQ.

“Aiden, I don’t have your Legos nor have I seen them,” I say.

“Open up, Ren,” Trey says from the other side of the door.

“How about you leave me be so I can keep your precious Institute from being blown to smithereens by a treacherous villain?” I say.

Again he knocks.

“For fuck sake,” I say, bolting to a standing position. I whip the door back as I simultaneously yell, “What?” I say it as if I’m going to be face to face with Trey, who is my height. Trey isn’t standing in my doorway giving me his typical expression of waning tolerance. It takes my eyes a moment to register who I’m actually seeing. I bring my gaze down low to the girl before me who is a head shorter. Adelaide’s lips are pressed together, her bloodshot eyes contrasting boldly with the green of her irises. Her hands are wrapped around her stomach, almost in a protective stance. I turn my head to the side, having caught Trey in my peripheral. He’s leaning against the wall, no shame on his face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I say, restraining myself from launching a fist at his face. Then I remind myself that I don’t know how to punch properly and Trey’s pain isn’t worth me breaking my fingers again.

“I’m trying to help you,” he says. From the look on his face I realize that a) he doesn’t believe his life is in danger, and b) he actually thinks this bold move will help me.

“I don’t need your help,” I say.

“I realize that I’m interfering and—”

“Oh good, I don’t have to spell that out for you,” I say, cutting Trey off. “And just so you know, I will fucking make your residents burn the Institute down for this.”

“I asked for his help,” the mistake-maker says. I keep my eyes off Adelaide, unable to stomach the sight of the girl.

“I don’t care what she asked for, Trey. You have no right to drag her here,” I say, realizing Adelaide would have had to take the submarine to the Institute since dream travel is too risky at this stage of her pregnancy.

“It’s my job to ensure the well-being of my employees, Ren,” Trey says. “And that means helping them with situations that they’re avoiding.”

“I’m not fucking avoiding anything,” I burst out, livid at the accusations so plainly being made in front of Adelaide. I had no idea Trey wanted me to kill him. I take a steadying breath before continuing. “I’m trying to work a bloody level five case, run your strategic department, and find a mole that’s infiltrated your Institute because you’ve been too busy playing fucking house. Maybe stop interfering in the lives of Lucidites and start doing your bloody job as Head Official.”

“Ren, nothing matters more than family,” Trey says.

“Look…” I begin but pause when Aiden and Roya enter the executive wing, stupid grins on their git faces as they laugh about something, probably fart noises or body odor. They straighten and lose their cheery expressions as soon as they see us. Roya’s eyes snap onto Adelaide and then swivel up to meet mine.

“Hey, Ren. Is this your—”

“Mind your own fucking business,” I say, cutting off Roya’s question. I then step back and throw a finger at Adelaide. “Get in here,” I say, finally looking at her.

***

I’m staring at the wall, arms crossed, when Adelaide finally stops pacing.

“Why?” I say and leave the question hanging in the air, knowing she’s smart enough to figure it out.

I hear her footsteps first and then she marches up close so she’s right in front of me. “Because you’re avoiding me,” she says.

“I’m working,” I say, my voice louder than I intended. I roll with it. “How do you think I afford that flat in London? How do you think Dahlia pays for that mansion in Los Angeles? And who do you think pays all of your medical bills?”

“I never asked for anything,” she says in a hush.

“No, but you have expectations,” I say, turning away from her.

“I do have expectations, but they are connected to having your attention. Or information. Or a relationship. But you think I give a shit about your money. I’d rather have none of it and have just you. I’d rather know you. Spend time with you,” Adelaide says, and I loathe the way she says such things in such a steady tone. I hate that she says such things period.

She’s found a spot in front of me again which I would have thought impossible with her wide clearance.

“Adelaide, you know I don’t have time for these things,” I say.

“I know that you’re afraid of these things,” she says.

“Don’t pretend that you’re my therapist,” I say.

“What does he say about this all?”

“He says I should run away and join the fucking circus,” I say. “I’m considering the idea.”

“You abandoned me,” she says. Adelaide’s voice sounds desperate now, although I have felt that emotion in her since I saw her a few minutes ago. She was just trying to hide it.

“I have a responsibility to the Lucidite Institute,” I say with an irked sigh.

“And Dahlia? Where’s she been since she found out I was pregnant?” Adelaide says.

“Oh, well she probably ran away. That’s what she does when the going gets tough. She runs,” I say. “But you knew that already.”

Adelaide rubs her hands over a belly that has maybe doubled in size in the last month. Or maybe I just wasn’t used to seeing it in tight-fitting clothes. Nevertheless, it looks so much bigger than I remember even from a month ago.

“You haven’t returned any of my messages,” she says.

“I didn’t get them,” I lie.

In response she narrows her eyes at me. “You could have come home, at least once or twice a week or something. It’s so much easier for you than most to travel and yet you make commuting seem so difficult,” she says.

“I really couldn’t return,” I say.

“Really? For over a month! You’re avoiding me because you’re mad,” she says.

“I’m not mad.”

“Then you’re disappointed,” Adelaide says.

“I’m not disappointed.”

“Fine! You’re repulsed.”

“Adelaide, I’m busy. That is all,” I say. This whole conversation is so bizarre. I hardly know the girl in front of me, and yet I know her better than anyone on this planet. I know how she thinks because of the powers we share. I know her struggles. And it’s bloody ridiculous that she seems to think that because of all that that I’m emotionally obligated to her. She’s confronting me with bogus expectations that I’ve failed to meet when that deal was never made.

“Just tell me why you can’t even look at me,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

I regard her now. Trying to really make myself look at her face. Nothing else. Just her face. The part of her that I can stand. “I just don’t get how you could do this,” I say, throwing a hand in the direction of her stomach.

“Oh, how I could make a mistake? Like you never have?”

“I didn’t know I was making a mistake at the time,” I say.

“I’m not a mistake. I’m a person. And you created me. Why do you have to pretend like you’re so different from me?” she says.

“Because I am. I never wanted children. But you’re nineteen. And you’ve kept this thing even though it’s going to ruin your future. And you won’t even consider giving it up,” I say.

“He’s not a thing and he’s not going to ruin my life,” she roars.

I pause. Run my hand over my chin and cheek, not because they itch but rather to cover my expression. Knowing Adelaide’s baby’s gender has a weird effect on me. Makes it feel real. Like it’s a person. A real one. Not just this atrocious idea.

“And I didn’t want to keep the baby at first but that was only because I was scared. And yet I was too scared to bring myself to the clinic. Instead I went and tracked you down and learned who I was. You see yourself as a monster. You see me that way. And maybe we are. But we’re also incredibly powerful people who are superior with our skills even inside the Dream Travel race.”

I open my mouth to interject but she cuts me off.

“Yes, that power comes with a burden, but still. Look at what you have accomplished,” she says, throwing her hand at the wall, indicating the Institute. “Look at the people you’ve saved, all because of who you are and you used your skills for good. And I want to do that too. One day. And how can I get rid of my son knowing what he will become? You think we’re cursed with these powers. I don’t disagree with you. But what you miss with your faulty reasoning is we’re not cursed with powers, we’re cursed to be great. That’s a lot of pressure. I get that. I feel that way, and yet I have to accept it.”

I press my top and bottom molars down on each other. Suppress the growl begging to escape my mouth. “I’ve never, not fucking once, had faulty reasoning,” I bring myself to say. The statement isn’t true, but it’s the only part of her speech I can address.

“I’m having this baby. I’m keeping him. And I’m going to expect for you to help me. Not with money, but with raising a Dream Traveler right. Not like I was where I thought I was insane but in a way so he knows his ancestry. I want him to feel a connection at a young age with his race. And I want his powers fostered from the beginning. I want you to help me raise this kid right. I want you to help me raise him in the exact opposite way that I was.”

Chapter Five

“Don’t make eye contact with anyone,” I say, hurrying down the corridor of the fifth level of the Institute. Adelaide waddles behind me, panting like a golden retriever.

“Where are you taking me?” she says when I pause to wait for her.

“To the infirmary. You’ll need to be checked out after that long journey,” I say, furious on so many different levels. And now I’m also paranoid that someone will spot my offspring and mistake her for a beached whale that swam into the Institute.

“Yeah, Trey said the same thing but I refused until I saw you,” Adelaide says.

I narrow my eyes at the blue carpet.

“I’m fine though,” she says between breaths. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“There’s a lot of pressure changes your body experiences when you enter the Institute,” I say.

“Well yeah, it’s underground, so that makes sense,” she says, finally catching up with me, her eyes roaming over the various motorized doors and the brushed stainless steel walls that are everywhere in the Institute. The sterile, cold walls are this place’s trademark; well, and also churning out goodie-goodies who interfere in other people’s affairs. The Lucidites Institute did churn out Vivian and she appears to be a soulless beast. However, I haven’t been able to track down the records of the time she was here. I probably trained her but I’ve instructed so many thousands of little shits that my photographic memory is still browsing the catalogue.

“This place is unreal. I can’t believe you work here. It’s like a space ship built by aliens,” she says, her eyes wide and for a rare occasion she looks mesmerized. Usually she looks bored, like the world is a crossword puzzle constructed for underachieving kids.

“It was built by the United States government so yes, that’s pretty accurate. Power-hungry alien-like people built the Institute,” I say.

We continue the trek down the long corridor, but I walk at half my normal speed so that Adelaide can keep up.

“Oh, I didn’t realize that the Lucidites are a branch of the U.S. government,” Adelaide says, looking suddenly perplexed.

“God no. The Lucidites have zero relationship with the United States government. They aren’t a bunch of self-serving criminals who repress their people using defunct systems that are meant to disempower, and wag-the-dog strategies that hide the truth,” I say.

“Oh, good to know you have no opinion on such matters,” Adelaide says, almost smiling.

“Trey is many things: a man who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong, a religious fanatic, and a hider of truths. However, Trey Underwood is a good man. And the Lucidite Institute is probably the most well run organization in history,” I say.

“That’s a bold statement. And also incredibly impressive. So how did the Institute become the Lucidites’ if it was built by the U.S. government?” Adelaide says.

I scoff at her like the answer isn’t obvious. “They stole it.”

“Oh, real do-gooders then,” she says.

“Believe me, they are. The Lucidites stopped the politicians from testing on Dream Travelers. They’re probably responsible for stopping the government from splicing our genes into soldiers and using their powers to fight meaningless wars.”

“God, there’s so many things I don’t know. So many things…” she says, her eyes glassing over.

“Don’t look so overwhelmed. It’s just information. You’ll learn it in time,” I say.

She nods, but doesn’t look much better. This is precisely the reason I didn’t want her introduced to the Lucidite society or taken to the Institute yet. Trey knew that too. Learning you’re a special race of people with incredible powers is hard enough for a newbie to digest. I’ve seen it create real confusion in a person. But then to also be immersed in a culture that’s more advanced than the people of Atlantis is a boulder to swallow. Most are consumed with a barrage of insecurities. It’s intimidating and overwhelming when one first enters the Institute. For the Lucidites anything is possible. Anything. And that is about the best and worst idea for most to comprehend.

“We’re in here,” I say, tapping the button to the infirmary.

The door slides back to reveal a long room lined with beds and various medical and diagnostic equipment. Whiskers of wrinkles spring to Mae’s eyes when she looks up at us, at first squinting to take in the new visitors. She drops the clipboard on a table and bustles over. The woman always moves like she’s in a hurry while in the infirmary, like any moment could be someone’s last if she isn’t quick enough. It’s probably all this rushing around that’s resulted in her hunched position. Or maybe it’s just old age. She’s probably my pop’s age. However, when she’s outside of the infirmary she goes in reverse, moving slow enough to be run down by a snail. People always overcompensate in one way or another.

“Yes, yes. Trey told me to expect you,” she says, angling her arm to the nearest bed. “Please have a seat, Adelaide.”

Adelaide looks at me like she’s unsure of what to do or if she can trust this person.

“Go on,” I say. “This is Mae and she’s the Institute’s Head Healer. She’ll check you out.”

“Wait,” Adelaide says, eyeing the woman and then me like she’s being told a ridiculous joke. “You don’t have doctors?”

“We have healers,” I say, turning for the door as Adelaide approaches the bed.

“We’re trained the same way doctors are, but we also have the power to heal through touch,” Mae explains. “Honestly, because we feel the energy of a person, we understand health and wellness and how to achieve it from an intuitive perspective. We’re much more successful than doctors.”

“This place keeps getting weirder and weirder,” Adelaide says.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” I say, turning to take my leave.

“Oh, no you won’t,” Mae says, placing the stethoscope buds in her ears. “I have questions for you, Mr. Lewis.”

“Yes, I have a daughter. Yes, the dumbass got herself knocked up. No, she’s not sticking around here so don’t worry, you don’t have to deliver the little monster. I’ll be going now,” I say, turning for the door.

“Those weren’t my questions,” Mae says to me, but her attention is on taking Adelaide’s vitals.

“Yes, old woman, I’m taking my meds,” I say, my eyes on the ceiling now, annoyance heavy in my tone.

“You haven’t been in for your checkup,” Mae says.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy keeping dumbasses alive so they can get fat and then you can heal their cholesterol problems,” I say.

“You know those monthly checkups are a requirement of the Institute,” the ancient bag of bones says, that usual clinical tone to her voice.

“Well, then Trey can fire me for skipping them. Although that is about as likely as him opening a hatch and chucking you in the ocean. I requested he do just that but he keeps declining,” I say. And it’s a little morbid even for me to pull off those lines. Mae is a healer and I think killing those kinds of people is like burning a four leaf clover or gutting a unicorn. Loads of bad luck.

“How have you been feeling?” Mae says.

“Like killing someone,” I say, thinking of Vivian and the mole she’s employing who’s running around the Institute and reporting on my affairs.

“Are you sleeping? Eating enough? Getting enough activity?” Mae says to me as she presses her fingers to Adelaide’s pulse.

“No. No. And no,” I say without giving any of the questions a real thought. “And I’m thinking of taking up drinking and smoking if you don’t stop this line of questions.”

Mae turns to me now, her lips wrinkling when she purses them. “Your well-being is my responsibility. I don’t go to any lengths to prevent you from fulfilling your job as the Head Strategist and I expect the same compliance.”

“Would you finish checking Adelaide? She is the patient here and not me,” I say.

“She’s fine,” Mae says, waving a hand at the girl. “Good health, both her and the baby.”

“Let’s go then. We need to get you home,” I say to the elephant still sitting on the bed. Adelaide dutifully slides off and follows me to the door.

“You’re going with me, right?” she says, giving me a gross and hopeful expression.

I nod gruffly.

“Are you staying? Living in Los Angeles? Or are you going to return to living here?” Adelaide asks.

“I’m going to stay for a little bit,” I say.

“Mr. Lewis,” Mae says when I pull the door back.

I pause but don’t look at the woman.

“I expect you back for a checkup next week when you get your prescription filled,” she says.

“We shall see what my schedule allows,” I say.

Chapter Six

New York Times

Smart Pods Take the Nation by Storm. Smart Solutions will Revolutionize the U.S.

Smart Pods hit retailers today. These one-foot-tall cones may look unassuming but don’t be fooled. This is tomorrow’s technology and it’s available starting today. The little black devices can remotely control everything in a home from temperature to security to entertainment. Computer applications are used to set up the device and make changes. From anywhere in the world a homeowner can switch on lights in their home or play classical music for their lonely cat. The device can also be turned on to listen in on the noises in a house. A worried parent who is wondering if their teenager is having a wild party while they’re away can check by activating that feature. The system is also voice activated and test consumers describe the female voice who responds as a charm to their ears. Vivian, as she is called, named for the CEO of Smart Solutions, can answer any question from ancient history to the score of the baseball game last night. She’ll play games with the kids or read a book to an elderly person. Her job is to make a home smarter than ever before.

"At Smart Solutions we are committed to making the American home as efficient as possible," the new CEO, Vivian Bishop, reported in a press conference last night. "The American people work too hard and vacation less than anyone worldwide. I can’t fix that and so I’ve decided we’re going to make their lives easier in other ways. Smart Pods will streamline so many of the daily concerns for households. Vivian is the Rosie the Robot from the Jetsons cartoon. I have firm expectations that she will serve in a way that will revolutionize the current household. That’s why I’m giving away the first ten thousand Smart Pods to the first families that apply through our website."

Vivian Bishop is an innovator with a true generous agenda. Smart Solutions might just be on the edge of creating a whole new experience for Americans. Apply for your free Smart Pod using the link below.

“For fuck sake,” I say, throwing the newspaper down on Trey’s desk. “Now we’re getting our news from the New York Times like a bunch of lowly Middlings.”

Trey nods, a look of real frustration on his face. “Vivian has the news reporters blocked. We didn’t see the release of Smart Pods in any of the clairvoyants’ reports. Operation Smart Pod Takeover is out of our control it seems, at least for now. Vivian just keeps outmaneuvering us.”

Trey sounds dejected and it almost makes me nervous. This is a man who has seen it all, lost it all, and always stayed strong and rebuilt. But now he’s like a shadow, dark and subject to other forces. He, like me, isn’t used to failing at being the one in control. Our enemies don’t usually take power or keep it for very long, but Vivian appears to have us at a disadvantage and the most infuriating thing is I don’t know what that fucking is.

“We know how to get around her ability to reflect, which blinds our reporters. Roya is supposed to be reporting in a metal-free environment,” I say, directing my hostility at Trey.

“Roya’s reports have stopped. It doesn’t matter where she reports anymore. She’s not seeing anything,” Trey says, now tossing his hand through his silver hair. It’s an old gesture he used to do nonstop. It only now surfaces when he feels circumstances are outside his control.

“What? Like no reports on Vivian?” I say.

“No reports at all,” he says.

“But she’s our best reporter,” I say, a fuse lighting, connected to panic. We can’t lose Roya’s vision. “Without her reports we aren’t just at a disadvantage against Vivian, we’re at a loss for events worldwide.”

He nods, and now I acutely see the source of his frustration. Roya is notorious for seeing hundreds of events per day and all ones of great significance. Not only has Trey lost his best source of news reports, but his daughter has lost her skill. Not having powers is not something a Dream Traveler takes well. It reduces us to a lower status. Puts us on a level playing field with a Middling. Makes us normal.

I let out a long breath in an attempt to quell the flames in my head. It only fans the fire. “That fucking bitch, Vivian. I can’t believe she got this past us,” I say.

“I know. I thought we had more time before she released the Smart Pods, time for us to stop her. Or at least see what was coming,” Trey says and he almost sounds angry. That’s a first. “But we didn’t. We didn’t see this coming. And now it’s too late to stop her. The devices are already being overnighted to ten thousand houses.”

“There’s got to be a way to stop those from getting into homes. To stop future purchases,” I say, standing and immediately launching into a back and forth pacing.

“Ren, I need one hundred percent of your efforts on finding out who that mole is inside the Institute,” Trey says.

I halt and stare at Trey. “The fucking Smart Pods are going to be in homes soon. That means Vivian will be in homes and able to make those residents do whatever she wants. And who the fuck even knows what that is. We don’t. We’re as useless as the bloody Pentagon,” I say.

“Yes, I get that. But she’s going to keep outmaneuvering us if we can’t stop her mole. We will never be able to get ahead of her to stop what’s she’s doing,” Trey says.

“We don’t even know what she plans to do,” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. For the first time ever I’m powerless. I don’t know who’s blocking our efforts, what my nemesis is up to, or how to stop her. I’m like a fucking Middling.

“Ren, find the mole.”

I turn and make for the door. “Yeah, fine. I’ll find the mole, but that’s not all I’m going to bloody do.”

“Where are you going?” Trey says.

“I’m going to find out what Vivian plans to do with the Smart Pods.”

“How?”

I turn and regard Trey with a raised eyebrow. “I’m going to go ask the bitch.”

Chapter Seven

“I like the cream-colored crib, but the choice is yours,” Dahlia says, her voice growing louder as she approaches.

“I don’t know,” I hear Adelaide say. “They’re all nice, it’s just…”

I clang my spoon louder inside my teacup in attempt to drown out their repulsive banter.

“It’s just what?” Dahlia pressures. The pages of a catalogue crinkle as I hear her flip through it. “There’s over three dozen options here. We’ve been through this a ton of times and you won’t make a decision. Isn’t there a single one you want? We need to order now.”

Adelaide sighs.

Even with my back to Adelaide, I know the look she has on her face. She’s been wearing it full time since starting this nursery planning with Dahlia. Even before actually but more so now. Dahlia isn’t a master at reading people. She doesn’t get what that lost look in Adelaide’s eyes means.

“It’s just…well, any of those would be great but…”

“But what? You refuse to make a choice on cribs, bedding, paint colors, clothes. I get that it’s overwhelming but you’re over seven months pregnant. We need to get the nursery together,” Dahlia says.

“I know. And I will. But I just don’t want you to worry about it,” Adelaide says.

“I’m not worried,” Dahlia says. “I’m trying to help.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“What? No. Just pick a crib and then we can do the rest later. Or I’ll hire a designer, although I thought you’d have more fun choosing options. You get to use your creative eye here,” Dahlia says. I hear the catalogue being slapped on the counter. “Just pick a crib.”

“Uhhhh…umm… I don’t know.”

“Adelaide,” Dahlia says, that familiar pressuring tone in her voice. She should have gone into politics.

I spin around, but keep my eyes low. “Adelaide doesn’t want your help. She’s afraid the crib and all this is too much money. She knows she needs assistance but doesn’t know how to accept it,” I say.

“What?” Adelaide squeaks out. “No, it’s not that.”

“For fuck sake, you know I’m a human lie detector, right?” I say.

“Adelaide, is that true?” Dahlia says, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. For as apathetic as the pop star is she knows how to act compassionate. It’s how she scores fans. Like me, she knows how to act to get people to behave in effective ways and I know Dahlia is tired of the avoiding act Adelaide has been playing.

The manatee shrugs. “I mean, it’s just that all of those cribs are thousands of dollars. And all the samples you have me looking through are from designer brands. It’s just that I think you’re being too generous.”

Dahlia swings her head over her shoulder and gives me a mischievous smile. It’s glorious on her face, making me want to almost rip the white capris off her right now. Then I catch the sight of Adelaide beside her and the urge falls away.

“Adelaide thinks I’m giving her all these expensive choices because I’m generous. Isn’t that cute, Ren?” Dahlia says.

“As adorable as a fucking premature runt puppy,” I say.

She turns back to Adelaide, who is scowling at me, as usual. “Firstly, your father is buying all this stuff. I think this counts as back child support.”

“I haven’t asked for that,” Adelaide says.

The two clucking women are blocking the exit or otherwise I’d stomp off. Adelaide blocks wide hallways these days. I could take the exit to the backyard but as usual the sun in Los Angeles is blazing like Satan is trying to fry every last hipster in this godforsaken city. I pin my hands on the kitchen bar behind me and regard the crown molding on the far wall like it’s a bloody convict.

“Of course you haven’t asked for anything,” Dahlia says. “But regardless, you’re getting it.”

“Fine, but I want less fancy options,” Adelaide says.

Dahlia lays her hand on the countertop, hitches up her hip. Adelaide is tough but she’s got no idea who she’s arguing with here. “The thing is that this is my house and the only trashy furniture allowed in here is Ren’s dumb armchair,” Dahlia says.

“That’s because I care more about that beautiful chair than I do about you, dear Dahlia,” I say, my gaze still on the French décor–inspired crown molding.

“No one is arguing that.” She swings back in Adelaide’s direction. “You think this is about you, Adelaide.”

“She’ll learn soon. It’s never about anyone else when Dahlia is involved,” I interject.

Dahlia pauses, probably trying to decide whether to respond to me. “Anyway,” she finally says. “I have an affliction to looking at cheap furniture, furnishings, etc. So anything that’s going to be in my house is going to be overpriced and made by designers who are too thin and wear too much makeup.”

“So now you know that this isn’t because Dahlia is a sweetheart who wants the very best for you,” I say. “If you’re offended and want to tell her off then I completely understand. You should direct some of those crazy pregnancy emotions at the diva. She can handle it and loves name calling.”

Adelaide, I notice from my peripheral vision, looks directly at me, a half smile half scowl on her face. “You people are super fucked up, you do realize?”

“Why thank you,” I say, finally tearing my eyes away from their resting spot to look at the girl. “I did realize that and now I’m proud to know you’ve noticed. It’s no fun being fucked up and not getting attention for it.”

“There’s poor people who could benefit from the millions you both throw away on Armani suits and limos,” Adelaide says.

“Here’s the deal, Addy. Being poor is a choice. People make decisions every day that decide whether they are fat or stupid or poor. It is not my responsibility to interfere in the lives people have chosen,” I say.

“But you interfere in people’s lives all the time working for the Lucidites. Saving them from plane crashes or whatever it is you do,” she says.

A chime like a low church bell dings throughout the house. It’s Dahlia’s repulsive doorbell. When I run the world, doorbells will be outlawed. Calling on people will be discouraged.

“Here’s a key point that you need drilled into your brain,” I say, employing the lecturing tone I usually reserve for my students. “You can save a person’s life and still they may waste away. Health, wealth, and intelligence are matters of conviction. I cannot create that in another person. I really can’t help the poor. Say I give them money. If they don’t feel deserving of it then they’ll lose it somehow and be back to poverty in no time. Look at you, for instance, we bought you maternity clothes, offered you the best stylist and the best foods. Still every day you choose to wear your old clothes, your hair is in desperate need of a trim, and you chomp on cheap saltine crackers. It’s a matter of deservability. I can drag you to the feast but if you don’t feel you are worthy of it then you’ll never have it. You can’t force feed wealth.”

She looks at me, her eyes shifting slightly as these ideas sink in. “Is this the kind of thing you teach at the Institute?”

“Sure, as well as how those buffoons can act to cause me the least amount of irritation when they’re released into the wild,” I say.

“You’re a real philanthropist, aren’t you,” she says, now looking amused, but in her melancholy way. Adelaide is always sad. It’s like her underlining surface emotion. And I’m getting a bit tired of seeing it on her face. Emotions are a choice. No one makes us any certain way. We wake up every single day and make a decision. Most, like Adelaide, decide to blame and be victims.

“I really am,” I say and then I’m suddenly distracted. I just catch the figure approach from the hallway. He’s being led by the butler, who I call Fuck Face. He loves it. And instinctively I know who the visitor is beside him. I would recognize the way he walks and moves in a huge crowd. It’s engraved into my memory along with his face. And then he nears the light of the kitchen and I see him clearly. His back is straight and he stands a foot over Fuck Face.

“Pops?” I say, the word catching slightly in my throat. Disbelief clouds my brain instantly. My pops hasn’t left England for all my life. Never ventured far from Peavey. “What are you doing here?”

“I bit the bullet so I could see my family. I dream traveled here,” he says with a chuckle, like that’s not the most outlandish thing I’ve ever heard.

“What the fuck?” I say, confusion like a bug bomb going off in my head, seeking to terminate every last brain cell.

Chapter Eight

Pops smiles wide as he approaches. Like my mum used to be, he’s always smiling. I didn’t inherit that trait from him, only his height, build and pronounced nose. Adelaide turns around, awe already writing itself on her face.

Immediately she throws her arms around his neck and hugs him easily. When they part he’s looking down at her affectionately.

“Thanks for the phone call,” he says to her. “After that I realized I missed you and Ren so much that I had to come see you.”

“W-w-wait. You dream traveled?” I say in astonishment and the stutter in my voice surprises me. I’ve never, not once, stuttered.

“Good to see you too, son,” my pops says, walking forward with his arms wide. I allow the hug. He shakes his head when we part, his familiar smile twinkling in his light-colored eyes. “I have been so accustomed to seeing you lately. Missed you immediately.”

“Pops, you dream traveled?” I say again.

“I did,” he says, shaking his long arms like they’re asleep. “Never used a GAD-C. Son, those things aren’t natural. Made my body feel like things weren’t reconfigured in the same way. I still feel peculiar all over.” He then ruffles his hand through his brown and gray hair, almost like he’s checking to ensure it’s still there.

“You dream traveled?” I say, now scratching the back of my head with a wild force.

“Why do you keep saying that?” Adelaide says to me.

I don’t answer the bad decision maker. “You haven’t dream traveled in…” I trail away, trying to determine the answer, but my mind has trouble supplying one. What the fuck is going on?

“Oh, it’s been easily fifty years,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Once I met Mary I didn’t much care for the power. Never actually saw the thrill in it, but it got me here, and that really is what counts. I did consider taking a plane, but knew that would delay the reunion.”

Dahlia has gracefully slid into the position beside my pops and me. “Hello, Mr. Lewis,” she says and then rises on her tiptoes, pecking him softly on the cheek. “It’s lovely seeing you again. It’s been entirely too long.”

A touch of pink hits his wrinkled cheeks when he regards her. “Good to see you too, Dahlia. I dare say you haven’t changed since the last time I saw you. What’s it been? Twenty years or so?”

“Just about,” she says. The last time these two were together was when Dahlia accompanied me to my mum’s funeral. And it was promptly after that that I shoved her out of my life.

In my typical fashion, I’ve compartmentalized my personal life. I have a slot for my job, Dahlia, Pops, and now Adelaide. But presently inside this kitchen, which feels too small suddenly, they are all mixed together like the walls collapsed. I hadn’t even told my pops about Dahlia and I reuniting, but from the fond look he’s giving her he’s figured it out. I had just told him I’d moved back to the west coast and knowing I didn’t like to share personal information, he didn’t pester me on the subject. He’s pretty used to me moving about and disappearing and being secretive. And I’m used to him being the oak tree deeply rooted to Peavey. He’s always loved his simple life without want to experience new things. Loved his kids more than we deserved. And never used his power of dream travel. Hell, he only used his gift of telekinesis when he was training me to use my powers.

“Why are you here? How did you know where to find me?” I ask, my tone not at all welcoming.

“Well, Adelaide told me, of course. She’s told me all about this place and living in Los Angeles,” he says, now regarding the giant kitchen with wide eyes. He probably has never seen such an elaborate space with so many shiny surfaces and intricate details. “And I’m here for the simple fact that I missed you both. Like I said, I was accustomed to seeing you. One could say I was hooked.” And he chuckles again, like there’s anything funny or amusing about his words.

My pops had been training Adelaide over the last couple of months when we were in London. I was confident he’d fill in the gaps I was too busy to cover.

“You two talk? Like on the phone? When?” I say, pointing at the pair.

“You’ll remember that you abandoned me for a month. I got a little tired of talking to myself and I knew I had to tell Granddad about the baby,” Adelaide says, doing that thing she does where she pats her stomach. Something sour slips up my throat.

“Shame on you for abandoning your pregnant daughter,” my pops says to me.

“I was busy saving the bloody world,” I say to him.

“And Ren, why didn’t you tell me Addy was pregnant?” my pops says, wearing that familiar look of disappointment that he reserves for mostly me. “You know dream traveling can have assorted effects on a pregnant lady. You should never have allowed her to dream travel.”

I narrow my eyes at Adelaide and say, “Funny that you think I’m the one who forgot to mention that information.”

“Well, you are. And naturally I suspected that you were covering up the information. I know how hard it’s been to adjust to all these changes. After I found out I realized you were in denial,” Pops says to me.

“He actually didn’t know,” Adelaide admits, her face tightening with embarrassment. “I hid it from him. Well…from everyone.”

Pop’s face softens. He smiles a little, one full of dumb sympathy. “Oh, I see. That’s completely understandable though,” my pops says with a deep chuckle.

“Understandable?” I say, my volume doubling. “Are you bloody kidding me?”

“It’s a hard piece of information to divulge in a situation like Adelaide’s,” he says. “And Ren, we both know you wouldn’t handle that kind of news well. To find out that you have a daughter and then that she’s pregnant.” He turns to Adelaide. “Don’t blame you in the least for hiding that kind of thing.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I say, my cheeks on fire.

“Now son,” Pops says, his smile disappearing at once. “Why are you so upset? You have so much to be grateful for. So many blessings.”

“Blessings? Why don’t you go look up that word because you just misused it. And I’m not upset,” I say, not even attempting to quell my tone. “Asians who fail their driving test for the tenth time get upset. Babysitters who can’t get someone else’s brat to go to sleep get upset. Yuppies who have a big lunch and have to sit at a desk for the rest of the day in a suit that feels too tight get upset. Right now I’m fucking livid.”

“What’s gotten into you, Ren?” Pops says.

Adelaide eyes me with a cold hollow stare; still I know she’s curious to what’s going on. Dahlia, of course, knows why I’m angry. Her expression makes me think she gets it and is a little peeved too.

“What’s gotten into me? For starters, you are totally dismissing that this pest who infested my life lied to me about being pregnant,” I say, throwing a finger in Adelaide’s direction.

“Now Ren…” Pops says, and it’s been almost two decades since I heard that frustrated tone in his voice and the look he partners with it.

“I didn’t lie,” Adelaide says, her voice strong and stupidly self-righteous.

“Shut up,” I say to her before turning my attention back on my pops. “You show up here, dream traveling for the first time in my entire life, because why? Because you missed me? I was living here for three months and you never visited. Then I introduce you to this monster and you find out she’s gone and knocked herself up and you decide to dream travel suddenly.”

“Ren, I would have come to see you, but firstly you never told me where you were. And after you left London to move to Los Angeles you always came to me for visits. You never asked me to come and see you,” he says.

“I never thought you would,” I say to him. “Not in thirty or forty years have you left Peavey. I was pretty certain that asking you to visit was out of the bloody question. Little did I know you would, but not for me. However, for the mistake I unknowingly had you’ll do all sorts of things.” I throw my finger at the girl who is glaring at me with a dark anger.

My pops still has his face arranged into one that could have a smile spring up at any moment. It really is way too difficult to make him angry. “Ren, I think this has all been a misundersta—”

“Save your calm explanation, Pops. I’ve got a fucking job to go do,” I say. Then I turn and stalk past him. Dahlia reaches out for me, but lets her hand fall away when I continue marching. Adelaide slides to the wall to give me plenty of space. “Stay, leave, train the breeder, or do whatever you’re going to do. I don’t give a fuck.”

“You’re leaving?” he says at my back, hurt in his voice. “But I just got here.”

I pause and turn back, looking at only him. “Well, next time phone and tell me that you’ve changed after fifty years and you are suddenly being spontaneous and understanding to a fault. But for now I have a job to do so you all can enjoy the freedoms in this world. You’re fucking welcome.”

Chapter Nine

Like a chipper little chipmunk checking the contents of a nut, Joseph raps five times on the wall beside my office door. It’s open because I expected him. Actually I summoned the hillbilly.

“Get in here,” I say, turning away from the file I’ve been studying and then swiveling to the front of my desk.

“I believe you meant to stand and welcome me with a sweepin’ wave of your hand,” Joseph says, and I’m not surprised that he hasn’t lost his dumb southern accent. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year and feel smarter for it. I’m fairly certain he lost all his brain cells drinking mossy lake water growing up. You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the redneck out of the boy.

“You’re right. That’s not what I meant to say.” I clear my throat. Look directly at him. “I meant to say get your fucking ass in here, I haven’t got all bloody day,” I say, pointing to the metal folding chair on the other side of the desk.

“If it’s all the same I’ll stand,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving me a proud smile. Joseph has always reminded me of a newbie in boot camp. Short military sun-bleached hair. An eager smile. And none of that spirit yet beat out of him. I thought by now he’d resemble more of the robots the army creates but that dumb spark in his eyes hasn’t dulled.

“You’ll sit so we can get this over with,” I say, again pointing to the chair. It is much easier to catch the micro expressions linked to lying if I’m eye level with people.

He plops himself down in the chair and promptly crosses his ankle over his knee, always the repulsive picture of cool casual. “You’re just as chipper as I remember,” he says, a sideways smile on his face.

“Sarcasm is really best used by people who have a three-digit IQ,” I say.

He slaps his knee and laughs loudly. “That’s a good one. You’re insinuating that I’m dumb. I’ve missed your humor.”

Oh god, this meeting will probably kill me. It’s definitely going to torch my remaining patience. Like his twin sister, Roya, Joseph loves to get on my nerves. It’s obviously a family tradition.

Unlike my agents, I’m not observing people in my attempts to find the mole. I’m outright questioning them, but from my position that doesn’t raise flags. My job as Head Strategist often requires me to investigate or obtain information from members of the Institute. Also, I know how to gain information covertly, something I can’t trust my agents to do.

“How long have you been a resident of the Institute?” I ask. He won’t lie to this question and that’s the reason I’m asking it. It’s to create a baseline.

“Well, let’s see here,” he sings, stroking his stubbled chin. Actually I didn’t think the half-wit was old enough to grow facial hair. “I say I’m about to round out my second year.” Then he brings his eyes to mine with a gigantic smile on his face. “Are you planning me a party?”

“With fucking streamers,” I say.

He whistles through his teeth and shakes his head. “You know the Lord frowns on that kind of language, Ren.”

“I know,” I say, tucking my tongue up and running it over one of my pointy canines. “But the devil loves it.”

“So this par-tay you’re throwin’ me,” he says. “Will there be booze?”

I grimace from the use of half of his words. “Yes,” I say, drawing the word out. “A keg, honky tonk and reality TV playing in the background.”

“Sounds like my kind of shindig,” he says. “Now I hear you have a daughter.” Joseph clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You little rascal you. Who would have thought? Ren a father. Now go on, tell me all about your little one.”

“In a minute,” I say. “First let’s put together the guest list for your party. We’ll of course invite the people from your department, your class, and family. And Trent, of course, but is there anyone that isn’t at the Institute anymore who you want to be there?”

Without a pause he says, “I hear your daughter is pregnant. That means you’ll soon be a grandpa. I want details.”

“And I’ll give them to you. Every bloody one,” I say. “I swear on the bible. But first answer my questions.”

He shakes his head and clucks. “You know that’s a sin, swearing on the bible.”

“I know,” I say, kind of smiling.

“All right, all right, all right. What you wanna know?” Joseph says.

“Do you know a man named Jimmy Felding?”

The hillbilly seems to think. “Nope.”

“Terry Evermore?”

“Nope,” he says.

“Steven Faraday?”

“Nu-uh,” he sings.

Of course he doesn’t know these people. They don’t exist. But this one does. “How about Vicky Desmond?”

“Uh-uh,” Joseph says.

And there’s not the slightest change in his expression. He isn’t lying. He doesn’t know Vivian. Has zero involvement with her.

“You’re free to go. Have a nice life. I certainly will if I never see you again,” I say, turning back to the file on the other side of my L-shaped desk.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I ain’t gonna leave until you share about your daughter and your new grandbaby. You promised,” Joseph says.

“I did no such thing,” I say, my tone flat.

“You swore,” he says, obviously enjoying this more than he should.

“I’m about to swear,” I say. Then I turn to the entrance at my back, having heard the approaching footsteps.

A few seconds later Trey materializes. “Hey, you left a message for me to come by,” he says to me and then takes a double glance at Joseph on the other side of my desk. “What are you doing here?”

“Chatting with my ol’ buddy Ren. He had some strange questions for me,” Joseph says.

“Ren, he’s not the mole,” Trey says, pointing a finger at Joseph.

“Mole? There’s a mole? Here at the Institute?” Joseph says.

“No, he’s not the mole,” I say smugly. “But he very well could have been.”

Trey shakes his head a bit erratically. “No, Ren, I would know if Joseph was the mole. And he would never do that.”

“Oh,” I say, really lengthening the word. “Because you knew the last time that your son had someone in his head plotting against the Institute? Is that right?”

“Hey, I’ve been absolved of that,” Joseph says and finally the dumb cheery tone is out of his voice.

“Yes, but still you were once, although unknowingly, a traitor. And the man you brought back killed a lot of people,” I say. “Furthermore, the fact remains that you have proven you’re the kind of person who can be used by villains with evil agendas. You’re weak and easily manipulated.”

Last year Joseph was brainwashed by a soul-sucking leech to restore the man’s health. And then unknowingly Joseph gave him knowledge regarding the Institute. That villain then entered the Institute and created absolute destruction which only some of us survived.

“Anyway, you can rest assured that your son isn’t the mole this time. I’ve checked and I’m never wrong,” I say.

“So there’s a mole? At the Institute? How very interesting,” Joseph says, stroking his chin. “I bet it’s Roya.”

“You know it’s not your sister. And not a word to anyone about this,” Trey says sternly to his son.

Joseph zips his fingers over his lips and tosses his hand over his shoulder like he’s throwing away a key. “My lips are sealed,” he mumbles, not opening his mouth. Then the half-wit pushes out of the chair and nearly skips for the door. “Later, old man Lewis. Let’s do this again soon,” Joseph says as he leaves.

I shiver out a sigh. “Your kids are the absolute worst. Honestly, there’s not a single good thing I can think of to say about Roya and Joseph. And I’ve really thought and thought about it. But they have no good redeeming qualities.”

“Thanks,” Trey says, not at all offended. “So you have news?”

“Seriously,” I say, deciding to belabor the point. “I’ve known both of your brats their entire lives and they really are bloody awful. It’s like God wanted to create the two most unlikable people when he made them. How do you stand yourself? If I was responsible for breeding such stupidity into the world I’m not sure I could look in the mirror.”

“Your news. What is it?” he says, sounding impatient now.

“If I were you, which I’m glad I’m not, then I’d consider sending Roya and Joseph away to college. Like really far away, like Budapest or Guatemala. Then evacuate the Institute and start up this mom-and-pop shop somewhere else. End contact with the little fuckers. They’d never find us. And without those two around we will be able to finally have some peace.” I let out a sigh, feigning a dreamy look.

“Your news,” Trey repeats.

“Oh that. Well, I got a new tie,” I say, sounding disappointed. “It looked different in the catalogue and actually clashes awfully with my hair. But not all is lost. I’m thinking you might be able to use it to strangle your son with.” I tap my head. “I’m always thinking and coming up with great ideas.”

“Ren…” Trey says, not at all flustered by my antics.

“So I tracked down Vivian’s history today,” I say, my tone shifting. “Took me a while to jog my memory, but I found the right cues.” I pluck from my desk the file that I’ve read through ten times and hand it to Trey.

“She went through orientation here at the Institute eight years ago when she hit puberty and came into her dream travel power. Vivian spent a few years here before going off on her own,” I say. Trey has a team led by Dr. Raydon who scouts for these lost Dream Travelers. They are brought in and put through orientation so they can understand their abilities and hone them. The efforts are centered in North America or otherwise they probably would have found Adelaide.

“Vicky Desmond,” Trey reads from the file. “That’s her birth name?”

“Right,” I say. “She changed it legally to Vivian Bishop shortly after leaving the Institute. I’m guessing about the time she made a connection with her father, Frank Bishop.”

“So you taught her?” Trey says.

“She sat in my strategy class. That’s how I tracked this down,” I say, pointing to the file.

He shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. “Wow, you remember a face from that many years ago in a sea of other faces in a lecture hall?”

“Of course I did,” I say. “I also remember every bloody stupid thing you say. Moving on. She also studied abilities from Shuman.”

“Yes, that’s standard practice for new Dream Traveler orientation,” Trey says.

Shuman is the cold statue of a woman who runs the news reporting department. Most call her the Head Mentalist because she teaches abilities to newbies. Well, I call her freak because she likes my pet names. “I questioned Shuman this morning to fill in the details on this file. Turns out according to her that Vivian had a block on her abilities during her time here. She could dream travel, but none of her gifts would surface.” I had to be inconspicuous with my questioning since I haven’t cleared Shuman as the mole. That’s going to take a bit more work since she has such a strong mental guard.

Trey’s head tucks back on his neck from surprise. “Oh really?”

Blocks are common for Dream Travelers who suffer from trauma. Most of our maintenance staff are Dream Travelers who don’t have their ability. They are no service to the other departments without a psychic power. Usually they suffer from PTSD or have some other emotional disturbance that hinders their power.

“So her gift was never recorded?” Trey says.

“No, although we now know she has her father’s power of voice control,” I say.

“So did she get her clairvoyance and ability to reflect psychic energy from her mother?” Trey says.

“Her mother was a Middling,” I say. “I’m still digging into this, but Vivian’s mother put her up for adoption when she was ten years old.”

“Hold on a second. What? Who does that?” Trey says.

I shake my head, as confounded by this as Trey.

“Are you going to question this woman, Vivian’s mother?” he asks.

“Well, since I can’t interrogate the dead, no, I don’t think so,” I say.

“Maybe that’s why she gave Vivian up. Maybe she was sick,” Trey says. He always wants to see the bloody best in people. It’s really a losing game if you ask me.

“Well, the woman lived a long seven years after she dumped Vivian, so I doubt that was the case.”

“Oh,” Trey says.

“And she was apparently murdered,” I say.

“So does any of this point to what you think Vivian is going to use the Smart Pods for?”

“Not yet. It tells me that we’re working with an incredibly complex individual. Her powers were obviously blocked by being abandoned. She studied here and then disappeared until a few years ago. That’s when she connected with her father, Frank Bishop, and got on his payroll at Smart Solutions using her birth name,” I say.

“Maybe he’s the one who helped her unblock her powers,” Trey says.

“Maybe,” I say, still replaying seeing her face in the crowded classroom from several years ago. She was plain then. No makeup, dirty blonde hair and baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Vicky Desmond was a stark contrast to the Marilyn Monroe look-alike I saw in San Francisco.

“Ren, are you all right?” Trey says, his chin jerking to the side with sudden confusion.

“Yes. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Oh,” I say, slapping a neutral expression on my face. “Yeah, well. I’m just looking forward to you getting out of my bloody office. There’s your subtle hint. Get out now.” I then wave at the door.

He nods slowly, not looking entirely convinced.

As soon as Trey leaves I slide down in my chair. What is it about this woman? There’s undoubtedly something about Vivian that’s intriguing. A perverse spark that hints at her ability to persevere unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. And now I have a strange sympathy for the woman. The more I study her, the more I find that she’s not entirely the evil villain I want her to be. Something tells me that she’s not the violent monster that Antonio was, the man who was responsible for thousands of deaths. And she’s not the psycho, hungry for life force like Allouette and Chase. She’s undoubtedly up to something and it’s nefarious, that much I know. But of all my enemies Vivian is someone I can respect. She’s infiltrated the Institute, overcome great challenges, and risen to a powerful position. Which means that Vivian is incredibly strategic. A cold shiver runs down my back.

Chapter Ten

An unidentified number rings my mobile. The device shouldn’t even work inside the Institute since it’s underwater, submerged at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. However, Aiden, the daft scientist, did something to the device so it has reception anywhere. Now apparently I can receive calls on the bloody moon. Hurr-freaking-ray. I left Aiden with a cold stare when he bragged about this point.

“Ren Lewis,” I say, placing the brain-frying device to my head.

“Mr. Lewis, this is Betty, Adelaide’s midwife,” a woman on the other end of the line says.

I remain silent, waiting for her to pony up why she’s bugging me.

“Adelaide has gone into labor,” she finally says after an irritating pause.

“Well, we knew this nuisance would evict itself soon,” I say.

There’s another pause. “Sir, it’s six weeks early.”

“I see,” I say, half my attention on the report in my hand. “Sounds like the thing found Adelaide no longer habitable.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you’re giving this matter the sensitivity it deserves,” the drain on my attention says.

I slap the report down on my desk and press the phone more firmly to my ear. “I get that we haven’t formally met, Linda, but I’m not the sensitive type. If this is all you have to report then I’m going to ring off now. Cheerio,” I say.

“Wait,” she says. “My name is actually Betty. And aren’t you going to come to the hospital? Your daughter has gone into early labor.”

“I’m fairly busy at the moment and not the type to sit around in waiting rooms. I’ll get a full update when this whole mess is over and Adelaide returns home,” I say.

From the other side of the line there’s a frustrated sigh. “Sir, I was hoping to tell you this in person when you arrived at the hospital, as I suspected you’d do. But here it is. Things aren’t progressing normally with Adelaide’s labor. There’s complications and we need her next of kin here to make decisions.”

“What?” I say, bolting to a standing position. “Complications? Is Adelaide okay?”

“Yes, but the baby isn’t in a preferred position and it’s causing Adelaide great strain,” the woman says.

“Great strain,” I say, trying to compute what this could mean.

“Yes, your daughter has been hyperventilating since the labor started and her mental state is making this delivery more difficult. There’s no one here for her, only hospital staff. And going through this without a loved one is especially difficult. I’m worried for her,” the woman says and her voice shakes on the last word.

“All right, fine. I’ll be right there,” I say, a bit begrudgingly.

***

When I arrive at the hospital the midwife meets me in the waiting room since I refused to enter Adelaide’s room. Seeing a woman in labor isn’t something I can do. Some people have triggers and that happens to be mine. I’m fairly certain that seeing Adelaide in labor will bring a rush of my worst memories back. I only have one real regret in life and it’s watching a woman die in childbirth and knowing it was entirely my fault. Dahlia is in Tokyo or Amsterdam or whatever. Otherwise I would have sent her in there to support Adelaide. And Pops had to return to Peavey briefly. Unfortunately for Adelaide, I’m all she has right now.

“What’s going on?” I say to Betty, the midwife, as she approaches. By the look of her hair she doesn’t own a brush and by the look of her clothes she washes them using a washboard. Of course a midwife would be the hippie type. Hippies should have died out in the seventies; instead, they bred and secured their dumbass ways underground in small towns in Oregon.

Because Los Angeles sucks in every way imaginable, I actually sat in two hours of traffic getting here from the closest GAD-C. What’s the fucking point in being a Dream Traveler in the busiest city in the country?

“Adelaide is failing to progress,” the midwife says, and I catch the hint of real fear in her eyes.

“What the fuck does that mean? Adelaide is failing labor? How does one possibly do that?”

Her shit brown eyes narrow with confusion at my remark. “Sir, labor is complicated. And Adelaide’s blood pressure has dropped, she’s weak, possibly too weak to push and—”

Running footsteps slapping against the linoleum interrupt her sentence. “Betty! Betty!” a woman calls. She’s young. A newbie nurse, I’m guessing. “We have a diagnosis. Dr. Rollins just received the blood test results.” The girl with the high ponytail stops. She doesn’t look at me but rather at the midwife. “She has amniotic fluid embolism,” the young nurse says to the midwife.

And immediately the midwife’s expression unleashes a fear response in me. Her eyes widen. Mouth pops open. A small sound falls out of it.

Betty turns to me. “That means—”

“Adelaide could die,” I say through my constricted throat. It feels as though a chain has been wrapped around my neck. I know things. Things from decades of working for the Institute. A lifetime of reading. And I know that amniotic fluid embolism is a rare condition. And I also know that it has a high mortality rate.

“They’re going to have to do an emergency C-section,” the midwife says, trying to explain from her place of knowing.

“Do it,” I almost yell, throwing my arm in the direction of the hallway where Adelaide’s room is.

“But sir, just so you know, to save your daughter…” She hesitates. “There’s many complications involved…And…” The midwife can’t finish her sentences, and it’s infuriating.

I pinch my eyes together, directing all my anger at the woman who is speaking too slow.

Finally she says, “The baby may not survive. In these cases, there’s many risks for both mother and baby. You need to know that.”

“I don’t care if the monster survives. Just get it out of my daughter and do what you have to to save her life,” I say, and now I do yell.

She nods, and I hate the look in her eyes. It too clearly says what she didn’t. Adelaide is in serious danger. Surviving this is one thing. Not having brain damage or a host of other possibilities is another.

The woman and the nurse turn and run off, all their actions urgent.

I spin around to the wall, my eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t you fucking take her,” I say aloud. “And God, don’t make her a vegetable and leave me with her bloody monster to raise.”

Chapter Eleven

Waiting is something losers do. They idly sit by and just wait for news. For results. For things outside their control to happen. I’ve never considered myself a waiter. I live my life. Do things. Make things happen while other things happen. I’ve never sat around unable to do something because I’m waiting. And yet here I am, in an ordinary hospital waiting room surrounded by losers who are dripping with concern. Their lives are stuck in mid-pendulum swing because of someone else. Because someone else’s life is being decided in a frigid operating room. Their life span, quality of life, and the weight they’ll potentially put on the people in this room by being a burden or not at all is all being determined. And it’s being determined by the hands of surgeons and doctors who maybe graduated at the top of their class, but most likely did not. Half of doctors graduate in under the bottom fifty percentile and yet they’re granted positions where they rule over people’s lives.

One of those doctors could be operating on Adelaide now. They’ll be cutting her open and ripping a monster out of her. And even then her fate won’t be decided. The amniotic fluid could be in her lungs, overtaking them, depriving her brain of oxygen. There are things the doctors can do and things outside their control. I know that. The phony balance in the world isn’t governed by the people in this place, a hospital meant to save. It’s always been controlled by a God who has a fucked up sense of right and wrong. I say this because I truly believe, at this stage in my life, that God put me on this Earth as a monster. That wasn’t enough for God though. He had to tear people from my life one by one so that I put up a wall around myself, too afraid to care about people, too afraid they’d die. Not all the people in my life have been plucked from the Earth by God’s hands, but enough that I got the bloody point. Most who the monster cares about will meet an early end. God obviously cursed me. And I have a feeling he’s doing it again with Adelaide because of his fucking vendetta against me.

I’ve never believed that because God deems something right, it is. That’s a fucking ambiguous method of living one’s life. God gives and takes and doesn’t care if things are right or wrong. That’s not the fucking point of his game. People think he’s supremely good. That he wants the best for us. That there’s a bloody purpose to this all. There’s not. God isn’t trying to help us. I’m not saying he isn’t there. That’s fucking ridiculous. He’s there, all right. He’s watching. He’s allowing the tragedies. Enjoying them maybe. I believe, and it’s taken me forty-five years to decide this, that God is only a bigger fucked up version of us trying to experience himself through us. He isn’t trying to save our souls or help us grow. He eats up our failures. That is an experience. He wants to experience our losses, our joys, our addictions, our seemingly unending pain. That masochist is all about experiences. That is all. Pray for help but he only eats your words. Commit yourself to him, but he only feels the devotion. His job is not to intervene or love us or guide us through this bloody hell hole. He’s not the director, he’s the guy in the audience and we are his actors and all he wants is a fucking show.

“Mr. Lewis?” I hear from the far side of the room.

I flip my head up and instantly a strain in my neck announces itself. I’ve been sitting for over an hour, my elbows on my knees, head hanging low. I’ve been waiting. Waiting to hear my name be called, like a fucking loser would. My back also mentions its problems with my long sitting position when I stand.

A doctor in light blue scrubs stands by the nearest wall, holding a clipboard. He’s tall and bald, and the look in his small eyes gives nothing away. He turns and begins walking with me as I approach.

“I’m Dr. Mizin, the doctor who performed Adelaide’s surgery,” he says. He’s Russian judging by his accent. Thank fucking god. Russians never graduate in the bottom half of their class. That may be a stereotype, and in my profession stereotypes are akin to law. Typecasting and generalizations use statistics to help me make snap decisions.

“Your daughter is stable now,” he begins, his tone cold. “She’s in the intensive care unit. And the infant is in Neonatal. Adelaide’s heart rate was accelerated for quite a long time. Her blood pressure plummeted during surg—”

“Get to the bloody point. I don’t need these details,” I say.

“She awoke from surgery,” he says, sighing heavily.

“So she’s not stuck in a coma,” I say, realizing that’s the reason for his relief. That was a very real possibility.

“No, she’s not. But it’s too soon to see if there’s any damage due to the oxygen deprivation or any other long-term effects of the fluid leakage. So now all we can do is wait,” he says with a taciturnity in his voice that I actually appreciate. Russians are fucking amazing specimens. They make the best agents because of their ability to cut off emotions and see the clear contrast between duty and real people. And they have zero sense of humor and are easily put off by my jokes. Hell, usually all I have to do is smile at a Russian to make them mad. They really are my favorite people.

“The infant,” Dr. Mizin continues. “He’s small, as would be expected due to his premature arrival. Currently we have him on oxygen since his lungs are not yet deve—”

“Yeah, I don’t care,” I say, waving my hand at the man.

The doctor’s expression doesn’t change. He nods though and points to a door. “You may see your daughter if you wish,” he says and then he turns and stalks off.

***

People say they hate hospitals. I get it. It’s where people go when they’ve had an emergency. It is where death happens and sickness rots people’s bones. But these same imbeciles forget hospitals are also where people are saved. It’s where people go because it’s a place that offers solutions and hope. I loathe the way people think. It is always flawed.

My eyes don’t adjust right away when I enter the room. Clinical smells wrestle inside my nose seeking to pull a sneeze out of me. I suck back the urge, overpowering it with my sheer will. I keep my gaze down low until I’ve conquered the dark and the odors. When I bring my eyes up Adelaide is staring at me, an all wrong expression on her face. She looks in pain, but not physically. From the way her mouth is pulled to the side and her eyes seem to shake with a new weight, she’s on the verge of tears. She’s been through an ordeal and it’s written on her face. Adelaide is scared and overwhelmed and I see it too clearly in her expression.

“Do you need me to grab someone for you?” I say, wanting to believe she’s in pain due to the surgery and not the trauma.

She shakes her head roughly against the pillow. Seeing Adelaide in a bed like this is strange. And since she holds so much resemblance to my mum, this moment brings an old memory rushing to the surface. The time I spent with my mum before she died she was in a bed much like this. She was laid out like this, a heavy weight to her body. But my mum, who was the strongest person I ever knew, she didn’t look on the verge of breaking when she was in her deathbed. Adelaide appears as if anything can throw her over the edge right now and that’s more than a concern for me. I can’t watch her break. I won’t be a witness to it.

When I visited my mum before she died I left so many things unsaid. I didn’t open my heart as I wanted to. I didn’t share details about how I felt for her or how much she meant to me. I didn’t show an ounce of appreciation for the sacrifices she made for me. I kissed my mum’s forehead, told her I loved her, and let her die. I was then and am now a coward. I have never been anything else. People think I’m calloused, but the truth is I’m scared of emotions. Feeling them, showing them, and then being entirely stripped of them. I’m a strategic man who can’t stand emotions, both their presence and their absence.

Adelaide sucks in a sharp breath and the pain in her eyes retreats.

“How are you?” I ask, because it’s all I know to say, stuck by my place next to the door.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” she says, her voice trembling. And I know who the “him” is and why she can’t refer to him directly. Everything is too hard for her right now. Even saying words feels like too much.

“There’s time for that,” I say, and I almost sound soft. Sensitive.

She nods again, pressing her lips together. Her long hair lies in loose ringlets beside her face. “I almost lost him. They say—”

“You didn’t though,” I say, cutting her off. I study Adelaide now, the way she regards me. Her nonverbal cues. Analyze her speech. Try and decide if any of it points to brain damage. So far she only appears like a girl on the verge of a breakdown, which means we will keep this brief.

“While in labor I asked for you,” she says.

“I came as soon as I could,” I say.

She shrugs and her eyes fill with tears, but she keeps them at bay. Thank fucking God. “Yeah, I know. I was just hoping that you’d… I mean, it would have been nice if you… Anyway, I was just all alone and scared.”

“Yes, I realize that. But that ordeal is over with now,” I say, and I hate how cold my voice sounds and yet I’m unwilling to change it. Again I’m going to walk away without saying words people deserve to hear. I’m going to walk away without offering compassion when a person needs it. Adelaide is my mum in too many ways. She’s my second chance for redemption, the one my mum spoke about on her death bed. And yet I can’t bring myself to take this second chance.

“You should get some rest,” I say finally.

“Yes, but…” She tries and fails to push up a little. “Will you stay with me? I don’t want to be alone.”

I stare at her, an IV attached to her hand. Machines beside her bed. Her face pale. Eyes weighted. Lips trembling. She doesn’t look like I’ve ever seen her and yet she looks exactly as I’ve always seen her in my mind, a girl alone in the world. Afraid. Yet cold. Tortured and unwilling to deal with it.

“You’ll rest better without disturbances,” I say. “I won’t be far though.” And I just catch the heartbreak in her eyes as I turn for the door. I whip it open and bolt out as the sounds of her sobs fill the room.

I march away from her room. Away from her sobs. Away from her, although she needs me. I can’t be what she needs. I will fail time and again to meet Adelaide’s expectations. That’s why I leave the hospital, abandoning her when I said I would stay. She will resent me for it when she asks for me and I don’t return. She will fester with frustration that I wasn’t there for her in her greatest time of need. And hopefully she’ll hate me and stop expecting what I can’t give her. So I leave and don’t look back.

***

Some people believe that God is dead. The reason these morons think that is because it’s easier to digest than the truth. God is alive and he doesn’t fucking care about us, the humans he created and allows to suffer.

Chapter Twelve

“That’s the Smart Pod?” I say, pointing at the black plastic cone sitting on Aiden’s work station. It’s less than a foot high. “Where does it open up and shoot bullets at its owner?”

Aiden turns from the table and flashes me a dumb grin. “I’ve actually taken the device apart and surprisingly there’s no bombs or anything lethal in it,” he says with a sniveling little laugh.

I eye the lanky scientist, really studying him. I’m still alert for any indications that he’s deceiving me and is actually the mole. He checked out when I questioned him, but I’m still keeping my eye on everything. Vivian might try and recruit more moles now that her plan is in motion. And Aiden would be in the best position to thwart my plans. I’m relying on him to disable the Smart Pods. And hopefully Vivian doesn’t know that. It’s hard for me to determine what all this mole is feeding her. She knows about me and the news reporting department and I also believe she’s somehow disabled Roya’s clairvoyance. I’m not sure what else she has eyes on.

“Okay, space chimp, why don’t you give me some good news,” I say.

He shrugs, his fat lips pursed. “No good news yet. I studied the wiring and it’s an incredibly sophisticated design which unfortunately means any of my ideas for disabling these things remotely won’t work.”

“God, you’re such a fuck up,” I say, shaking my head at the kid with a PhD in quantum physics.

A half smile forms on his face. “Don’t worry. I’m confident I’ll find the hack, but it’s going to take time.”

“Oh, fine. While you take your time, we will just wait around to see what destruction Vivian has in store for us,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“Yes, master,” the cone says at once, a stream of red lights glowing around the base. I straighten at the sound of Vivian’s voice, which I hadn’t forgotten is soft like water flowing, calming as silence and high like a violin. An elegantly beautiful voice. It’s more perfect than Dahlia’s and yet I never thought that was possible.

“Sleep, Vivian,” Aiden says to the device, and the red light disappears. “The Smart Pod has incredible hearing and responds to voice commands from an impressive distance away.”

I eye the cone again, wanting to activate the voice but unwilling to do it in front of the daft scientist.

“Do you have a soundproof vault of some kind?” I ask.

Aiden raises one of his black bushy eyebrows at me. “Of course I do.”

“Well, when you’re not working on discovering the hack then you need to have this succubus machine in that vault,” I say, pointing at the seemingly unassuming device.

“Oh right. Mind control. Good call. I hadn’t thought of that,” he says.

“I’m not surprised,” I say, turning to leave.

I spin around to find Trey standing in the doorway; beside him stands the tallest woman in the Institute. Shuman is the Head Mentalist and also in charge of the news reporting department. I’ve known her for the entire time I’ve worked at the Institute and never once have I seen her smile. I respect that she finds the gesture wasteful and usually insincere.

“Hey, intervener,” I say to Trey, still bitter that he brought Adelaide to the Institute. “Have you found new ways to stick your nose in my business?”

“I actually was stopping by to make your life easier,” he says.

“Oh, good, you’re getting rid of your son,” I say. “Good call. Joseph really is the absolute worst. We’ve all voted and it was unanimous.”

Trey shakes his head. “No, Ren. I had Shuman investigate her department for the mole. Everyone checked out.”

I eye Shuman, who has her arms crossed in front of her chest, her rattlesnake tattoo visible on her wrist and hand where it’s wrapped around. Her face as usual is impassive.

“Oh, for fuck sake,” I say to the ceiling. “God, why did you curse me to work with such idiots?” I then look back at Trey. “Did you also announce that we have a mole in our midst on the Lucidites’ newsfeed? Blog about it? Update your Facebook status with the information?” I say, my voice rising with each sentence. I hadn’t checked out Shuman or her department yet; well, besides Joseph, who fit the criteria for a mole due to past behavior. I only just cleared the scientist, which almost rotted my soul and stole my will to live.

“There’s a mole at the Institute?” Aiden says at my back.

I turn and give him a punishing look. “Forget what you’ve heard and don’t breathe a word of it or I’ll make you strangle yourself,” I say.

“Ren,” Trey says, “I knew you had enough responsibility and now with Adelaide’s condition—”

“Don’t talk about that,” I say, cutting him off.

“The point is that Shuman cleared her department, which is a huge burden off you,” Trey says.

“And who cleared Shuman?” I say, watching the Native American’s expression for the slightest shift.

“Oh, Ren, come on. It’s Shuman,” Trey says, waving a hand at her.

“This is why you didn’t see that your son was brainwashed or that your daughter was shagging this monkey,” I say, throwing a finger at Aiden. “You’re too trusting. Just because you know someone doesn’t mean you can trust them. Actually the people you trust are in the best position to fool you. Everyone is a suspect and no one should be trusted.”

“Does that mean you shouldn’t be trusted, Ren? Maybe you’re the mole,” Aiden says with a sniveling little laugh.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m secretly giving that siren information, disabling Roya’s clairvoyance, all while killing myself to stop Smart Solutions,” I say with a hot sigh. “God, Aiden, you’d make a worst detective than you do a scientist, you bloody prat.” I then turn back to Trey. “As I was saying before the toddler interrupted, no one, with the exception of me, should be trusted.”

“I disagree,” Trey begins.

“Ren is right,” Shuman says, her voice deep.

Trey turns and regards her.

“I am in the perfect position to be the mole. Furthermore, it is my department most affected by what Vivian is doing to sabotage our efforts. Roya, who has fully lost her ability to news report, is my reporter,” she says, her tone reminiscent of a chant.

Trey blinks at the woman blankly. “Well, I guess that’s a valid point but I trust—”

“It is not about trust, Trey,” she says, always the picture of poise. “What Vivian can do to a person undermines trust. She controls through voice commands. She disabled Ren’s powers in San Francisco with simple words. Vivian made an innocent person kill her father. This woman could very well have infiltrated the Institute and have any of us under her persuasion. It is possible that she chose the one person no one would suspect to be her mole. Because the perfect spy is the one no one sees,” Shuman states. She loves to talk in riddles and throw useless proverbs into conversations.

“So what do you propose?” Trey says.

“Ren needs to use his telepathy on me to confirm I’m not the mole and that I in fact cleared my department,” she says.

It’s about bloody time I work with someone with a fucking brain in their head. I don’t say that though. Instead I say, “Oh, crafty strategy, Shuman. You’ve finally figured out a way to get me to touch you,” I say, striding forward.

Shuman narrows her lavender eyes at me, but doesn’t say a word in response.

“Hold out your hand,” I say. “Against your deepest darkest wishes I’m not touching your private parts, only your hand.”

The stoic woman holds out her hand. I place two fingers on the top of her arm, where the rattlesnake’s tail rests. Shuman is a master of abilities and teaches Lucidites how to hone theirs. She’s been doing it for thirty years. She knows how to open her mind, and therefore it only takes me a few seconds to determine she has had no involvement in giving information to Vivian.

“She’s clear,” I say, pulling my hand away and experiencing a great relief, and then I’m flooded with dread. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The news reporting department was the last I needed to investigate. If the mole isn’t there then I’ve missed them. Or one of my agents has.

Chapter Thirteen

Two week after giving birth and three blood transfusions later Adelaide has returned home. I visited her during her stay at the hospital, but never for long. Dahlia said I never spent enough time with Adelaide, but that I did more than anyone expected. She was always alone, in the intensive care unit. Thankfully the little monster was always absent, too weak to leave the neonatal.

I open the front door for Mae. “Go through,” I say to the old woman who moves too slowly when she’s not in the infirmary. I dream traveled with her to the GAD-C in Los Angeles. I thought I was going to drop dead from boredom waiting for her to generate her body and walk to the parking lot where the limo was waiting. When I told her as much, the healer informed me she’d do her best to bring me back if that happened.

This is the first time I’ve allowed someone from the Lucidite Institute in my residence. I would have hired my own healer but I can’t argue with Trey on this one; Mae is the best. And Adelaide apparently is in a lot of pain. She complains about the pain medicine. About needing it, but not liking how it makes her feel.

A baby is wailing when I close the door. “Fuck my life,” I whisper to myself.

“What’s that, dear?” Mae says, her eyes scanning the gigantic entry hall, which is flanked by columns and lined with too many gaudy statues.

“Nothing,” I say, stalking off to the staircase.

“I didn’t take this kind of place as your style,” Mae says five paces behind me.

“It’s not,” I say simply.

“Oh, so the decor is Dahlia’s taste then?” she says, nearing me at a speed that would make a sloth appear quick. “Does she do all the designing?”

“Up there,” I say, pointing to the second floor. “It’s the third door on the right. You’ll find your patient there. By the sound of that incessant crying I’m guessing you’ll find both your patients up there. Do your job and I’ll return you to the Institute before you get a sunburn from this exposure to sun.”

Mae is not known for leaving the Institute. She’s committed to her position and has no family outside of that place. She had a daughter, but because she allowed her to work for the Lucidites, the girl died prematurely. That’s the reality a Lucidite faces. We take on missions that are dangerous so that Middlings can go to the gym and indulge in frozen yogurt and take dumb vacations. None of them realize there’s a race of people killing themselves fighting evil so they can live repugnant lives. And Mae hasn’t really been the same since a year ago when her daughter was murdered on one of these missions to save humanity. She hasn’t left the Institute or ventured far from the infirmary. This is probably the first time Mae’s skin has felt real sun in many years.

“Aren’t you going up to see your daughter and your grandson?” she says to me, giving me the same disapproving tone as that damn midwife.

“Eventually,” I say, my eyes on the stairs that I realize could lead me to my daughter, who I haven’t seen since she returned from the hospital.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I hear from the hallway. I turn to find my pops. He returned from Peavey shortly after Adelaide delivered the little monster. Pop has been here for a while now. Imposing his opinion on me about how cold and distant I am to Adelaide and the thing she brought into this world. He really should know he’s overstayed his welcome. Houseguests and fish are only good for three days.

“You’re coming up to meet your grandson, it’s overdue, son,” he says, hooking his arm through mine and tugging me up the stairs.

“Fine,” I growl, realizing I’ll have to face this moment sooner or later.

Mae takes up the spot behind us, which is for the best because being behind her going up the stairs would kill my remaining spirit.

***

The little monster is quiet when I knock at the door.

“Come in,” I hear an unfamiliar voice say.

The door creaks when I push it open. A woman who has no reason to be smiling is grinning wide when she sets her eyes on me. It isn’t polite to smile at strangers. It’s disingenuous and completely a waste of energy. The woman is rocking the little shit in her arms. She has black, blue, and pink hair, an obvious result of a bunch of hair dye and a really lame Saturday night. The atrocity of hair is tied up in a bun on the top of her head like a donut.

“Hi,” she whispers now, still smiling. “I’m the nanny, Cheryl Deariso.”

“And I don’t bloody give a damn,” I say, waiting for the woman who hasn’t grown old gracefully to make it up the fucking stairs and join us. I tap my foot and peer over my shoulder, looking for Mae.

“I just got the little tyke to calm down and take his bottle,” the woman whispers again, nodding to the thing in her arms sucking on a bottle.

I loathe whispering. It’s too low and soft and scratchy. A grunt falls out of my mouth in reply. I then turn my attention to Adelaide, who lies in a bed on the other side of the room. Her head rests on a pillow, although she sitting up and trying to make a show of being alert. However, I spy the exhaustion in her face.

“Hi,” she says, her voice coarse, but her face perking up a bit as she tries to pull herself more into a sitting position.

“I just came in to deliver Mae. You’ll remember her from the Institute,” I say, indicating the woman who has finally made it into the room. “I’m certain she can help you to feel better.”

“Oh,” Adelaide says, her voice dropping with repulsive disappointment. Why do people have to have expectations and hopes when it comes to me? I thought I’d firmly set standards, especially with Adelaide.

“Actually he came to see you and the baby,” my pops says with a chuckle, slapping me on the shoulder. He’s going to go to hell for lying.

I scowl at him to zero effect.

“Oh, you haven’t met your grandson, have you?” the nanny who I employ to take care of the runt and not speak says. She has the bottle propped up between her chin and shoulder. The woman stands from the rocker and shuffles in my direction. The thing in her arms is making repulsive noises as it slurps on the bottle of blood or whatever the demon drinks. The bottle makes a sucking sound when she pops it out of the thing’s mouth. The little monster immediately shows its dissatisfaction with that action by making noises that border on crying. The nanny turns the thing around to face me. “Meet your grandson,” she says proudly

“How do you do?” I say, not looking at it.

“His name is Lucien,” Adelaide says from the bed. Again that expectant quality is laced in her voice.

“Lucien,” I say, glancing at her. Mae is busy doing her voodoo, her hands hovering over Adelaide’s midsection.

“Yeah, do you like it?” she says and swivels her gaze to the thing in the nanny’s arms, but she doesn’t regard it with affection. Actually she looks somewhat afraid of the thing.

“Do you mean do I like its name?” I say.

“Oh, for all the king’s men, Ren,” my pops says, scooping up the bundle that is now wailing loudly. “Of course she means the name. And you don’t call a baby an it.”

“You might not,” I say too loudly, so I can be heard over the thing that obviously doesn’t have the underdeveloped lungs that the doctors reported.

“Tell him the full name,” my pops says to Adelaide while he bounces the little monster in his arms.

She sighs. “It’s Lucien Reynold.”

A cough is suddenly begging to erupt from my mouth. I swallow it down. “Well, congrats, Pops. She named it after you. I bet that makes you feel extremely proud,” I say.

He regards me under hooded eyes. “Ren,” he says, sounding to be punishing me with my own name.

“Well, if I’m no longer needed here I’m going to pop off,” I say, turning swiftly for the door.

“But don’t you want to hold the baby?” the nanny says to my back.

I turn and look at the woman who is either trying to taunt me with dumb questions or has entirely misread all my nonverbal cues. Then I regard the squirmy thing making sounds that are quickly draining my usually unending patience.

“No, I don’t hold babies,” I say. Then I swivel my chin in Adelaide’s direction, but don’t look at her. “Take care,” I say and exit immediately.

Chapter Fourteen

The receptionist’s office on the top floor of the Smart Solutions’ skyscraper is a crisp sixty-five degrees. The air smells of jasmine. And of course passing through security was a laughable experience. People really have no idea how powerless they are against me. I’m certain the receptionist will be zero trouble at all for me to bypass.

A woman with long red hair close to the shade of mine looks up at me when I breeze through the space. Her eyes do a double-take at me. The second one is coated in shock.

“Sir, you’re here!” she says, bolting to a standing position behind the desk. The lady hurries around the desk, smoothing down her baby blue pant suit as she does. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s such an honor to meet you in person,” she says, extending a hand to me.

I narrow my eyes at the offered hand.

“Why? Why is it an honor and how do you know of me?” I say.

With a chuckle she drops her hand and smiles a bit indulgently at me. “Oh, mistress was right. You are fun,” the woman says.

I sneer at the insult. “By mistress you must mean Vivian and she is wrong. I’ve never been considered fun,” I say.

“Well, still it’s wonderful to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Jennifer Long,” she says like that should mean something to me, offering me her hand again.

“No one cares,” I say, looking at her hand like it somehow offends me. “Now since you obviously have a listening problem, I’ll repeat the question. How do you know me? This time answer the question and I want specifics,” I say.

She laughs like I’ve told a joke. Waves her hand at me. “You’re so funny. I’m Jennifer Long,” she repeats.

“That name doesn’t ring the bell that I suspect you think it should,” I say, growing more and more irritated by the redhead. We really are a different species. It’s strange to look at her, like I’m looking in a mirror. I’ve never shagged a redhead because it would be like doing it with myself. “I don’t know you, so how do you know me?” I say.

“Well, I realize we’ve never met in person, but I thought you’d remember my name since I’m your personal assistant,” she says.

“Say what?” I say. What is this woman talking about?

As though she hadn’t heard me she continues, her voice cheery and gross. “And since you’re also my mistress’s partner, I feel like I already know you. Well, and with all the arrangements I’ve made for you, I mean it seems like we’re best friends,” the redhead says. We really are the worst.

“I don’t have friends,” I say, eyeing the door labeled with Vivian’s name and then the woman in front of me. Having sufficient information is critical in this situation. So I’m going to plan my questions strategically and not give anything else away, even though my surprise is quite strong right now. “Arrangements?” I say. “Like what sort of arrangements do you make?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” she says, her eyes sparkling with pride.

I grunt at the question. It’s one of the worst ones ever. “Obviously I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jen Jen, or otherwise we wouldn’t be having this soul-sucking conversation.”

She presses her hand to her chest. “Well, maybe you thought I farmed out the work you assign me to an intern but I would never. I take pride in my job. And as your personal assistant, I make all of your travel arrangements, order your suits, and deliver your lunch. Just about anything that you request.” The nuisance then laughs, her nervousness showing. “As your personal assistant, I personally assist you,” she says in a cutesy voice that might make me vomit if it continues.

I loathe when people are cutesy, like dental hygienists who describe themselves as picky people. Worse are optometrists who say they’re happy to see you and then wink. And don’t even get me started on a proctologists who admits to being a pain in the ass.

“When and how have I made these requests?” I say, my voice articulate.

She giggles, covering her mouth. “Sir, is this a game? Am I being tested?”

I regard her blankly.

When I don’t answer she indicates to the sleek silver laptop on the desk. “You send me emails. And I hope I respond with my confirmation fast enough. You never reply when I ask if I’m meeting your expectations. I mean I like that you are clear and concise with your instructions. And I realize that you’re busy and don’t have time to answer my questions inquiring about your wellbeing. I’m sorry if it’s wrong to ask such things. It’s just that as your personal assistant…” She trails away and now her hands are fidgeting in each other. “Well, I feel like I should personalize my…” She pauses. Hesitates. Sighs. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I mean. I’m just so nervous now that I’m finally meeting you. It’s hard to get my words out. And I don’t want to say the wrong thing…” She trails off again, talking to me like one of Dahlia’s fans speaks to her. “Well, it’s just nice to finally meet you after all these years.”

Personal assistant? For years? This just got creepy. A shiver actually tickles up my spine. What the fuck is going on here? I knew Vivian was obsessed with me but this is bloody ridiculous.

“Mistress will be so delighted to see you. Shall I announce your arrival?” the woman says.

I shake my head. “If I know that bitch, she already knows I’m here,” I say, turning for the door.

And just as I near it I catch the pictures lining the space; a collage of framed images lines the wall next to the door. There are pictures of Vivian in various places. New York. Mexico City. Rome. Egypt. And beside her in all the photos is me. I blink rapidly at the pictures. Then I turn back to the lady who is dutifully standing by and watching me. I point to the photos. My mouth falls open but nothing comes out. I turn back. The poses look natural. Me standing, sitting, lounging. But they’re obviously photoshopped. Expertly done. The clothes I’m wearing. The way I’m positioned. These are photos from my life. Superimposed next to Vivian. And then the urge to back up and get the hell out of the building courses through me. I fight it and open the door in front of me at once, before I have a chance to change my mind.

***

The oversized office is colder than the reception area. Vivian is on the phone when I enter. Without a word she places the receiver on the hook, and then she just looks at me. Stares. I feel a seemingly unending desire to stay locked like this forever. Again she reminds me of Marilyn Monroe with her blonde hair and full lips. And her complexion would make an angel cry; it’s perfectly clear, wrinkle free and seems to be glowing. But I remind myself that this gorgeous women is half my age. Actually, she’s only a few years older than Adelaide, which is beyond bizarre.

A full thirty seconds pass where I study her and the office. In the corner sits an armchair strikingly similar to my much loved plaid one. It even appears to be worn in the same places. And the artwork and furnishings are all indicative of the ones in my flat.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I say.

Vivian rises from her leather desk chair, her actions composed and steady. The velvet forest green dress hugs her curves in a way that feels wrong. In a few paces she clears the distance between us, pausing only a few feet away.

“Whatever do you mean, my love?” she says in a voice that sounds like it alone could unlock a vault. And the look she regards me with also unfastens something inside me. It’s like she’s sizing me up for a feast.

“What. Do. I. Mean?” I say each word deliberately. “I have a personal assistant. This place,” I say, throwing an arm at the chair I could swear is mine but I know it’s not. “And the pictures out there.” I indicate the reception. “You’re fucking stalking me, you psycho bitch.”

A long smile takes its time unfurling on her face. “What can I say? I believe in immersing myself in the life I want to live. I fake having something until I do. I know pretending and fantasizing only brings that fortune about, and look, here you are,” Vivian says, tucking her fingers behind the lapel of my suit and swiping down an inch.

I lower my chin and regard her for a long few seconds. “This personal assistant,” I say.

“Jennifer,” she supplies.

“You’re the one sending her the emails?” I say.

“Naturally,” she says with a pleased grin.

“And where do the lunches she has delivered go? The travel plans? The suits?”

“Well, they are wasted, but that’s okay because they are in preparation for you, my love,” she says.

“You’re sick,” I say, zero disgust in my voice to my shock. It’s more of an observation.

“I’m different,” is all she says.

“And you’ve been watching me. Taking photos,” I say, again indicating to the lobby where the pictures of me line the wall. “For how long?”

“Not long,” she says, turning and walking off a few paces before stopping at her desk and pressing her hands down on it behind her, leaning back slightly.

“You’re going to stop now,” I say, my voice not nearly as stern as I intended.

“I won’t,” she says, all confidence.

“Vivian,” I say, and now I actually sound angry, which produces a satisfied grin from her.

“Yes…?” she says, drawing out the word.

I can’t ask her about the mole, since I don’t want her to know I’m privy to that trespassing. However, there are other questions I can ask her, that I intended to. It’s why I’m here. “You were educated at the Institute,” I say.

“I was,” she sings. “Do you recognize me?”

“Yes, although that experience isn’t really memorable,” I say.

She nods. “I wasn’t very captivating then. I was, as you probably know now, a dud. No powers.”

“It was the trauma of being abandoned,” I say rather than ask.

“You’ve done your homework,” she says in that voice that has a power even when she isn’t using it to control.

“When did you come into powers?” I say.

“When I left the Lucidite Institute,” she says.

“And how did you get your powers to come through? What did you do to overcome the trauma?”

And the nonchalant smile on her face is too endearing. Makes me like her when that should be an impossibility. “I think you mean who helped my powers to come through. And isn’t the answer obvious?”

“I don’t ask questions if something is obvious,” I say, trying to sound angry at her.

She pushes up off the desk, standing tall like a proud race horse after a victorious run. “Of course it was you, Ren Lewis. You’re the one who helped me draw out my abilities to reflect psychic energy, voice control, and clairvoyance.”

And her admission touches a domino and they flip down one after another, creating the picture I’d been unable to see. Of course she is in love with me. Obsessed. I unknowingly fixed her. My photographic memory seeks to review the lectures I gave in front of her, searching for the answer of how specifically I saved her. But I impart a tremendous amount of wisdom in each of those sessions. How am I supposed to decide which piece of information I gave was most crucial for each individual, especially one as complex as Vivian?

I’ve been silent for too long, searching long ago memories, when she says, “My mother was afraid of me starting at a young age. She told me that my father, who I’d never met, was a powerful man. She was afraid I’d become like him one day, possessing a control over her. My mother never told me what that power was, just released me to the care of a filthy orphanage.”

And although the memory isn’t one I’ve experienced I immediately get a flash of what that day would have looked like. My imagination somehow is seeking to illustrate what Vivian is sharing.

“I spent three years at that orphanage before Dr. Raydon found me. I was lucky that he visited my orphanage,” Vivian says.

Dr. Raydon, the Institute’s therapist, finds lost Dream Travelers by visiting various places. He uses Aiden’s daft technology to find Dream Travelers by scanning frequencies. It’s part of his job to rescue them so they can be saved and properly trained. Another one of Trey’s humanitarian projects.

“I was different then, when I was at the Institute,” she continues.

“I remember,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. Sympathetic almost, but that can’t be right. And to my dismay, Vivian’s smile tells me she noticed.

“Shuman tried to help me fix the block on my abilities. Dr. Raydon counseled me for years. But it was you who gave me the key.” She almost sings the last part. “And that’s the reason you’re all I can see. Everyone watches me. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I’m captivating. I can have anything I want. I’m a force to be reckoned with and you,” she says, pointing at me, “are all that I want and desire.”

My teeth grind down on each other. I’m speechless. I see it. Vivian is captivating. She’s lightning. Everything about her is electric. And her eyes on me are tantalizing, especially knowing I’m all she sees. And her stare is a force I feel could shock my system like a defibrillator, restarting my heart. I shake off this obvious sorcery.

“What did I tell you that unlocked your powers?” I ask simply.

“You said that psychic energy was the strongest power on earth and yet it takes incredibly little to block it. A minor tragedy is enough to rip that power from a Dream Traveler making them a dud, as I was,” she says.

“Your trauma wasn’t minor,” I say and can’t believe the words jumped out of my mouth. What the fuck?

“I’m glad you recognize that,” she says nearing me, stopping only inches away. “You also said that a pair of flimsy sunglasses is enough to shield the sun, which burns at about six thousand degrees on the Kelvin scale. I think this was more of a holistic lecture on energy, but it spoke directly to me. There are many blocks on energy in this world, aren’t there?”

“Yes,” I say. “Television, electricity, poor nutrition, lack of exercise can all dim a psychic’s energy. Only trauma can completely stop it though, that I know of.”

“Well, then you informed us that all one has to do is find the thing blocking the energy and remove it. After that was accomplished the power would shine at full force,” she says, and her tone is full of an indulgent smile.

“So you figured out your mother was responsible for the block on your powers,” I say, piecing this together.

“Actually, I knew that already, but you made me realize what I had to do. I had to remove the physical block. I had to take out that which created the trauma,” Vivian says.

“You murdered your mother,” I say, my eyes narrowing,

“Naturally, and then my powers flowed forward like a dam being broken,” she says, and there’s no guilt in her voice; if anything a great deal of pride. “Really, Ren, what kind of woman abandons her child out of fear? I spent ten years with her and she just dropped me off at an orphanage like it was nothing at all.”

My mind skips to Adelaide and those fearful eyes she had when staring at that little monster. And she, like Vivian, was abandoned by her mum all because of her powers.

“Is it possible you misunderstood the experiences your mother had that created that fear?” I say.

“You sound like Dr. Raydon,” she says and she’s bloody right. Again, what the fuck is going on?

“And I know now what she experienced. My father was a tolerant man, but could still have anything he wanted. He could have anything he wanted and didn’t allow disobedience. I sought out Frank Bishop after my mother’s death and demanded he train me. It was then that I learned just how powerless my mother was in his presence,” she says.

Fuckity fuckity fuck. How could our stories parallel so much? Just like Adelaide she had an absent Dream Traveler father and a Middling mother who abandoned her. And she sought out her father to better understand her powers. This is bloody bullshit.

“And I know now that my mother never had a choice when in my father’s presence, as no one does in mine. I’m always in control.” And now she reaches out and touches my jaw. I don’t pull away from her chilly touch, her fingers like icicles. I regard her with a studying gaze.

And yet, Ren, I don’t want to control you, I hear her voice in my mind. Please don’t make me. I want you to stand willing by my side. I want you to be the one person who wants me because you do and not based on my controls. I want us to get along and please each other because we’re in love and not because you can control me and I you. And all those words she pours into my consciousness using my telepathy linked to touch.

Then Vivian steps back, a question in her eyes.

“I already have all of that with someone else and she’s not a murderer,” I say simply.

Vivian’s smile tells me she isn’t deterred. “But she can’t grant your wishes. She can’t understand you like I can. She’ll never comprehend our powers, the weight, the burden, the exhilaration,” Vivian says.

And I can’t argue fully against her. Dahlia doesn’t completely understand me, but when I touch her I’m not bombarded. And she wants me without me attempting to control her.

“I know how to funnel my thoughts, to give only the thoughts I desire to a telepath. I can shield. You taught me how, remember?” she says, like she’s been in my head and knows part of the argument that I’m pitifully constructing,

I abandon this and force my attention in a new direction. “What are you doing with the Smart Pods?”

“You probably think I’m going to use my voice control to force people to surrender to me so I can rule the world? Is that right?” she says, sounding amused.

“That would be in line with an evil dictator and murderer,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want to rule the world. I actually want peace and that begins in the home. I’m listening in, cued by key words, tones of voices. I’m finding the dysfunctional families,” she says.

“Why?” I say, struck by this seemingly innocent search.

“So I can then use my voice control,” she says simply.

“To…?”

“To fix them. To make the abusive father stop. Make the neglectful parent love their offspring. To stop the mother who sounds like she’s about to abandon her kid from doing it. To stop him from leaving,” she says, and her words are marked by her personal journey and yet carry no pain or pity.

“You can’t do that,” I say, and yet I realize she can. And where is the problem really? What’s wrong with intervening for good? It’s what the Lucidites have been doing for decades.

“I pretty much have the system automated now. It’s only a matter of time before domestic households operate as they should, in functional loving ways,” she says.

“Vivian, this isn’t right,” I say and yet my argument doesn’t continue as I wanted it to. Her smile stops me.

“I like hearing you say my name. And soon you’ll see that this is right. Soon you’ll see this as a worthy endeavor. And soon you’ll join me,” she says in that voice, the one I want to keep talking, to say more just so I can hear it.

“Have you seen this reality?” I say, wondering if she’s been granted a clairvoyant vision on this.

“Oh no, but I know you well enough to know you won’t be able to resist something like this. It is your perfect scenario. Me. Fixing the broken world. And stopping bad guys. What else could you want?” she says.

I swallow down what feels like a ball of wax. I, the master of strategy, have no idea how to handle this.

I’m fucked.

Chapter Fifteen

“How the fuck do I fight a villain who isn’t fighting me?” I say, pacing the room, the blue carpet making a soft crunch with each of my steps.

“Are you sure you’re asking the right question?” Dr. Raydon says from his armchair covered in happy little polo players. Whoever created that fabric and plastered a chair in it should be shot.

I halt. Turn and face the man with a mustache the size of a wiener schnitzel. “We had a deal,” I say, tapping my foot. “I’d talk to you about my problems as long as you didn’t say dumb shit like that.”

He chuckles and slaps his knee like a bloody sailor at a saloon. “Are you certain you need to fight Vivian? Maybe you’re viewing this the wrong way.”

“That’s impossible. I never do anything the wrong way,” I say with a huff before continuing my pacing. “Tell me everything you remember about your sessions with Vivian.”

“Now Ren, you know that information is classified.”

I halt yet again and face the man with a beach ball for a belly. “She’s trying to force families to get along. She’s imposing happiness on people. It’s…it’s…”

Dr. Raydon gives me a clever smile. “You want to say it’s wrong, but is it? Do you really believe that?”

“You can’t force people to be happy,” I say.

“I’m not arguing that, Ren,” he says, his hands sandwiched together in the prayer pose. “I personally believe you should inspire people to be a better version of themselves. But what I’m calling you out on is your own struggle with this. I don’t agree with what Vivian is doing, but do you?”

“Of course I fucking don’t agree with this plan of Vivian’s. But still it’s not like she’s Antonio and blowing up churches. She isn’t Chase and stealing people’s life force. She’s trying, in her own sick way, to make a better world,” I say.

“You’re conflicted on how to handle this.”

“No fucking shit, Freud,” I say.

“Please don’t give me such accolades,” he says with another chuckle. This guy…I want to hate him, but I can’t.

“Can you offer me any insights on who Vivian associated with while at the Institute? I need to find this bloody mole and fucking take them out,” I say.

He shrugs. “I did as you requested and went over the files. She talked about things you already know about: her mother, her father, her struggle with her lost abilities, and she had an unhealthy obsession with you,” Dr. Raydon says.

“Thanks, Doc. That’s something you could have warned me about earlier,” I say.

“Ren, if I told you about everyone who went on about you while in one of my counseling sessions, well…” He trails off with a laugh.

“So you have no idea who this mole could be?” I say, realizing how defeated I must be if I’m asking my bloody shrink for clues. I’ve questioned half of the employees at the Institute. My agents have detailed the other half. No one is suspicious of leaking information to Vivian. And yet I know that she’s one step ahead of us. Roya’s abilities to news report have been sabotaged, which has put us at a serious disadvantage in multiple ways. Worst of all, Vivian is watching my every move and I can’t stop it.

“If I did know anything about the mole then I’d tell you because the security of the Institute and its members is my top priority,” the doctor says. “However, I will offer you this because I dare say it might help. I know you’re an extremely talented man with the ability to think critically. You’re what I’d also call an efficient thinker. That’s what’s made you so successful in your role as the Head Strategist. You can size up a situation fairly quickly and make snap decisions. And from watching you I think this is mostly because one, you understand the human condition better than most and two, because you operate based on statistics and probabilities.”

“Well, thanks for the character analysis, but that wasn’t as helpful as you thought,” I say, realizing this guy certainly has me pegged better than most. However, I’m not going to tell him that.

“I also think that in a rare case, such as this, your efficient thinking might be responsible for you missing something. Is there a person you’ve missed or dismissed or not investigated properly because of your way of analyzing?” Dr. Raydon says.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I say, but to my surprise I don’t really believe it. I have definitely missed something. I’ve glazed right over this mole. There’s someone I’ve crossed off the list prematurely and it’s most likely because the superior reasoning skills in my head failed. I guess there’s a first for everything.

“Ren, do you mind if I’m blunt with you on this Vivian situation?”

I narrow my eyes at the carpet before taking a seat in the other repulsive chair covered in dumb hunting dogs. I’m actually a little unnerved by the observations Dr. Raydon could make. What the fuck is going on with me?

“What,” I finally say with a growl.

“You’re used to a villain who you can fight. One you have to track down, stop by using your powers, and one who is purely evil. And you’re struggling with Vivian because you’re trying to approach her with the same methods you’ve used on other enemies, but based on what you’ve told me and the expression you get when you talk about her—”

“I don’t get an expression,” I snap.

He nods slowly, a knowing look on his face. “Right. Well regardless, I want you to consider that this isn’t a villain you can defeat by fighting her.”

“Dr. Raydon, do you mind if I’m blunt with you?” I say.

“By all means,” he says.

“You have no idea what you’re fucking talking about. Defeat happens when two sides oppose and one wins. Hence a battle. Vivian and I aren’t in a partnership. She’s an evil witch who I’m trying to stop from controlling unsuspecting Americans,” I say, and still I don’t fully buy everything I’ve said. There’s something not right here. Something I’m undoubtedly missing.

“Well, Ren, you yourself admitted that she’s not pushing back at you. Vivian has brought you in and told you her plan. And therefore my best advice to you is to use what you have in this situation to your advantage. Stop making this into a battle when it could be a negotiation.”

And just like that, the daft shrink gives me the solution I’ve been looking for. I stand at once, intrigued by this new idea.

“Ah, I recognize that look. You’ve had an epiphany,” Dr. Raydon says, sounding proud.

“Yes,” I say, rolling the plan around in my head. I have been approaching this all wrong. The bloody hippies were right. Make love, not war.

Chapter Sixteen

“The key is to make yourself as small of a target as possible,” Clint says, as he stands with his body on profile. The fighting instructor is as tall as me, and we’re built about the same, which makes it easier to model his positions. I pivot my feet to match his, one in front of the other, body turned to the side, hands in front.

For years Clint Solberg has been responsible for teaching my agents everything from kung fu to kick boxing. It was one of the rare trainings I never had since I was never in the field. However, I required that all my agents be trained in at least one martial art. I was reminded of why this had been such a genius decision on my part when I confronted James, the paralyzer, in San Francisco. He’s now under the protection of the Institute since Vivian would no doubt use him as a weapon again or murder him the way she killed Sophie, the girl who made me hallucinate in Dallas.

Sometimes we can’t rely on our gifts. Sometimes they don’t work. Or as in that circumstance with James when I wasn’t allowed to use my power. I have to remind myself that as much sympathy as I might have for Vivian, she can still disable my powers if she so desires to. Thankfully she didn’t at our last meeting.

“Now I want you to think constant movement,” Clint says, bouncing on the balls of his heels. “A moving target is the hardest to hit properly.”

I check myself in the mirrors on the studio wall. Maybe I don’t need this shit. It makes me feel common, like the rest of the people in the Institute. Then I’m reminded of the fingers I broke when I punched James to stop him from murdering three men. He was successful and one, Vivian’s father died; the other two, her uncles, are still locked in comas with little hope of waking and/or functioning in a healthy capacity. And then I remind myself of what this woman is capable of. I keep finding myself deluded into thinking she’s somehow just misguided. I keep wanting to believe she’s not evil. But she has the power to control anyone with her voice. She’s used that power to recruit innocent Dream Travelers and turn them into assassins. Her ultimate mission may be somewhat altruistic but the end doesn’t justify the means. And still I’m torn on her ultimate mission. Controlling even for good can’t be right. Making people get along is wrong. And I get that in some ways it’s what the Lucidites have done. Even Trey isn’t sold on the idea that Vivian needs to be stopped, but this is my mission and something tells me that it isn’t right even if I’m not firm in that opinion yet.

“Now hands up, blocking your face, elbows close to your body,” Clint says.

I do as he says a bit reluctantly. “Just tell me how to hit someone without fucking myself up,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Ren, the best offense is a—”

“Save the strategy talk for the idiot agents I send to you,” I say, dropping my hands. “Teach me how to take someone out. And punching is fine but what I really want is the most efficient way. Pressure points. Kill spots. If I’m using my hands then I want to have the quickest, most direct way to turn the odds in my favor. I’m not interested in bloodying my hands or their face.”

“Of course that would be your strategy,” he says, stopping his bouncing and directing his attention to a dummy on the nearby wall. “Although you don’t want to train on defense, I will tell you that you need to be focused on someone’s hands in a confrontation or anything that you suspect will become a confrontation. That’s key to outmaneuvering your opponent and delivering a deadly strike. You’ve got to always be vigilant, and watching someone’s hands is usually the best way.”

“Hands,” I say, waving mine at him. “Got it.”

“Yes,” he says, moving his fist back as if he’s about to launch a punch at me. “It’s called telegraphing. You’re used to doing this with your mind, I suspect, watching people’s expressions to determine how they will react.”

Clint, although I’d never tell him this, is pretty astute. The guy must be if he picked this up about me. He has a way of studying people that takes considerable focus. I’ve seen him do it when training agents, breaking down each of their movements until he determines how they need to shift to do it right. And he’s correct. I study micro expressions as well as can dive into the inner workings of people’s minds. It doesn’t tell me what they’re thinking, but rather how they think. This gives me cues about their behavior but not always their actions. Watching for a telegraphed cue will be helpful. As an agent I need to add as many skills to my arsenal as possible.

“If you watch people’s eyes you can detect where they are going to target you,” Clint continues. “Watch their shoulders to determine which arm they are coming at you with. A shift in hips tells you they’re about to kick you. And rapid blinks is probably an indicator they’re about to attack.”

“So they attack,” I say. “I block, is that right?”

“The best block is avoidance,” he says.

“You’re a bloody coward,” I say.

Clint doesn’t grant me a reaction; instead he says, “Blocking sometimes is necessary but then you’d be too busy to plan an attack. Instead, consider pivoting to avoid an attack. Then you’re in a perfect position to counterattack and for you I have the perfect assault. Since you’re practiced at collecting and harnessing energy I’m going to teach you chi pressure points.”

“Harnessing chi sounds like something a barefoot and dirty hippie would do,” I say.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. “It’s about absorbing the frequencies around you and by doing that you exponentiate your assault,” Clint says, holding his hands a few inches apart, like he’s holding on to a ball. “You gather this already present energy and then when you strike a pressure point you use this power. If this is done right, the slightest touch will have the power to knock someone out.” He holds up two fingers. “All you need, with a mind like yours, to overpower a giant physically is a lot of focus and these,” he says, waving his pointer and middle finger in the air.

“All right, sounds great,” I say, a bit impatient. I loathe being the student.

“But finding these pressure points in these types of circumstances is difficult. And a failure might result in your death. Especially if you’re unwilling to learn any other form of combat,” he says.

“I’m not a man who knows what failure feels like. Show me these bloody pressure points. I’ll find them if the need arises,” I say.

Chapter Seventeen

In the past week domestic violence has dropped six percent. That doesn’t seem like a big number but that kind of decline has never happened. And it’s all because of Vivian. She’s been able to do what politics and religion have failed to do for centuries. And this is just the beginning. Smart Pods haven’t been out that long and she only started with the initial ten thousand. However, now the company is already on back order, unable to fulfill the growing demands for these devices which people are calling the perfect butler. But they have no idea that these seemingly friendly devices are controlling them. Smart Pods are stopping them when their voice rises and when name calling starts. Stopping the small abuse that breaks down families little by little. These little cones force apologies out of people’s mouths and make them erase the curse words from future conversation. It makes them get along.

And is that inherently wrong? Less violence and neglect does make my job easier. Already I have agents idly sitting by hoping an assignment comes in and yet I have all assignments easily covered for the first time ever. I struggle more and more to find the issue with what Vivian is doing. Is it really any different from what I do, forcing solutions on situations that aren’t my problems? I also have agents intervene in cases related to natural disasters or terrorist attacks, which is me fixing the world in a holistic sense, not just targeting families like Vivian. But in stating this fact am I trying to justify what I do while stating that Vivian is in the wrong? I always know where I stand on everything, and yet I’m being faced with my very first conundrum.

To my dismay it appears that Adelaide has found the way out of her room. She’s mostly been in her room lately, spending her time sleeping. I suspect she’s also spending her time with the thing and the nanny who likes talking to me way too much. I consider cruising past the den and straight to my study but for some odd reason I decide to pop into the den to see her. If I find out that Vivian is using voice control on me to be nice to my offspring then I’ll wring her neck…gently.

With a slippery feeling in my veins I stop in the entryway to the den. My eyes take longer than they should to determine what I’m seeing. Adelaide is stretched out on the sofa, her head back, and mouth wide open. Her long hair looks to be wrapped around her face. It looks like an eye mask used to block out the obtrusive sun streaming through the bank of windows at her back. And lying on the floor, next to one of Dahlia’s pair of French bulldog statues that flank the couch, is the thing. Its eyes are open and it is waving its hands in the air as though trying to catch a fly or cast an incantation.

I cough loudly, which only makes the thing flinch. Adelaide shows no other sign of stirring.

“Adelaide,” I say loudly.

“Huh,” she says, lifting her head up, but then quickly realizing she can’t see, she fumbles for her face, untangling the red knots away from her eyes. Ungracefully she pulls the mess out of her face and looks up at me with an angry expression.

“Why did you wake me up?” she says once she’s taken me in.

“What is that doing on the floor?” I say, pointing at the still squirming thing.

She jerks her head to the ground and then giggles.

“I’m a genius, aren’t I? I kept worrying he was going to roll off the sofa and on to the ground. So I just stuck him on the ground. Problem solved,” she says. And then she yawns loudly, stretching her arms above her head.

“Not genius. More like moronic. The floor is where people walk with fucking dirty shoes. Someone could also step on it,” I say, realizing I’m actually quite offended.

She shakes her head and giggles again, which is quite unlike her. Adelaide isn’t the giggling type. Usually she just sneers in response to most things. “Nobody is going to step on him. The dog is guarding Lucien,” she says, pointing at the stone statue of the happy bulldog.

“Pick it up,” I say, pointing again at the wiggling thing.

Like a spoiled brat she ties her arms across her chest and shakes her head. “Hell no. He’s finally quiet. I’m not starting him up again.” Then she laughs again. “You still call Lucien an it,” she says like it amuses her.

“I don’t foresee that changing,” I say.

She lowers her eyes and slightly grimaces. “I kind of get it. I mean, why you would refer to him like that and be so unnurturing.” And just then I catch the slur to her words. Before I’d noticed it but chalked it up to her being tired. However, this is no tired slur. I know the difference. And I’m just about to say something when the demon’s mouth pops open and it unleashes a screeching soul-stabbing cry.

“Oh fuck, not again,” Adelaide says and doesn’t rise to make the thing stop. Instead she claps her hands over her ears and thrusts her head down to her lap.

“Make it stop,” I say at full volume to be heard over the screaming.

She shakes her head, which is pressed into her hands. “No. I don’t know how. And he hates me. That’s all he ever does,” Adelaide says.

I stare down at the thing that is now bright red. “Have you tried feeding it? Every demon needs its proper nutrition,” I say.

She jerks her head up with a laugh. “He is a little monster. And yes, all I do is pump milk for him. My boobs can’t take any more for a while.”

I almost gag from hearing this. “For the love of fucking God, never say anything remotely close to that to me again,” I say.

“What part?” she says with a mischievous grin. “The part about my boobs? I have two, you know, and I also have—”

“Adelaide, don’t you fucking dare,” I say loudly to make her stop before she makes me vomit. “And make that thing—”

And then I’m cut off by the nanny-lady hurrying past me and into the room. She scoops up the thing off the ground, with an exaggerated sigh. Then she whips around to face Adelaide at once, her actions coated in anger. “What is wrong with you, child? Why didn’t you pick up the baby?” she says.

Adelaide actually shrugs in response, no remorse on her face.

“Don’t you know how to take care of a baby?” the lady says.

“Nope, he never taught me,” she says, casting a finger at me. “He never taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, or take care of a baby.”

“I’m about to teach you how to shut your bloody mouth,” I say, which produces another ridiculous giggle from Adelaide.

“The nanny shoots me a glare and then shakes her head. “And you, Mr. Lewis, you’re perfectly capable of picking up the baby as well, but you just left him there.”

“I was letting him cry it out,” I say as guiltless as Adelaide.

“And what was he doing on the floor?” the woman asks me, offense covering her face.

“Look, woman, that’s where I found him,” I say.

“My name isn’t woman, I go by Cheryl,” she says smugly.

“Whatever, and if you want answers to your daft questions then why don’t you ask the drunk over there about her faulty logic,” I say, pointing.

At this Adelaide’s amused expression drops and is covered with real shame.

“That’s right,” I say, nodding to her. “Real classy move breaking into the liquor cabinet.” I then indicate to the armoire on the far wall that is still unlatched although Dahlia and I don’t drink the fine wines inside it. They’re all for Dahlia’s dumbass, hotshot guests. With a jerk I pull my wrist up, yanking my arm a bit to angle my sleeve down so I can read my watch. “Wow, and getting plastered before three o’clock in the afternoon. Motherhood really brought the real angel out in you,” I say.

Chapter Eighteen

I press the mobile to my ear and wait for Dahlia to answer.

“Hey there,” she says, her voice soft and tired. She’s been on tour for weeks now, and probably has been through a few dozen cities or more. I could ask her, but I don’t really care.

“Hey,” I say.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” she says and sounds half asleep.

“You sound like death,” I say, although her voice still brings me an unmatched comfort.

“Thanks,” she says, not meaning it. “How are you, Ren? Tell me about what you’ve been up to.”

Dahlia always craves normalcy when she’s been on tour for a long time. She’ll beg a commoner to share the monotony of their unthrilling day with her. It’s just more evidence that people always need what they don’t have and the glamour of the famed life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

“You know, the usual. For starters, my spawn is neglecting her spawn. And then also America is slowly becoming a nation of healthy functioning families. Oh, and I’m going to sell my soul to the devil to stop her from making a better world. And that’s about it,” I say.

“That’s nice, but what did you have for lunch?” she says, trying to pull out the boring details.

“Oh, who has time for lunch?” I say.

“Everyone but you and me, it would seem,” she says through a long yawn.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to give you a quick call,” I say.

“I’m glad you did. I miss you, Ren.”

I stop my trek down the long corridor and regard the artwork in front of me like it’s done something wrong by existing. “Yeah, well. Same here,” I say, wishing I could say more. Wishing I had words connected to my emotions. But that’s like wishing I was a merman with the power to enchant beasts.

“Ren, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say and then there’s a long pause.

“I don’t believe you, but whatever. We can discuss it when I get home,” she says.

This woman somehow has an all-access pass into my head. Thank fucking god she doesn’t abuse her powers. Dahlia is like a girl with a boat. She could take it out all the time but it’s a lot of work and tiring so she only does every other weekend, if that often.

“When do you get home?” I say.

“In about a week,” she says and I hear commotion behind her. It’s probably the stage crew setting up for her next show.

“Perfect,” I say, my tone a little impatient as I continue my trek down the hallway.

“Perfect how? You have never cared when I returned or even asked how long I’d be gone,” Dahlia says.

“I asked because I’ve got a trip. And I say perfect because I will be back by then,” I say.

“Really? Where are you going?”

“Let’s say I’m going on a honeymoon of sorts,” I say and shut off the phone without another word. Then I take a breath and open the door to the office.

***

Vivian has her hands clasped on her desk and is staring up at me when I enter.

“Were you expecting me?”

“No, it’s just that I got the feeling you were coming. Call it lover’s intuition,” she says.

“I’m calling it security camera surveillance,” I say, pointing to the wall cabinet where I suspect she keeps a row of monitors.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” she says, confirming my suspicions that she was watching me in the hallway.

I think of Dahlia on the phone a minute ago. Her voice. Her exhaustion. My current predicament. I don’t feel bad. I’m not a man who has ever felt guilt. Well, maybe the once for killing Trey’s wife, but only then. Life is about doing what we must to survive, to make a life that has a semblance of happiness. That’s it. We are bloody humans with wrong desires and problems that seep out of us and onto society. We are evil little shits that change into worse versions of our younger selves as we get older. There’s nothing to really feel guilty about in a world where the creator made us fucked up in the first place. I’m sure as hell not going to pity myself for the things I’ve done or what I have to do.

“What brings me the pleasure of your visit?” Vivian says.

“What is it that you want with me?” I say, no snark in my voice, only a mild curiosity.

“Well, inevitably I want us to be together. I think that’s clear. I’ve met many people, been with many men, and no one compares to you. I sense, like I can an elemental force, that you and I belong together,” she says, not even taking a minute to consider her words. The whole set of sentences is rehearsed and I would expect nothing less from this woman. Vivian is nothing if she isn’t practiced.

“That sounds like the logic of a twitterpated teenager,” I say.

“I know you well enough, Ren Lewis, that you’ll never tell me how you feel about me. But maybe you’ll tell me this. Do you even, just a little bit, feel drawn to me?” And the way she asks the question makes me certain she already knows the answer.

“I’m sure that my tiny bit of attraction is just the cleavage you’ve got on display,” I say, pointing to the tight light blue blouse she’s wearing which shows the perfect amount of rounded boobs, cutting off in a place that makes my eyes linger.

She stands, pinning her hands on the top of the desk, and now I’m granted the view of her waist and hips hugged in a tight skirt. “So do you feel that you already know me without knowing me?” she asks.

I fake a long yawn. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. There’s no way to know someone without knowing them. Just like you can’t say something without saying it. And you can’t do something without doing it,” I say, but none of it is true. There’s a subconscious mind we’re all linked to that delivers archetypes to us starting before birth. It’s so well documented that intelligent people would never dream of arguing against this point.

“Oh, so there isn’t a series of alternative universes where we’re living parallel lives?” she says, sounding amused, like we’re playing a game. “Where all possible realities are achieved? Where things are done that aren’t done in this realm, but still we can glimpse? Ones we can feel? And are you also going to tell me that we aren’t all connected to the point that we can share parts of our consciousness, thereby linking total strangers in the most mysterious of ways?”

Damn this woman. She’s too smart for her own good. I sigh, like I’m annoyed. “Whatever. What’s your bloody point?”

“My point,” she says, straightening and gliding around her desk, “is that you and I have an unmistakable connection. I’ve seen the future and you’re mine. I will make you happy. I will make you feel appreciated in the ways you’ve never felt you needed. And you, well, you’re the one man who is worthy enough to stand beside me. You’re the only one I want to love me without my insistence to make you. You and I, Ren, belong together because we can make anyone love us and yet we only want each other. We want the one person who understands how it feels to wield this power. Yes, you have Dahlia and there’s perks to that relationship. She makes you feel human, isn’t that right?”

Vivian pauses and waits for my answer, but I don’t grant her one. I only narrow my eyes at her.

“However, I can do something that she can’t and no one ever has. I can make you feel like the god you really are. You’re not a monster. You’re my man. With you, this isn’t about control. Everyone believes in something. And I believe in you. You are my faith. When I repent it’s your name that I say. You are my heaven and I’ve never been a religious person but for you I want to be saved so I make it to the afterlife,” she says in that voice that makes her words sound like music.

This broad is good. On most men the combination of her tantalizing appearance and perfectly constructed words would hook them immediately. Most men are idiots though. Easily sucked in by the beauty of the beast with a Y chromosome. However, a lioness is also alluring, and they can tear out a man’s throat.

I unfasten my suit jacket, pulling it back slightly before tucking my hand in my pocket. Vivian’s eyes catch the movement before swiveling back up to mine. She tucks her chin and gives me a look that reminds me of a hungry jackal.

“So what do you say?” she says.

“Well, we could go through a long discussion on the subject. I could argue with you all bloody day. I could take you to dinner to determine if we have this chemistry that you’ve described. I could even insult you a few dozen times just to see if you can be dissuaded,” I say.

“But…” she says, a purr in her smooth voice.

“But I’ve never been a man who wasted my own time with games. Especially when I know how this game will end,” I say, stepping forward, putting only inches between us. The look on my face is formulated to make her believe me. To never question my next move. This seduction business really is too easy.

I reach out and place my hand on the side of her neck. Her skin doesn’t feel like anything I’ve ever felt. It’s too smooth. Too perfect. Not warm or cold. And it’s soft and yet strong.

And then her voice streams through my head, using my telekinesis linked to touch. I saw this all in a clairvoyant dream. Not how it ends but you here. I want you and want you to want me. And I won’t use my controls on you. I will only hope you make the right decision.

“I’m not the one who has to make the next decision. I’ve already made mine,” I say aloud.

“What’s the decision you want me to make?” she says, her voice now a breathy whisper.

Under my hand I feel her pulse. It’s strong. Fast. And somehow doing something to me. Hypnotizing me. I draw in a breath and steady myself on feet that feel like they’re slipping away. Then I focus all my attention on her dark blue eyes. “Vivian, will you marry me?”

She doesn’t startle. Her pulse doesn’t pause or speed up. Only a long slow smile spreads on her red lips. “You know I will, Ren Lewis. I’ve already committed my life to you, but now I want to commit my body to yours.”

Chapter Nineteen

Vivian is curled up in a silk robe in front of the fire, her feet rubbing back and forth against each other like she has a minor itch on her instep.

“When will I see you again?” she says, as I pull off my thick sweater and smooth down my button-down. It’s snowing in Oslo, Norway, which was one of the reasons Vivian chose it for our honeymoon. She knows I prefer the cold and hate the outdoors. And truthfully watching snow fall outside the cabin windows for the past few days has been strangely relaxing. Actually doing only a few things for the last few days has been nice. I’ve never taken a vacation. Refused to go on them with Dahlia, but when a man marries a woman he’s required to do a few things. Fortunately the few things she’s required haven’t been a problem for me. And again there’s no remorse in how I’ve spent the last few days. I’m an agent for the Lucidites. This is how an agent lives. We have to do things. Sometimes unpleasant things. Sometimes things against laws and moral codes. But when I removed myself from this situation and looked at it as the Head Strategist, I knew exactly how I’d assign an agent such as myself. I’d have him use his status with Vivian to get on the inside, which in this case meant me marrying her.

“Soon,” I say, leaning down, anticipating the steps that precede a goodbye with this woman. Her mouth is soft and slow on mine.

Vivian pulls pack, but just an inch. “I’ll miss you,” she says.

“I know what you’ll miss,” I say, and the playful tone of my voice surprises me.

I turn at once and take a seat on the king-sized bed we’ve shared.

“You better hurry up and generate your body, or I might take advantage of you,” she says.

“There’s no might about it,” I say, giving her a wink before lying down on the plush comforter.

My last thought as my conscious mind takes a journey is a startling one. I just fucking winked.

***

“I’m convinced that God put women on this earth to destroy men,” I say, my elbows pinned on my legs and my head in my hands.

A soft chuckle. “Ahhh, but they are the creators of life,” Dr. Raydon says.

“No, they’re the ones perpetuating the fucking cycle with their childbearing and their sexual ways,” I say.

“I’m going to trademark that position, the Ren’s frustrated stance,” he says, trying to be clever. I loathe it when people try to be something, like funny or smart. If people just stopped trying all the time to be crafty and cool then I wouldn’t hate them so much. “You haven’t moved from that position in over an hour,” the doctor observes.

I lift my head, feeling the sobriety of the moment pounding in my skull. “I guess that’s your not-so-subtle way of telling me our time is up. Next time just tell me to get the bloody hell out of here,” I say.

“Not at all,” the doctor sings, his voice always light. “I’ve got plenty of time for you. I was simply making note of your nonverbal cues since you refuse to talk matter-of-factly about what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing is bothering me. I’m exhausted from fucking a woman nonstop for the last three days and that’s all,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“Oh yes, from having intercourse with a woman who isn’t your betrothed,” he says.

“What are you from, the bloody Renaissance time period?”

“I do like things and words from before my time,” Dr. Raydon says. “And I was simply trying to say maybe you’re exhausted also because of the emotional implications of your infidelity.”

“Don’t be absurd, although I’ll admit there’s more on my mind. There always is. Currently, I’m trying to muster any remaining strength to confront a daughter who is tearing my life to pieces with her own unique brand of dysfunctional,” I say, thinking of Adelaide and that hollow look in her eyes which day by day looks to be deepening.

“Not to mention you want to help her, but that would take showing a part of yourself you’re afraid of,” he says, and I don’t really appreciate how bold he’s getting with his observations. He should be too afraid of me to be so blunt, like the rest of the population.

“Unlike most of the guys who sit in this chair, I’m not the scared type. I’m a man who knows all parts of myself and showing them isn’t the least bit scary. I don’t have skeletons in my closet or repressed memories. I’m just a fucking monster and we both know it,” I say.

“And you think this monster is the reason you could so easily be intimate with another woman when you truly love Dahlia,” he says, rather than asks.

“Intimate? Really? Can you not make me throw up and just say it straight out? I shagged Vivian. A lot,” I say, one of the recent memories playing across my eyes.

“And you’re not remorseful about it. And that’s exactly what bothers you,” Dr. Raydon says.

“Nothing is bothering me,” I almost yell.

“Then why are you here? We aren’t scheduled to meet until next week, Ren.”

“Well, I… It’s just…” Wait, what the fuck is going on here? Am I at a loss for bloody words? I’m practically stuttering. “I just missed your mustache. I’m thinking of marrying it.”

He chuckles. “That would be bigamy.”

“Add it to my list of sins. I’m trying to rack up as many as I can before God summons me,” I say.

“Ren, I’m afraid this will have to be our last session.”

“For how long?” I say, taken aback by the sudden change in topics.

“Forever,” he says, breaking the one word into two.

“Wait, you just said you had all the time in the world for me,” I say, feigning hurt.

He eyes the clock on the wall. “Today I do. Tomorrow I leave the Lucidite Institute for good.”

“You what?” I say, pushing forward in the chair. Now I’m perched on its edge. “You can’t do that.”

He smiles and I just catch the apology in his eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. He feels sorry for me. For abandoning me and my therapy. Oh fuck!

“I enjoy my work in this practice,” he says, waving his arm around at the walls covered in diplomas and paintings of calming landscapes. “Dream Travelers have unique problems and it has always made sense for me to counsel my own race.” Dr. Raydon has a practice inside the Institute, as well as in Los Angeles. This helps in his efforts locating lost Dream Travelers, like Vivian.

His eyes trail off with a dreamy quality until he’s gazing fondly at the ceiling. “I help my patients in my practice, but I have figured out a way to create real change for people.”

“Sell poisoned drugs to the poor so we can cross them off the class system?” I say.

A real smile perks up his mustache as he nods. “Helping people with their problems is one way to fix things. But another is to inspire them. Even better is to show them the greatness that resides within them.”

“Doc, you can totally tell me, are you drunk?”

“Ren, you intervene in most cases before a tragedy happens. I try to help people after they have problems. But where is the person, or better yet the organization, that’s inspiring, creating lasting change? Circulating the greatest force known to man. Love. That’s really the only long-term solution. We can’t always intervene and we can’t fix everyone but we can spread love,” he says.

“So you’re starting a brothel? Good on you,” I say.

“I’m starting a circus,” he says through a laugh.

“Oh, bloody hell. You’re fucking kidding, right?” I say.

He shakes his head with a giant proud smile.

“You’re fucking abandoning a viable practice and the opportunity to get inside my head to employ a bunch of scary clowns?” I say.

“I am,” he sings.

“And you’ve actually deluded yourself into believing this will make a better world,” I say.

“Well, to be honest, there’s not going to be any clowns. And yes, I do think this venture will make a better world, or at least make everything it touches better. You see, I’m going to first use my recruiting skills to find Dream Travelers who need help. My mission is to make them superstars and then inspire crowds, thereby restoring magic in their lives. The shows they see will make them want to be better. Make them want to spread love. Because love is contagious, it just needs a vehicle so it can spread,” he says, and I realize he’s completely sold on this. He’s invested. He’s delusional.

“This is a horrible idea. I forbid you to waste your time failing at this,” I say.

“Oh, Ren, I’ve enjoyed my time with you as well and I’ll miss you dearly.”

“For fuck sake, Doc. You’re actually good at what you do, which is rare.” My voice steadily rises, which at first is a surprise to me. “How can you throw away all this?” I say, flinging my hand at the diploma that holds his credentials as a psychiatrist.

“If you think I make a good doctor, just imagine how amazing I’ll be as a ringmaster,” he says, his eyes staring off again, a twinkle in them.

Chapter Twenty

“Sir, she asked not to be disturbed for one hour,” the meathead guard says when I approach the door he’s guarding.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this your way of telling me you want to smack your thick skull on the marble?” I say to the guard.

He lifts his fat hand and rubs the back of his head, probably feeling the permanent bump from the last time I hypnotized him and made him pass out.

“Sir, I’m just stating what I was told. Dahlia was adamant,” he says.

“I’ll show you fucking adamant,” I say.

He holds up his hands, a fear in his dull eyes. “I’m just relaying the message. I’m not stopping you,” he says, stepping out of the way.

“No, Chuck, because we both know you can’t stop me,” I say, opening the door.

Meditation music plays overhead, the lights are dim, and a mint smell greets my nose.

“Ren, that order applied to you as well and you know it,” Dahlia says, her words muffled since she’s lying face down, her head in the opening of the massage table.

The masseuse smiles politely at me before continuing her work on Dahlia’s lower back.

“No, it didn’t and stop playing daft games, dear Dahlia. We both know you’re dying to see me,” I say.

“It’s true, I am,” she says, again her words muffled because her jaw is restricted. “But I haven’t had a minute to myself for weeks, let alone a solid night’s rest. My muscles are tight.”

“She’s right,” the masseuse offers, again looking up at me before pumping oil from the bottle buckled to her waist.

“I know one way to work those knots out,” I say, earning a blush from the girl.

“Yeah, sex sounds good. Probably in a day or two, once I’m rested up,” Dahlia says.

I huff. “A day or two? Woman, you expect me to wait around here for you to rest up? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been shagged?” I say.

The girl now tucks her chin, probably to hide her embarrassment.

“Well, it’s been as long for you as for me,” Dahlia says, also like me not shameful about having this conversation in front of the help.

“No, not as long for me actually,” I say.

“Oh, did you finally cave and get some hookers?” Dahlia says, a joke in her voice.

“Ha-ha,” I say. “Hookers are so beneath me.”

“So I want to hear, how are Adelaide and Lucas doing?” Dahlia says.

“Lucien,” I correct her. “And hell if I know. I’ve been gone and just got back. Came straight in here to see you.”

“You came to interrupt my first bit of rest, you mean,” she says.

“Well, of course. I rearranged my schedule to ensure I was here during your first bit of relaxation.”

The masseuse moves around to the other side of the table, her attention now on Dahlia’s shoulders.

“Well, where did your travels take you? I’m assuming you’re still working the Smart Solutions case.” Her voice fluctuates from the pressure the girl is pushing into her body.

“I am. I’ll have it wrapped up soon,” I say, meaning it.

“Oh good. The sooner you don’t have to work with that blonde bimbo, the better.”

I shift my weight on my feet, a nervous gesture I’m glad Dahlia can’t see with her head down. She hasn’t been comfortable with this case since I told her about Vivian’s obsession with me. I thought it was interesting. Dahlia did not.

“So where’d you have to go for business? Usually you don’t have to stay overnight,” Dahlia says.

She’s right and observant. My dream travel ability and proximity to GAD-Cs make it so I’m either home or in the Institute at night.

“It was more of a vacation,” I say, again shifting my weight, unsure how to stand properly all of a sudden.

Silence. The masseuse doesn’t notice, but from the way I spy Dahlia tense I know she isn’t digesting this easily. “Since when have you, Ren, taken a vacation?”

“Well, I never have actually but when you go on a honeymoon, that’s apparently what you have to do,” I say with a dramatic sigh, which does little to ease my growing tension.

Dahlia’s head flips up, her face red and creased in places from the massage table. Still she’s beautiful.

“What? Why were you on a honeymoon?” she says.

I roll my eyes at her. “Oh, duh. Obviously because I got married. You are tired, aren’t you?”

She whips her head up and looks at the girl and jabs a finger at the door. “Out,” Dahlia says to the masseuse.

The girl nearly knocks me over making her way to the door. Dahlia has the sheet wrapped around her and is standing by the time the door shuts. “Go ahead and repeat yourself, Ren, because I don’t think I heard you right. You better hope I didn’t.”

I sigh dramatically like I’m put off by her command. “I. Got. Married. You know, hitched. Tied the knot. Bit the proverbial bullet.”

She closes her eyes and pulls in a breath. When she opens them she looks calmer, but only slightly. “And whom did you make your ball and chain, Ren?”

I blink at her like she’s an idiot. “To Vivian, of course.”

“Oh dear god. You’re being fucking serious,” she says, throwing a palm to her forehead, the sheet dropping a bit to reveal part of her boob. “Why in the hell did you do that?”

“Well, certainly not out of love, lust, money, convenience, or any of the other dumb reasons that people get married,” I say.

“Then why?” she says, sounding past the verge of impatience.

“Well, because I’m trying to outmaneuver her.”

“Oh right,” she says with a fake laugh. “So you married her. Genius move.”

“Well, you know how they always say keep your friends close and your enemies—”

“For fuck sake, you married her! Another woman,” Dahlia says, cutting me off. And she doesn’t sound mad. She sounds furious and looks like she’s going to murder me.

I nonchalantly pull my hand up like I have a nail that needs attention. Truthfully I can’t see my fingernails and just had a manicure while on vacation. That’s apparently what people do when getting some R and R. “I had to get married, Dahlia. It was the most efficient strategy.”

“So that means… that you… Earlier when you said it hadn’t been as long for you as for me since you had sex… You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“When have you known me to joke?” I say.

“Ren!” she yells at top volume. And the anger in her voice knocks something loose in my chest, but I keep my face neutral.

“Look, I didn’t want to. This is a part of the job. And you knew that—”

“You fucked someone!” she screams.

I sigh. “It’s true. But she doesn’t mean anything to me, so don’t worry. I’m only playing a game and she’s a part of it.”

She’s scrutinizing me with her eyes, her brain sifting through my words. One of the many reasons I love this woman is she is logical. She understands the way the world works and more importantly she understands how I work. Dahlia may not always like it, but she’s always willing to try to understand my perverse ways. “Ren, did you have to marry her?” And she sounds much calmer.

“I’m afraid so,” I say, stepping forward, sensing it’s all right. “But, dear Dahlia, she didn’t feel like you. There were her thoughts and the same dissatisfaction I always felt when shagging the hundreds of women I had before you. No one is like you, resistant to my powers. You’re my true love and the woman I enjoy shagging the most,” I say, and it’s all true. No one could ever be Dahlia. Ever.

“But you enjoyed it a little bit, didn’t you?” she says.

“Well, I am a man, Dahlia, so yes. I’d probably be fine having sex with a fat girl,” I say.

She combs her hand through her tangled hair and her boob peeks out again. “Well, I guess I get it. You are an agent and if you say it was part of the job.”

“It was one hundred percent,” I say, my eyes on her boob.

“Fine, as long as this marriage doesn’t last long then I forgive you,” she says.

I wave my hand at her. “Didn’t ask for your forgiveness and again I did nothing wrong. Just doing my job,” I say.

“Yeah, I think you should become an accountant or something, where you don’t have to screw other women,” she says.

“Maybe I will,” I say, tugging on the sheet so it slides down a bit to reveal more of her naked body. “So do you want to shag?”

She sizes me up and then releases a seductive smile. “Well, I did miss you.”

“Of course you did,” I say, sliding in close to her, my hands finding the contours of her lower back and hips. My chin is tucked and my mouth close to hers when my mobile buzzes in my trouser pocket.

I step back with an impatient grunt. Dahlia, who often has to interrupt our conversations or intimate moments for a call, simply nods her understanding.

I eye the caller ID and then purse my lips in response. “I’ll have to give you a rain check on the sex.” I flash her the front of the mobile. “The wife is calling.”

She narrows her eyes just as I tap the screen and press it my ear. “Yes, love,” I say, turning for the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

A racket that sounds most akin to a rabid raccoon rummaging through a dumpster pours through the study when I cruise by it.

“Let me call you back,” I say to Vivian on the other side of the phone.

“But I’m not done—”

I switch off the mobile, cutting her off, and slide the device into my breast pocket. Something thuds against the closest wall. I peel around to peer through the open double door and immediately duck to avoid having my head connect with a flying book.

“What in the bloody hell is going on here?” I say, straightening and looking at Adelaide, who has another book in her hand. It’s at the ready to be thrown in my direction.

“It’s that woman,” she says from the far side of the room, next to the bookcase. She’s directing my attention to the nanny woman who stands just to the left of me.

“I have a name,” the woman says, her voice shrill. Her fists clenched by her side.

“Yes, Carole, I know that,” Adelaide says.

“Cheryl,” the nanny corrects.

“Adelaide, put down the book,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Fine,” she says, but pulls back her arm and launches the paperback at the woman. Her aim is awful and so it misses her by a few feet, sliding to a resting place by my feet.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I say, picking up the book, brushing off the cover. “Throwing books. Really? What are you thinking?”

“What should I be throwing?” she says, a sniveling laugh in her voice.

“Not books,” I say, tossing it on a nearby table.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned that your daughter is throwing objects at an employee?” the nanny says.

I tilt my chin and regard the woman and her question. “No. I throw all sorts of rubbish at the help. They always deserve it. What did you do?” I say.

“Oh really,” the woman says. “No wonder your daughter is so bad tempered. She obviously gets it from you.”

I ignore the woman and focus on Adelaide, who has taken a relaxed seat in my plaid armchair.

“What did she do?” I say to Adelaide.

“I didn’t do anything,” the woman interrupts. “Your neglectful daughter is drunk and was about to give breast milk she just pumped to the baby,” she says, pointing to the bassinet in the corner where the demon is thankfully sleeping.

I shrug, my expression neutral. “I thought alcohol was good for babies. Helped with teething or whatever,” I say.

Adelaide slides her head back so it’s resting on the chair, her legs propped over one arm so it looks like the chair is cradling her. “See, he gets it,” she says with a giggle.

I consider telling her to get out of my chair, but decide against it. She looks awfully comfortable and I have other pressing matters at the moment.

“You people are hopeless. Mr. Lewis, your daughter, who is supposed to be caring for a fragile newborn, is drunk,” the nanny says.

“I can’t really blame her,” I say, not giving the woman the response she was hoping for. “That’s how I handled things when Adelaide exploded into my life. It appears it’s an inherited tactic for realizing your spawn isn’t going away.”

“Mr. Lewis,” the woman hollers. “This is simply unacceptable. I quit!”

I regard Adelaide, who looks half amused and half on the verge of passing out.

“No, no,” I say with authority. “You can’t quit. You have to give notice.” Adelaide is in zero position to care for the demon and replacing the nanny will take work. I really don’t have time for this shit.

“I refuse to work for people as undignified as you two,” the nanny says. Her screaming has awoken the thing and he’s making demon noises. Adelaide regards him with disinterest before sliding her head back down to its resting place.

“We aren’t undignified. We invented dignified. We’re British,” Adelaide says, her words slurring and trailing away like she’s talking in her sleep. “Ren, you see the bullocks I’ve had to deal with?” she says to me.

“Look, Cheryl,” I say over the growing noises the thing is making in the corner. “My daughter is in no shape to care for that little monster.” I point at the corner where the thing resides. “Just give me a chance to make a few calls and I’ll relieve you from your position tomorrow first thing.”

“No, Mr. Lewis,” she says, marching for the door. “I refuse to stay in this house one second longer.”

“But who’s going to care for the baby?” I say, real worry setting into my voice. It’s late and all the employees but the guards have been sent home for the night.

The nanny turns and sizes me up. “May I suggest you step up to the challenge,” she says with a proud laugh before marching away.

This argument hasn’t gone unnoticed by the thing and now he’s screaming.

I turn to Adelaide, who has stretched into a standing position. She doesn’t even cast a glance at the corner where mutinous noises are emanating. She strolls to the exit. I step in front of her, holding up a hand.

“Make. That. Thing. Stop,” I say, each word deliberate.

“I don’t know how. I’ve tried,” she says, emotionless.

“Adelaide, you wanted this child. Now you’re going to take care of it. Do you understand me?”

She shakes her head. “Remember when I said we were obligated to be great, and that’s why I was having Lucien? Well, I was wrong. We aren’t great. We’re monsters. You were right all along. There’s no hope for us, and I see that now. I don’t want to be great anymore. I don’t want anything anymore. I just want to wallow in the fact that I’m cursed,” Adelaide says, zero emotions in words which should be weighted with gross feelings.

I want to tell her that she’s wrong and I firmly believe that she is, but something tells me it wouldn’t matter. And there’s no point trying to have a logical conversation with someone as illogical as a drunk.

She bites her lips, real emotion finally spilling forth on her face. Regret mixed with shame. “I made a mistake. I thought I’d fall in love with him. That it would be easy once he was born. I thought I’d have an instant connection to Lucien. But I don’t and I also don’t know what I’m doing,” she says over the cries of her child. “He hates me. Cries every time I touch him. He treats me like you do. Like I ruined his life by existing.”

A growl escapes my throat. How dare she? “He’s a baby. He can’t treat you any certain way. You’re projecting on to him,” I say.

She half smiles, but it’s marked by such sadness. “Probably. But at least I know exactly how you feel. I now know how it feels to not want your child. Like father, like daughter,” Adelaide says.

And because I’m shocked that her words actually have an effect on me, stick in my chest like a thorn, I just let her walk around me. Away. Away from her baby. Away from the problem that he obviously poses by crying alone with no one to help him. Why did I have to send my pops back home? Why didn’t I employ a fleet of nannies? I should have known Adelaide would wear them all out in no time at all.

And the thing still cries in the corner, unaware or unconcerned that I’m thinking, trying to figure out a solution.

“Shush, would you?” I say and my voice isn’t as harsh as I intended it.

The thing cries louder in response.

I take several steps until I’m close to the bassinet. Without looking directly at the thing I can tell it’s flaying its arms and legs. I grab on to the bassinet and rock it slightly.

“Go on now. Be quiet,” I say, my voice commanding.

It stops crying, and so I pull my hand back only to be rudely greeted by more wailing.

“Oh really, what in bloody hell do you want?” I rattle the bassinet again but this time it seems to incite the little bugger.

Finally I force myself to look down at it. I’m unsurprised to find he’s got orangey red hair and a bloody lot of it. His hair is mashed down in places, spiky in other places, and his eyes are bright green and seem magnified in intensity on the backdrop of his red face.

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh,” I say

And in retort the little wanker screams louder.

“Adelaide might have been right about you. You have a sour disposition,” I say to the little red-faced thing.

It screams. The noise is unnatural. A torturous sound that I can’t stand. Not any longer.

I check the entrance at my back. It’s just guards in the house. Dahlia locked herself away in the eastern wing and is probably asleep right now. And I’m certain Adelaide is passed out. How am I the only one in the house to handle this bloody mess?

“I’ve got a joke for you,” I say to the thing who is kicking and screaming like life is a big fucking deal for him. “Oh fine, you don’t want to hear it. You’ve got your knickers in a wad, don’t you? Did you poop yourself? Is that your problem? You have zero restraint nor any responsibility. Really, what are you going on about?”

The thing actually pauses and regards me briefly. And then the strangest thing happens. Something that isn’t a scream jumps out of his mouth. It’s more of a soft coo.

“Well, good,” I say. “I’m glad you subscribe to sound logic and we’ve come to a mutual agreement.”

And then the git wails again. This time really loud. Like the coo was the calm before the fucking storm.

“Oh, for the love of baby Jesus! What do you want?” I say to the thing.

He thrashes like a mad baby, the kind that would have dared crawl out of Adelaide.

“You do realize I have a life to live and a few critically important things to do, don’t you? I can’t stay here with you, all right?” I say to the demon.

He screams and this time, it’s a hoarse sound, like he’s hurting himself with his protest.

“Tell you what,” I say, leaning down over the bassinet so we’re closer. “If I promise to take you tomorrow to a shiny little place we call the Lucidite Institute and give you to jolly people to raise you, will you shut the bloody hell up tonight?”

And then the thing tilts his head and looks at me. He actually stops crying to do this. And his face resumes a normal shade.

“Oh good. It’s a done deal then. We will trademark you property of the Lucidites, your mum can get plastered every day, and I can go back to saving the fucking world by marrying sociopaths. Good plan, I say.”

He coos again.

“No, of course I didn’t want to marry her,” I say to him. “And I want to feel bad about it, but it goes against my calloused nature.” This is the first time I’ve admitted such a thing. My desire to feel guilt and inability to do so.

In response he throws his fist in the air, like an assault on my guilt.

“I know. And then there’s Vivian’s plan. It isn’t so bad. And now I’m married to a woman who is supposed to be my enemy and yet I don’t really want to stop her. It’s fucking ridiculous,” I say.

And then the thing wails once more, but this time it sounds as though he’s taken my problems and his and coupled them into a horrid operatic number.

“Oh shush, would you? You’re going to wake up the bloody queen,” I say. “And I’m trying to figure out my problems. God, don’t always make everything about you.”

He doesn’t shush but rather flushes redder. Grows louder.

“What do you bloody want from me? For fuck sake,” I say.

He beats his tiny fists into the mattress under him. He’s got Adelaide’s bad temper. These two are hopeless.

I pull my hand out of my pocket and reach for him. It’s the natural reaction, I think. My instinct taking over. But then I pause. I’ve only held two babies before and only because I killed their mother. And this thought actually makes me rush forward. Maybe because of the memory or maybe because I hate that memory and always want to cover it up.

I scoop Lucien into my arms; his head tethers a bit back and forth as I do. Still I manage to put him to my chest and not break his neck. And then he goes completely silent for the first time. Not just that, but he pushes in tighter to me, like trying to fill the empty places between us. And I’m stuck. Completely stuck holding this thing that is still and quiet and content in my arms. I feel I can’t put him down. Not if I want peace, which I need. This experience also makes me feel human and weird. And we stay like that for a long time.

Chapter Twenty- Two

“Oh good, you’re here,” I say, shoving Lucien into Mae’s arms. She startles a bit from the rushed movement, but recovers immediately. The old woman seems to struggle with the tangled blankets I’ve encircled the thing in. Her shaking crooked fingers falter a few times as she tries to get a proper hold on him.

“Don’t drop it,” I say, reaching out a hand to catch him if the need arises.

“Don’t you know how to properly swaddle a baby?” she says, laying the bundle on the sofa and spreading the blanket out alongside him.

“Yeah, that’s what I did,” I say smugly.

“No, you tied him in a blanket the way a stork would,” Mae says.

“But I didn’t smother him, now did I?” I say.

And just then the thing starts that incessant crying again. He’d been quiet since I picked him up several long hours ago. He didn’t even cry when I made the call to Trey, asking him to deliver Mae to my house. The thing would start crying though every time I tried to put him down, relieving myself of the burden. So I ended up holding him for hours, all so I didn’t have to hear the spirit-crushing, earsplitting noise.

I look up at Trey now. He’s standing in the doorway, hands pressed into his pockets, a dumb smile on his face.

“He’s beautiful, Ren,” he says, nodding at the sofa where Mae resides.

“Who is?” I say, feigning ignorance.

Trey’s smile widens. “It looks as though you rose to the challenge and did a good job caring for Lucien.”

“I kind of had to since his idiot mom is trashed and probably lying in a puddle of her own waste upstairs,” I say. I turn my attention back to Mae. “I’ll have a nanny ready to replace you by mid-morning, maybe early afternoon at the latest.” I had thought about making good on my offer and sending the thing to the Institute to live. However, even I can’t do that without Adelaide’s consent. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with the little monster, and yet I feel he’s partially my bloody obligation. What the fuck has my life come to?

The old woman is humming now; the baby in her arms, however, is still crying, although it doesn’t seem to bother the healer. “Take your time. Do the proper interviews to find the right one. I don’t mind taking care of this precious angel for as long as you need.” She then combs her withered fingers through his red hair.

“Can you hear anymore or does that incessant crying not bother you?” I say to the woman who is no doubt going senile. “And that isn’t what angels sound like, I’m pretty certain.”

“Come on, Ren, we should get back to the Institute. There’s more developments from the science department,” Trey says, waving me to the doorway where he stands.

“Oh, fucking great,” I say to Trey. “I think I’d rather listen to that thing scream for a few more hours than chat with your monkey scientist.”

***

“You did what?” Trey says.

“Well, it seemed like the best option. The most strategic and efficient approach,” I say to Trey as we stride through the Lucidite Institute corridor. “It really is an effective way to get an inside glimpse of what Vivian is doing.”

“But you legally married her. That’s a binding contract,” Trey says, and I’m proud to say this is the most shocked he’s ever looked about something I’ve done. It’s about time I wrestle an expression out of the man.

“Yes, that’s usually how marriages work,” I say.

“But she’s your wife now,” Trey says, still in disbelief.

“And as her husband I’ll be able to catch this bloody mole, find out what other evil plans she has, and exact a strategy to outmaneuver her. All things I’ve been struggling with and sadly failing at in one regard or another,” I say.

“That’s the thing, Ren. I don’t think I want Vivian to be stopped. Her efforts are successful and it’s having huge positive effects nationwide. Domestic violence is down, employee morale up, crime down, poverty on the decline, DWIs decreasing—”

I hold up my hand to cut him off. “I have read the bloody reports.”

“All I’m saying is that so many things are being positively affected by her Smart Pods. And the company recently released a press statement that they are rolling them out internationally,” Trey says, like he’s trying to inform me.

“Again, I married this woman and therefore I shagged her. I know what’s going on with the company. Pillow talk really is informative,” I say.

Trey shakes his head. “What did Dahlia say about this all?”

I shrug. “She was mad at first, but I think she’ll work that much harder in the bedroom now. Nothing like a little polygamy to stir things up.”

“Ren, my god. This is too far, even for you.”

“Don’t be so judgmental. And a little healthy competition is good for everyone,” I say with a calm superiority.

“This is bigamy,” Trey says.

“You say tomatoes, I say tomahtoes,” I say.

He shakes his head. Trey has a moral fiber that can’t be bested. There’s no one more restricted by a nasty conscience than this man. It would be irritating except that I know he creates balance in the world. There are men like me who aren’t restricted by guilt and then there’s Trey Underwood. Without him monsters would no doubt burn the Earth down.

“And Trey, we want a healthy world. I get it, but is this really the way? Through control?” I steer the conversation back toward the Smart Pods topic.

“It’s a healthy change though,” Trey says as we continue our trek through the artificially lit hallway.

“Sure, sure,” I say, dismissing him at once. “And right now Vivian’s making people behave in positive ways, curbing bad behavior, but what if she changes her mind? Are you going to allow her to have this power knowing she’s a diabolical murderer who can grow bored at any hour and make people off themselves?”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons you married her, right? So you could keep an eye on her?” Trey says.

I nod. “Yes, but I’m not sure keeping an eye on her is the solution. And also… I just don’t know if this Smart Pod is a good idea in creating positive change. We intervene to stop bad things from happening. However, we don’t control people and make them act in ways contrary to their fucked up DNA.”

“But don’t you see that what she’s doing is working?” Trey says. “And you said yourself that you don’t know. So think on it. Keep an eye on your wife and let’s find this mole.”

I stop outside the Head Idiots lab. “Aye aye,” I say with a mock salute at Trey’s back.

Inside the dumb science lab I find two people I can’t stand and one I actually can.

“I upgraded the Kevlar suits so they now have an electrical current that can—”

“Shut up, Aiden,” I say, interrupting his conversation with Clint, my martial arts instructor.

Aiden hands a black suit to Clint; it looks heavy and like it’s dripping in disgusting technology. “As I was saying—”

“Clint, can I get another session with you this afternoon?” I say, cutting off the space chimp again.

The martial arts instructor tucks the suit under one arm. “You know you can.”

“Ohhhh…you’re learning to fight,” Roya says in a sing-song voice from her place perched on the top of the work table beside Aiden. “You must be scared of some baddies.”

“Shut your trap, Roya,” I say. “Adults are talking.”

“I can teach you some kung fu since my clairvoyance has vanished and I’ve got nothing else to do,” she says with a morbid laugh. “I’d enjoy the opportunity to spar with you.”

“Why don’t you and Aiden go play with your Barbies? And no. I only train with experts,” I say. “But I’ll give you a call if I need to learn how to be a major pain in the ass and a drain on everyone’s patience.”

Clint claps me on the shoulder as he passes by. “Yes, please stop by the studio this afternoon. I have some pressure points I want to show you. They take some practice or otherwise they won’t be immediately effective, which is the point,” he says, walking for the exit.

“Yeah, sounds good,” I say.

“So my dad says Mae is your new interim nanny,” Roya says just as Clint rounds out of the lab.

I turn my attention on her. “Stay out of my business, little girl,” I say. “Busy yourself by doing something useful, like trying to get rid of your resting bitch face.”

“Don’t you think it’s an abuse of the Institute’s resources to require our Head Healer to drop everything and care for your grandbaby?” she says with a devilish smirk.

“You don’t want to know what I fucking think. I promise you,” I say and flip my gaze up to Aiden. “Trey says you have some revolting technology for me.”

“I do. I do,” he sings.

I grimace at his unbelievably happy nature. Someone should give him shock treatment to fix that problem.

“Just hand it over before any more time with you two crushes my restraint,” I say.

“Restraint for what?” Roya chirps, obviously amused.

“My restraint to not end you,” I say.

“Every time you threaten me I know it’s just your special way of expressing your unyielding affection for me,” Roya says.

“Yes, that’s it. You’re such an insightful twerp.” I then snap at Aiden. “Technology. Now.”

He retrieves something small from his stupid white lab coat pocket.

“Remember how I was able to create that inner ear device that blocked Sophie’s ability to make you hallucinate?” he says.

“You do realize I loathe your ‘remember when’ questions, because you know I do. I’m a fucking genius. Remember?” I say.

“Right,” he squeaks. “Anyway, using the framework from the ESD I—”

“When are you going to bloody realize that I don’t care about your stupid science?” I snap again. “Technology. What is it?”

He actually nods this time, like he’s aware I’m not a fan of his long monologues about dumb science theory. “Well, I think I found a way to stop Vivian’s ability to control through voice commands. However, I need you to test the technology on her. If it works then I could send out a signal mimicking this design to all Smart Pods, thereby disabling her voice controls. Well, that is, if Trey sanctions. Currently he approves of the Smart Pods,” Aiden says.

“I know bloody well what Trey approves of,” I say, ripping the two tiny earbuds out of his hand.

“You have to be wearing both of those in both ears,” Aiden says, pointing to the devices in my palm. “They serve as filters, stripping the persuasion out of her words. At least that’s the hope, but you’ll have to get her to try and use voice control on you first to determine that. I thought about testing it myself with one of the Smart Pods that we know can send out voice controls. However, I was worried that if it didn’t work Roya and I wouldn’t ever argue again. That would be a shame. Where would the fun in our relationship be without the occasional debate?”

I roll my eyes, on the verge of using hypnotism to make Aiden pass out. “Do me a favor and don’t breed, you two,” I say.

“Actually, I have great news,” Aiden says, a dumb glint in his eyes. “Roya and I are going to have a baby.”

Like my head is weighted by lead, I slowly bring my chin up until my eyes are shooting darts at the ceiling. “God, are you even there anymore? Did you go on holiday? Or are you a fucking idiot?” I say aloud to the God who uses me as a pawn and allows atrocious people to breed.

Roya’s face remains stone. Aiden chuckles at my display. “Just think Ren, our child and your grandchild can be pals.”

“Yes, let’s set up a playdate and leave the children unsupervised with a bunch of chemicals and sharp objects,” I say.

“I love your jokes,” he says, throwing his head back and laughing loudly just as my mobile rings in my pocket.

“Shut it, you bloody primate,” I say, turning and strolling for the door as I take the call. It’s not a number that registers with caller ID.

“Ren Lewis,” I say into the mobile.

“Hello, Mr. Lewis,” a woman says, her voice dripping with enthusiasm. “Can I tell you how amazing it feels to finally have your direct line?”

“I believe you just did. Now who are you?” I say.

“Oh, right,” the woman says and I picture she slaps her forehead. “It’s Jennifer Long, your personal assistant.”

“Right,” I say with a long growl.

“So I’ve gone ahead and located a nanny for you. She has top recommendations and I’ve gone ahead and run a background check and—”

“Wait,” I say, stopping halfway down the short hallway. “What the fuck? How did you know that I needed a new nanny?”

“Mistress told me, of course. She told me to hire your daughter a new nanny right away. She also asked me to have a substance abuse counselor sent over to your house which—”

“Cancel both. The nanny and the counselor,” I say.

“But sir, it was Vivian’s orders,” the woman says.

“And who do you work for?”

“You, of course.”

“Then do it. I’ll find my own nanny, got it?” I say. “Now go ahead and take the afternoon off. From now on you take orders directly from me, not Vivian. Check everything through me, but don’t tell Vivian that’s what you’re doing. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “And thank you for the afternoon off. What would you have me do tomorrow?”

“I want you to set me up with full access to all of Smart Solutions’ systems and files,” I say and shut off the mobile. I still don’t know who the mole is but now I’ve narrowed it down to six people.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Meet me in my office in five minutes,” I say into the mobile.

“Wait, but why?” Vivian says on the other side of the line.

“Because you’re my wife and you’re going to do what I bloody tell you,” I say, sticking one of the tiny buds into my ear. It’s sleek and definitely undetectable.

“But I have a dinner meeting in half an hour that can’t be canceled,” she says, in her voice that more and more also sounds like it was stolen from Marilyn Monroe.

Perfect, I think. “And you’re not going to have to miss the meeting, darling,” I say and slide the other bud into my ear.

“But Ren—”

“You’re a fucking Dream Traveler. Pop over here from New York and do it pronto. It will take you five minutes to dream travel and generate your body on the GAD-C,” I say.

“But why?” Vivian says, and I know I have to play this right. This is not a dumb woman.

“Because I said. And I want to talk to you in person,” I say.

“Is this about—”

“You know where my office is,” I say, cutting her off. “Get here now.” And then I switch off the phone.

Less than five minutes later there’s a knock at my door. Vivian stands on the other side of the door wearing a strapless black cocktail dress. Her collar bones greet my eyes with a sexy hello. Without hesitation she folds herself around me at once, her arms squeezing my shoulders. Need oozes off her every movement. She’s the very opposite of Dahlia. This woman needs the man in her life to fix her. To fill up all the places in her that her parents left empty. I pull her into me, surprised that I don’t mind the intimate gesture so much. She smells of lilac and salt and I find my nose in her hair breathing her in. I pull back at once and wave her into the office, which is ten percent of the size of hers. However, I don’t need much space. Most of what I do happens inside my head.

I take my seat behind my desk only to find her beside me, her ass half on my desk, her legs stretched out in front her.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, leaning back. “There’s things I’ve had to take care of myself. It’s really unfair.”

“You’ll live,” I say, pushing my rolling chair a few inches back. “Jennifer called.”

“Oh, did she. She’s a doll, isn’t she? I went ahead and decided to actually assign her fully to you, which is why she now has your number. No more fake orders for her. But now you know she’s trained and been prepped to work for you. Isn’t that wonderful?” Vivian says.

“Where did she get the order to hire a nanny for Adelaide?”

“From me, of course,” she says.

“And how did you find out that the nanny was in need of replacing?” Vivian is making these orders, which means she’s not intent on keeping her mole secret anymore, so why should I?

“Remember?” she says, an intention on that one word. “You called and told me. You said that Adelaide was drunk and the nanny had quit.”

I use mind control and so I know how it works. And there are too many things about how she’s just said what she’s said that I know she’s used mind control on me. And yet I don’t feel the fake memory sketching itself in my mind. Aiden’s technology might be working.

I don’t believe Vivian used voice control on me during our honeymoon since I was compliant with all her wishes, but it’s still hard for me to tell.

“Oh right,” I say. “I remember now. I forgot with everything going on.”

She nods. “I understand. That’s what I’m here for now,” Vivian says, reaching out and sliding her hand along the side of my head. “I’ll always help you remember.”

“You’re too thoughtful,” I say without inflection. Maybe the anti–voice control device is working; however, I need more testing to decide. “I already have hired a nanny,” I say.

“Very good,” she says. “Why don’t you have her pack up the baby and Adelaide and move them to my house in Connecticut.”

I never told Vivian what my daughter’s name is, but the mole obviously knows.

“Why would I do that? Neither of them are suited for that kind of travel yet. They’ve been through a major medical ordeal,” I say.

“Well, we’re married. We need to live together. You’ll be living with me, won’t you?”

I can’t think of a better way to get covert information. And this just might be the perfect way to double test the anti–voice control technology.

“Yes we do, but Adelaide and Lucien aren’t in a position to be uprooted. So—”

“Well, I’m too busy to move right now, but I’m okay with moving to Los Angeles soon,” Vivian says, cutting me off.

“Oh really?” I say.

“Yes, I’d move into the mansion. But obviously you’ll have to kick Dahlia out. I wanted to discuss that with you anyway. This is the perfect opportunity. I recognize everything happened quickly with the marriage. I put up with her for too long and now it’s time you got rid of her,” she says, pulling a loose curl from the top of her head and tugging it down in front of her face, her eyes crossing as she takes in the platinum color of the strand. “Now that we are married Dahlia needs to go once and for all.”

“I agree, but it’s her house,” I say, my voice careful

She gives me an irritated expression. “Like that matters. And you said Adelaide and the baby couldn’t be moved, so kick Dahlia out and that way I’ll be happy. Then I’ll move in as soon as I can, but in the meantime I’ll visit.”

Vivian said she didn’t want to control me, but what I think she meant was she didn’t want to make me want her. She wanted me to desire her of my own free will. However, I never deluded myself in to believing that she’d refrain from using her powers on me if the need arose. A woman like this will always employ control when she doesn’t get her way on something. “I think we have to take things more thoughtfully than kicking people out of their—”

Her eyes turn sharp, cutting into my words. There’s a sudden menace in her gaze and I just spy the treacherous spirit shimmering off her. “Kick Dahlia out of her house,” she says and the words have zero control over me, but I still feel their power. It’s like I’m watching an eclipse through special lenses. I can see it without it burning my eyes using this technology.

“Yes, I’ll kick her out,” I say in a robotic voice. It’s the tone I’ve heard so often when I’ve used mind control to make someone do something.

“Good boy,” she says, brandishing a wide red-lipped smile. And then she leans in and kisses me, leaving my mouth covered in sticky lip gloss.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I’m not surprised to hear the call of the demon when I enter the house. I’d almost rather listen to that racket for the next hour than do what I have to do.

I stop in the study doorway. There are a few dozen rooms in this monstrosity of a mansion and yet Adelaide has decided to be a squatter in my study. She’s just not happy unless she’s infecting my life with the curse that is her presence.

I have my speech ready but pause, my mouth half open, when I slide into the doorway and take in the contents of the room. Mae is holding the crying thing in the far corner. Adelaide and Dahlia sit on one couch and a strange woman is invading my armchair with her dreadful presence. Her long brown hair is draped over one shoulder, and an “I’m pretending to be pleasant” smile is plastered on her face.

“Get out of my chair,” I say, pointing at her, no greeting.

“Ren,” Dahlia says, drawing out my name like it contains multiple syllables. “This is Erin and she is with Child Protective Services.”

“I don’t care if she’s the fucking queen of England,” I say to Dahlia and then look at the woman, who has dropped the forced smile. “Get out of my bloody chair.”

“Don’t mind him,” Dahlia says, waving at me like I’m a child throwing a tantrum about my toys.

“It’s quite all right. I think we’re just about done here,” the woman says in a Louisiana southern accent. She stands, tucking a folder of papers up to her huge rack.

“Done with what?” I say, eyeing the person who has no doubt left dead skin cells and loose hairs in my beloved chair.

“Ren, Erin was assigned to Adelaide and Lucien’s case. Cheryl, the former nanny, lodged a complaint with CPS,” Dahlia says, a tension in her tone.

“And that just means I’ll be popping in to check on the health and well-being of the child. As of right now it appears that everything is in order,” she says, looking over Adelaide, who has large bags under her eyes, but actually looks like she’s properly bathed and dressed herself for once. “These things have to be taken seriously by the CPS; however, we are willing to consider that new mothers make mistakes,” the woman says.

“Ren can’t you make this go away?” Dahlia says, her tone hinting.

“I can, but I won’t. Adelaide has to deal with these series of problems she’s brought on herself,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t like the idea of this woman watching my home. However, I also don’t like that my immature daughter got herself knocked up and is doing a lousy job of caring for the monster she’s brought into the world.

“Don’t worry,” the CPS woman says to Dahlia. “We’re just going to be investigating to determine that the child is in a safe environment based on the testimony we’ve been given.”

“Well, and it’s just the ex-nanny’s word against Adelaide’s,” Dahlia says. “Does this really look like the kind of girl who would neglect her child by getting drunk?”

“That’s not for me to say,” the social worker says with that fake-polite smile again. “Judging by Adelaide’s history,” she says tapping her file, “I think it’s just a good idea for CPS to keep an eye on things. The child appears to be in good health, although possibly a little on the colicky side,” she says, indicating to the loud-mouth baby who hasn’t quieted down still, even with Mae’s efforts to bounce and swing him.

“Your nanny appears to be doing a fine job with the child, so I feel safe leaving him here and just monitoring the situation, but—”

“You can take him,” Adelaide says, cutting the woman off.

“Adelaide!” Dahlia yells, grabbing the girl’s arm, probably wanting to shake her.

“What?” she says, pulling her arm away from Dahlia’s reach. “He doesn’t like me. I don’t know what to do with him. All he does is cry nonstop, so maybe he wants a different family. And he’s a newborn, which are extremely adoptable.”

“He’s your child,” Dahlia says. “And Mae can teach you how to care for him.”

Again the social worker spreads her mouth with a mock smile. “It’s typical to have feelings like what you’re experiencing, Adelaide. You’ve been through a major event and postpartum depression is a very real factor in these cases. I think counseling will help, but in the event that you decide to put Lucien up for adoption—”

“She’s not doing that,” I say to the woman, cutting her off.

“It’s my decision. I can do it if I want to,” Adelaide fires back at me.

“You are my daughter and we are many detestable things but we aren’t quitters. You will keep your child just as I’ve kept you,” I say.

“But I don’t want—”

“End of discussion,” I say, interrupting her again. “Now, Ms. CPS, go ahead and see yourself out.”

She flashes her trademark disingenuous smile at Adelaide. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Ms. Fields.”

“Can’t wait,” Adelaide says with zero inflection in her voice before throwing herself back on the couch.

“Mae, a nanny will be here by the end of the day to replace you,” I say to her. “But for now I need you to take the monster into the nursery.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay another minute longer. I was only waiting until Erin left. I’ve got matters at the Institute to attend to,” the old woman says.

“No, you can’t leave,” Adelaide says, real fear in her voice.

“I can and I have to. I just realized that Roya is overdue for her treatment,” Mae says.

“Treatment?” I say.

“It’s nothing,” Mae says, waving me off.

“Have someone else give it to her,” I demand.

“That’s not an option,” she says.

I raise a curious eyebrow at the woman. “But you said before that you’d stay as long as I need you to in order to care for the little bugger.”

“I did, but that was before I remembered a prior obligation,” Mae says. “Now, I’ve checked Lucien over and he’s in good health. There is nothing my healing skills can do to stop his fussing. I’m guessing he’s just having some fear issues, which is typical in babies born premature,” she says, carrying the thing over and holding him out to Adelaide.

My brat of a daughter actually ties her arms across her chest and shakes her head, like a school child refusing to eat her green beans. Mae pushes her wrinkled lips out and offers the screaming wiggling mess to Dahlia.

The diva holds up her hands and shakes her head as well. “I would but I feel a cold coming on. Wouldn’t want the little guy to get it.”

Again Mae flashes a look of disapproval. And for over eighty years old she’s fast. I realize this when the old woman turns at once and pushes the thing into my hands. Mae rips her hands away, forcing me to take the demon. And for worry he’ll crash to the ground and the CPS will be called back, I allow him to be shoved into my arms. Then as the old woman hobbles away, the thing in my arms falls silent.

It’s a true gift to hear nothing after listening to the incessant crying since I entered the house. With surprise written on her face, Mae turns and regards me and the thing in my arms. Adelaide and Dahlia both flip their heads up and stare at me.

“Lucien hasn’t been quiet since you handed him off to me this morning,” Mae says. “I was starting to wonder when the baby would sleep.”

“No fucking way,” Adelaide says, throwing her head back on the cushion repetitively.

“Well, it appears you have the right touch,” Mae says, turning around with a smile in her voice and hobbling out of the study.

“Who would have thought?” Dahlia says, looking amused.

“Shut up,” I say. “He just cried himself out. That’s all.”

“Oh, so now you’re referring to him like he’s a person?” Adelaide says. “Must be nice.”

“You shut up as well, Quitter,” I say.

The thing has closed his eyes and appears to be asleep at once. I lay him in the bassinet beside the sofa.

“Adelaide, I expect you to care for this little monster until the nanny arrives. Then you will work with her to learn how to keep it alive,” I say.

She blows out a frustrated breath.

“Confirm your compliance now,” I say.

“And what if I don’t?” she says.

“Then I’ll use mind control on you and force you to sit in a coffee shop in Hollywood. There you’ll be forced to listen to pretentious hipsters drivel on about their conservation efforts and how they’re thinking of purchasing new vanity eyeglass frames,” I say.

“You wouldn’t,” Adelaide says.

“Try me. And after that I’ll put you on tour with Dahlia and make you sit on the front row next to a bunch of shrieking teenagers,” I say.

“Okay, okay,” she says in a rush. “Just don’t make me listen to Dahlia’s music. It’s horrible.”

Dahlia gives her a pleased smile. “You love my music and you know it.”

“Sometimes when I really hate my life and want to punish myself, I listen to it. Some people are into cutting. Your music is that for me,” Adelaide says.

“Well, I can sing something for you now if you’d like,” Dahlia says, not deterred.

“You can’t actually. Firstly, if you wake up that thing I’ll go ape shit,” I say, pointing at the bassinet. “And secondly, you have to move out of this house right now.”

And then in unison both women burst into laughter. When they quiet down I say, “Ha-ha. Now pack a bag and get out.”

Dahlia’s face goes slack. Adelaide erupts into another round of laughter.

“Ren, what’s this about?” Dahlia asks.

“My new wife used voice control to force me to kick you out of your house. However, the Lucidites created a device that filters out the influence in her voice so it can’t control me. But if I don’t force you to move out then my cover is blown and Vivian will know I have this technology. So get out,” I say, throwing my thumb over my shoulder.

“You’re married?” Adelaide says. “Since when?”

“Ren, this has gone too far,” Dahlia says.

“Yes. And since recently,” I say to Adelaide. “And no it hasn’t gone too far. Not yet,” I say to Dahlia. “I haven’t decided exactly what to do about Vivian’s Smart Pods, but I need my cover so I can act if the need arises.”

“You expect Dahlia to move out of her own house?” Adelaide says.

“I do. But it’s not forever,” I say.

“Fine, I’ve got more meetings in New York coming up. I’ll pack a bag. But you’re going to owe me big for this, Ren,” Dahlia says, always willing to comply.

“I actually need you to have movers move out most all your stuff. Leave the things we will need, but Vivian is having a design team fill up the house with new furnishings,” I say.

“What?” Dahlia says.

“Well, she wants it to be perfect for when she moves in,” I say.

Dahlia stands now, her face flushed pink. “Ren, this is not okay. You married another woman and now you’re kicking me out of my own house so she can move in. All for a dumb job.”

“Dear Dahlia, I get that you’re upset about this, but please stop being hormonal. My job isn’t dumb,” I say.

“Hormonal?” she says.

No, I don’t have to be so rough on her but I’m trying to make this easier and the best way is to push her away. I’m bloody good at it.

“What if I refuse to do this? What if I don’t leave?” Dahlia says.

“Then you’ll ruin everything and I’ll resent you for the rest of our lives,” I say simply.

“I already resent you,” she says. “But I’ll go ahead and leave. I won’t spoil your precious case, but just know that I might not come back when this is over. I might just sell the house so my new husband and I have a fresh start.”

“Sounds good,” I say, turning away from her before hearing her stomp out of the room.

“You’re pretty ridiculous,” I hear Adelaide say from the sofa.

I turn and face her. “Yeah, I totally fucked up and you seem to have inherited that from me. You’re welcome.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I close my laptop with more force than was necessary. Maybe I broke the devilish piece of technology. However, in this one instance, the brain cell–sucking device was helpful. By gaining access to Smart Solutions’ files I’ve determined who the mole is. I already had my suspicions, but now I know for sure. I discovered more than just who the dirty rat is that’s been leaking secrets and sabotaging the news reporting department. I also uncovered truths that don’t paint Vivian in such a pretty light. I knew she’d kidnapped people and had them murdered, but I never saw this. Yes, she’s responsible for decreasing crime rates, but to do it she created a terrorist’s war. Trey didn’t want me intervening to stop the function of the Smart Pods; however, he’ll change his mind on that soon. And if he doesn’t, well then I’m still disabling the Smart Pods. Fuck Trey’s orders. It’s not like I ever listened to him before. I’m handling this case the way I want to no matter what.

But first I have to go deal with this fucking mole. And that won’t be as easy as I thought. I had seen the mole as some drooling scientist or uneducated maintenance worker. Someone I wouldn’t mind punishing for spying on me and turning my secrets over to Vivian. But surprisingly, I actually don’t want to punish this person. Even though the things they did to fulfill Vivian’s demands are pure treason on the Lucidites, I’m not sure the punishment I had in mind is a good idea. And Trey will be devastated when he finds out who the mole is, but that’s the least of my concerns. Disarming this person is going to be hard. It’s going to feel hard at least. Like how it would feel to brutally punish a child.

Dr. Raydon was correct. My own strategic thinking kept me from finding the mole. I crossed them off the list prematurely because they didn’t fit the criteria. My agent checked this person out, but they operate using the same mode of thinking as me. And our reliance of stereotypes did fail us this time.

I rise from my desk, each step bringing with it a calculation in my mind. There’s only one way to deal with this situation that will make me feel okay long term. And to my revulsion it can’t include violence. That would scar my already blackened soul. But when this is over I suspect I won’t feel the vindication I desired. Why can’t this case involve bombs and warfare, instead of peace that has to be ended by my own hands?

I stop in the doorway to the infirmary. As I suspected the fucking mole is here. I burst through the swinging door and march straight over to the two women. Mae stands just behind Roya, who is sitting on the bed, her head bent down and her body readying to receive the medicine via needle.

“Stop,” I say, my voice loud and clear.

Mae freezes, her gloved hand resting on the back of Roya’s neck, the needle of pink liquid in her other hand.

“This will only take a second,” the old woman says.

She presses the needle firm into Roya’s skin. Mae isn’t stopping. And Roya is going along with this, making no notice of me, her eyes closed.

The needle pricks Roya’s skin and I know I have to act fast. Mind control is risky in this situation and not as fast acting as I need. Like how Clint taught me I throw my hand forward, the motion quick and deliberate. It knocks Mae’s hand back and the needle flies away from Roya, crashing to the floor. Mae at once grabs her own hand, which might be broken in several places judging by the brittleness of her bones.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Roya says, wheeling around.

“Stopping a fucking mole from sabotaging news reporting efforts,” I say.

“What? What are you talking about? I’m not the mole,” Roya nearly screams. She’s always had such a quick temper.

“No, of course you’re not,” I say, my eyes narrowing on the elderly lady who’s cradling her hand, probably healing it as I speak. “She is,” I say, pointing at Mae.

Roya’s gaze revolves on the healer, growing shock in her eyes.

“Read my cases from Oregon with the Reverians, did you?” I say to Mae.

My first agent case was in southern Oregon, stopping a society of Dream Travelers who were injecting rebellious young adults with a drug called cerevitium. This blocked their psychic ability, allowing the government to keep control of them. In my report I detailed the contents of this drug. And through accessing Smart Solutions’ files, I found they had bought these rather unique drug ingredients and had them shipped to the Institute, care of Mae’s department.

“Ren, I can explain,” Mae says and to my surprise her voice is steady and strong.

“I ask the questions and you answer them. If you do then I won’t kill you,” I say. And it’s a bluff. That’s been the rub. How could I kill a healer, a person who has saved so many, who has the power and the longevity to heal so many more people? It would be like harming my own mother. But my mum wouldn’t have betrayed me.

“Mae, it was you?” Roya says, standing at once, taking the place next to me, her stance defensive like she’s ready to fight. Clint has trained her for many years and honestly I wouldn’t want to spar with Trey’s daughter. She’s got an awful temper and ridiculously impressive reflexes.

“I can explain. What I’ve done was for a healthy future,” Mae says.

“Silence,” I say. Allowing an enemy to lead the conversation is wrong. The person with the advantage is the one who puts the other in an interrogation mode. Takes control. “You will simply and directly answer my questions and only my questions,” I say, giving Roya a sideways look. She nods briefly.

“You’ve been injecting Roya with cerevitium. For how long?” I say.

“For a few months now. When she started having trouble news reporting I started the treatments,” Mae says.

“But she was having trouble news reporting because Vivian was reflecting her powers, is that right?” I say.

“Yes, and we knew cerevitium would be the long-term solution to rid her of her clairvoyance,” Mae says.

“So Roya came to you for help and you gave her a drug that would completely rob her of her ability. This would ensure that even if Vivian failed to reflect due to elemental forces, Roya wouldn’t have clairvoyance to news report. She wouldn’t be able to see what Smart Solutions was doing,” I say.

“Oh my god,” Roya says, grabbing the back of her neck where she’s been receiving painful injections for months now.

“Don’t worry, your powers will be restored when the drug wears off in a day or so,” I tell her.

Relief marks the girl’s eyes at once.

“How long have you been spying for Vivian?” I say to Mae.

“For a few years now. Only brief reports in the beginning and then much more detailed ones the last year,” Mae says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, because I felt her pain. We grew close during her time here. So later when she asked for reports on the affairs of the Institute and on you, I figured it was because she missed the place that healed her. Missed the man who fixed her. And then she came to me this year and told me of her plan to repair families and make them functional. She told me the Institute would stop her because they wouldn’t understand until they saw how beautiful the results would be. I’d lost my daughter and had a soft place for the girl. And you Ren, must see that her mission has been pure. It’s working and you know it,” Mae says, and I know she’s told the absolute truth.

“She’s killed thousands to make a better future,” I say.

“No,” Mae says, with a hiss.

“Oh yes. And you’ve been her pawn, disarming Roya, giving Vivian inside secrets, and sharing every detail of my life with her. You, Mae, are culpable for helping a psychopath rob the world of thousands of souls,” I say, and this is a hard truth for me to reveal, but I must.

“But how?” she says in utter disbelief.

“Antonio,” I say simply. “Vivian employed him. He wasn’t the leader of Group X, the terrorist group responsible for thousands of deaths. Vivian was.”

“Why would she do that? She wants peace,” Mae says.

“Because she’s a master of distraction,” I say.

And because I have no reason to lie and I’ve always been right with my accusations, Mae believes me at once. But she is a strong woman, and the anguish seeps to the surface with only a tiny pained look in her eyes. It is one of devastation and regret and I suspect she’ll wear it from now on. “Oh my god,” she says in a cursed whisper. “I can’t believe I’ve been a part of this.”

“Now you and I are taking a trip on a repulsive submarine,” I say, dreading what I have to do next. “I’m going to suffer pressure changes to rid the Institute of you, a traitor to your own people. And if you ever land on one of our GAD-Cs then I will end you. I will burn my own soul to punish you for trespassing on our grounds. The monitors of the GAD-Cs have been warned and if you ever enter our Institute, that minute will be your last. Are we clear?”

Mae nods, shame marking her movement. She’s not a bad person. This woman is the one who has been used. And she’s the one who I’m certain will repent for this for her remaining twenty years on Earth. Most people aren’t bad. They are misdirected or being manipulated or driven by old pains. Mae, now knowing Vivian is the mastermind behind Group X, will probably reduce herself to poverty, spending her life in a monastery healing orphans. That’s my hope, but Roya’s news reports will have to confirm this as I’ll assign her to do. And again I’ve learned something from this case. Sometimes not punishing your enemy is the best strategy. What they will do to themselves, after experiencing your mercy, is much more effective.

“Let’s go,” I say to the old woman. I plan to rid this place of her and then I’ve got to act on the second lesson I’ve learned from this all. The one concerning my wife.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I teleport straight into Vivian’s office. She wasn’t expecting me and the startled shock is written on her face. It quickly morphs into delight.

“Oh, Ren, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” she says, clapping a hand to her chest.

Nearly won’t do the trick. I haven’t figured out exactly how to completely deal with Vivian. The approach I used for Mae won’t work. Trey asked that I bring Vivian in, but my instinct is unclear on that strategy. We have ways of imprisoning Dream Travelers using a piece of technology called a dream blocker. But strangely, the idea of Vivian rotting away in a cell catches in my throat. However, I have to remind myself she’s not that damaged orphan anymore. She’s a dangerous mastermind who deserves to be stopped and punished.

“I had no idea you could teleport,” she says, pride in her voice.

“There might be secrets I’ve kept from you yet,” I say.

“Oh?” she says, sounding curious. “Did you like the furniture I had delivered?”

“Yes, it’s more my taste. Masculine and utilitarian,” I say. Dahlia moved out over a week ago, and Vivian wasted no time repainting and redesigning the house. As I suspected, it has kept my cover and given me the time I needed to put things into place.

“Well, I know your taste. I dare say I know almost everything about you,” Vivian says like this is a point to brag about, rather than a creepy admission. “It pleases me very much that we are going to make a real life together now that you’ve gotten rid of Dahlia.”

“You made me do it, didn’t you? Even though you said you’d never use voice control on me,” I say, having dropped the act we’ve been playing over the last week. It’s not necessary anymore.

“I didn’t want to,” she says with a pout. “You left me little choice. But now you see how my influence works and I’m sure there will be no further reasons for me to exert it.” And somehow Vivian has managed to edge her way to me and now stands right up against me. I step back, my eyes roaming over her, catching every detail I can. Anything that will give me an advantage as I enter the next phase of my plan.

“Soon you will figure out a few things, and as the dutiful husband that I am I’ve come to share the news,” I say. “I wanted to be the one to tell you. Best you find out from me and presently.”

“This sounds exciting,” she says, her hand on my chest, as she’s found another way to close the distance between us.

“It’s extremely exciting,” I say.

“Well, don’t leave me hanging. Tell me so we can christen my office,” she says, unbuttoning my suit jacket. I clap a hand over hers and squeeze like I mean it with affection. Then I steal her thoughts, which unfortunately are of a provocative nature and only serve to distract. Pulling my hand from hers, I take a step back.

“Mae has been removed from the Institute and you should expect to never hear from her again,” I say simply.

The seductive look on her face is wiped away, replaced with a slow simmering anger. “You…you knew? And how dare you? Why would you do that? Why would you remove her from the Institute?”

“Because, darling Vivian, no one spies on me and gets away with it.”

“But I was only doing it so I could better serve you,” she says sweetly.

“You’re not serving me. Your corrupt plans are only to feed your burnt out soul,” I say.

“Ren, what’s going on here? This doesn’t sound like you.”

I laugh and to my surprise it’s a genuine one marked by disbelief that people can be so blind when consumed by evil. “This is me. The man you’ve married and known for the past several weeks is the imposter. You, Vivian, have been played.”

Her mouth drops open. “No I haven’t. This is real,” she says, motioning between us.

“It’s a hoax,” I say, noticing the restraints she has on my mind control. I can feel that connection like one does the tension on a kite string. Vivian is strong and able to reflect psychic energy. I knew I had little control on her but now I realize just how resistant she is to my influence. It’s fine. My plan doesn’t fully rely on my mind control or hypnosis.

“It isn’t a hoax. Maybe Dahlia said something to you to make you have doubts, but I know you, Ren. I know you better than her or Trey or anyone on this damn Earth.”

“You’ve deluded yourself to think you know me by watching my actions, but they tell you little of my inner workings. I’m a master of strategy. Therefore I know that by observing people you gain the most advantages, and that’s exactly why I behave in ways that never give away my true nature. You don’t know me. You know the man you’ve watched but I’m more than that. And I’m changeable, which is the one thing that you never expected having witnessed my military regimen,” I say.

Vivian’s beautiful cream skin is now tinged with pink. Her shoulders tensed. Her chest vibrating with anger. “Ren, stop talking like this,” she says and I sense the controls in her words. The influence and power. And they sound like a chorus of a compelling song, but they don’t work on me thanks to Lucidite technology.

“No,” I say firmly.

Her eyes narrow into darts. “What did you just say to me?” she says, the shock heavy in her eyes.

“No,” I repeat, my mouth exaggerating the one word. “You see, Vivian, I haven’t just removed your mole from the Institute. I have also outmaneuvered you.”

Her mouth forms a tight line. “That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t though. I’ve systematically brought you down. The Smart Pods have all been reprogrammed with the same technology I’m wearing,” I say, tapping my ear. “Now your voice controls have zero influence on their hosts. No longer will families act in your prescribed and approved ways. Your voice echoing through the Smart Pods is just a regular woman’s voice. Vivians in every home only serve and no longer control.”

“Why would you even do that? How could you?” she says, her siren voice shrill with fear.

“Because you can’t control people. That’s not the way you fix dysfunction,” I say. And I know that so firmly now. If the past several months have taught me anything they have served to teach me this. But I don’t dwell on this reasoning now. Not with a fuming medusa staring at me with murder in her gaze.

“Ren, don’t you see I did this, all of this, for you,” she says, throwing her arms wide, her tight suit jacket rising as she does. “I did this so you didn’t have to kill yourself trying to fix the world. You stress trying to do it all. Serving as the Head Strategist, and managing the Institute, saving damn Middlings. Stopping corrupt people. I’d been working toward this project for a while but accelerated my plans when Mae warned me your blood pressure was on the rise. I’ve done this to save you.”

“Oh, so that’s why you employed Antonio and started Group X, so you could save me?” I say.

Her face shows acutely her newest stress. Never did she expect that I’d figure this out.

“Oh yes, Vivian, I saw the fund transfers in Smart Solutions’ records. I know you’re the one who backed Group X and paid Antonio to create anarchy.”

“I had to. And you weren’t working for the Institute when I started Group X. I knew that their activity would be a burden on you,” she says.

“And you knew that by filling up the news reports with events related to terrorist reports that you’d be able to put your Smart Pod plan into place without the Lucidites getting wind of it. But then I took out Antonio. So then you had to reflect Roya and then drug her so we didn’t see what you were doing,” I say.

And the smile that laces around her mouth is cruel and still stunning. “See, you and I belong together. Only a mind as brilliant as yours could be the companion to mine.”

“You are fucking out of touch,” I say.

“Don’t you see how incredibly strategic I’ve been? Doesn’t that impress you?”

And she’s right. Vivian must have read it on me when I recited her plan. It was a bloody brilliant plan. And the way she adapted the strategy when things all changed was creative. And it was all done to move everything into place and dupe the Institute, which has never been blindfolded in that capacity.

“You fucking blew up schools and hospitals. You’re responsible for the bomb that went off in the Underground and almost killed me,” I say.

She sucks in a cry, her hand flying to her mouth. “I didn’t know about that incident. Antonio started to work on his own at that point. I only funded him and didn’t know he had that target planned. You have no idea how angry I was when I found out, but then you survived and I knew God was plotting our union. He saved my man, ensuring you would be with me until the end, walk with me into the valley of heaven one day,” Vivian says.

“That bomb killed my friend,” I say, my words hot as I think of Jane.

“I’m truly sorry for that. I’m sorry people had to die, but you know better than anyone that humans have to die sometimes. I had people murdered, but only so I could create a better future,” she says.

I shake my head. I’ve encountered people all my life who are out of touch. Read the thoughts of psychopaths, but I have rarely met a person as seriously deranged as the person in front of me. “You aren’t just pathetically misguided, you are fucking insane. It’s sad really because you believe you’ve done the right thing. You killed children. Separated families. Destroyed lives. And for what? So you could make a better future. The end doesn’t justify the means,” I say.

“I’m creating lasting change. Even Trey found no fault in my plan,” she says.

This must be another leak from Mae.

“He didn’t know you were behind Group X,” I say.

A sly smile slides on her red lips. “And you would have found that out if you didn’t have Antonio killed. If you’d brought him into the Institute for interrogation,” she says. And Vivian must know that Trey ordered me to do that, but I refused. Killed the terrorist instead.

“Well, no point in regrets. I’m on to your plan now and it’s officially over,” I say, realizing that if I had done as Trey requested then Vivian’s cover would have been blown. However, she’s crafty enough she would have found another way.

“Oh, no it’s not. It’s slightly derailed but nothing that my technicians can’t reprogram,” Vivian says. She’s confident. Not flustered now. She’s regained her composure and looks ready to tear me in half and still make me rule by her side.

“The problem there, darling, is they don’t take orders from you anymore,” I say.

“What are you talking about? Of course they do. This is my company,” she says, sounding irritated.

“No, not anymore.” And now I smile, although only a little. “For as strategic as you are you’re also distracted easily by emotions. Everyone has a shortcoming. Well, not me. But I found yours and it was me. I’m your downfall. You were too excited to have succeeded in your plan to have me. Love really is the worst distraction and blinder. So you dashed off with me and eloped, never even thinking of your precious assets,” I say.

“I didn’t think I had to,” she says, tender pain registering in her words, making her eyes soften. “What we have is real. Even now I think you’re just confused. Whatever you’ve done can be undone, Ren. I will forgive you. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine. We are bonded in a way that this never has to be a concern.”

What’s sad is she believes this. Vivian still believes our relationship is as strong as an elemental force. She really never saw the game I played.

“What’s yours has just now become the property of the Lucidites,” I say, my voice rehearsed. “I sold Trey Underwood Smart Solutions this morning. It’s all final.”

“No!” she says, and if disbelief has a look, then it’s the throbbing gaze she’s giving me.

“Oh yes. And as your husband I had full rights to do this. The deal is done and he’s liquidated the company. It will be dissolved and all employees disbanded by the end of the week. They will all receive generous severance packages, of course, since they had no idea what they were doing. And the Smart Pods will soon be recalled due to a nasty wiring problem that could cause small explosions in homes. People will throw that bloody technology out so fast,” I say.

“Ren, you’ve betrayed me. And I never…” She drops her chin, her shoulders too. Vivian never saw this coming. This woman truly deluded herself into thinking I loved her. And people scorned by their own misrepresentation of love are the craziest. I know that and that’s why I keep my eyes firmly focused on her.

“There are agents outside this office that are going to take you to the Lucidite Institute where you will be tried for your crimes and sentenced,” I say.

“But Ren, they’ll keep me a prisoner, won’t they?” And I knew all too well that her spying would have given her information regarding how we treat our criminals.

“Yes, you’ll probably be sentenced to a lifetime with the dream blocker on. You will never dream or see the light of day again,” I say, my voice cold, but nearing to crack. Somehow I don’t want this fate for her. I don’t like the pain sketching itself over her eyes, as though the orphaned girl stands before me now. I see her on the day she was abandoned by her mother. Cast aside because of who she was going to become.

“I can’t…I can’t be imprisoned again,” the orphan says in the voice of a woman with too much power.

I spy the flex of her hand. The telegraph of her oncoming move from her shoulder. But it’s the wicked smile that actually takes me by surprise. It’s like that of an evil clown just before they decide to abandon hope. “And the Lucidites can’t imprison me. Not if they never catch me.” And then she lunges at me at the same time she says this. Her claws out, her mouth open. And she’s fast, her reach seeking to pull the buds from my ears. And the old Ren would have fought her. Maybe lost, not reacting fast enough to her since she’s shot forward like a spring uncoiling. But my training is intact and I reach for her wrist and tie one behind her back and the other around her neck, where I have her in a lock. My body presses firmly to her backside. And then she struggles but it’s useless. And soon she realizes it. Realizes I’m too strong and have her pinned in a way she can’t fight.

A whimper as real as the sun and just as scorching to my insides trembles from her lips. “Please, Ren. Don’t let them take me. Show me mercy. I can’t rot away in a prison, like I did at that orphanage. You know I’ll go insane. If you’ve ever loved even a shred of me then make this stop. Put me out of my misery now. I’ll always be crazy. I’ll never change. I’ve tried,” she says and suddenly I have the real impression that she has the ability to use her voice to make me feel. It’s not a control, it’s a manipulation. But I feel it’s absolutely negotiating with my will.

I think through her request, her desperate plea. My hands are strong, holding her in place easily. And I feel the truth in her words. She’s lost and lonely and has been this way her whole life, much like Adelaide. And it’s too late for her. Too late for her to change and atone for these sins. Vivian is evil and it’s wrong and also just the way of this world. And she’s also strong and brilliant and the only adversary I’ve ever respected.

“Maybe in the next life, Vivian, your parents will love you,” I say, my voice not sounding like mine. I’ve never heard this tone. This sympathy come out of me.

“Maybe in the next one you will love me,” she says. “My soul will never stop loving yours. Forever and ever, I’m yours, Ren.” And the words slips out of her beautiful mouth just before I jerk my hand up and press it to the place on her neck where Clint showed me. The movement is fast and hard, full of a special force.

There isn’t a struggle from Vivian. There’s only a brief moment where the pain makes her stiffen all over. And then she’s gone. Gone forever from this world. I lay her down as gently as I can manage on the ground. Touch her face once with my fingertips, not hearing a thought from her consciousness, which has passed into the next world.

“Goodbye, Vivian,” I say before teleporting away.

The agents outside her office will have a new job, one cleaning up my mess. And Trey will be livid but I don’t care. My adversary was shown something I’m learning comes natural for me. Mercy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sight before me when I enter the house takes a minute to register. Maybe it’s the strangeness of killing another human still creating a slow-moving fog in my brain. But still the image isn’t something I’ve ever seen and it takes me a minute to figure out what I’m seeing, like when Native Americans saw the pilgrim ships on the horizon for the first time. It is difficult for humans to assimilate brand new images, especially ones so outside the norm.

Dahlia flips her head up and lets out a huge sigh, which I almost don’t hear over the wailing of the thing in her arms.

“Oh thank god,” she says, rushing forward and holding Lucien in her arms like he’s a Grammy and not a baby. Her hand is on his bottom and the other one around the back of his neck propping him up and away from her. “Here,” she says, nearly running and shoving the thing into my arms. Once he’s in my grasp, his cries stop at once, turning into only a few soft noises.

“For the love of god, I’ve been taking care of him all afternoon and he hasn’t shut up in all that time,” Dahlia says.

“Why the fuck are you taking care of the little monster?” I say, kind of hesitating on the last word.

He lies unmoving in the crook of my right arm, his eyes seeming to search my face although I know newborns can’t see much detail.

Dahlia combs her hands through her hair, her fingers catching on several knots. Sweat beads on her forehead and for a rare occasion she looks absolutely flustered and untidy.

“Because there’s no one else here to do it,” she says, throwing her arm wide. “I don’t even have a kitchen staff member here I can rely on. You’ll remember I’ve only just returned and all my staff is still on unemployment.”

“Wait, where’s the nanny I hired?” I say.

She lowers her eyes at me like I should already know this answer. “She quit.”

“No fucking way,” I say. “Another one. Why this time?”

“She didn’t really elaborate when I got home. The woman just said the baby was never quiet and his mother had the decency of a crazed terrorist. Then the quitter handed me Lucien and left. And he hasn’t been quiet for hours, not until just now,” Dahlia says and now she smiles at me, looking amused.

“Get that bloody look off your face,” I say to her.

“He likes you, Ren, and he doesn’t appear to like anyone.”

“He’s a fucking baby who doesn’t know what he likes.”

“Uh-huh,” Dahlia says with a knowing tone.

“Where’s Adelaide?”

“That’s the thing,” Dahlia says, turning fully around and throwing her hand at the stairs. “I’ve had the guards search and no one’s seen her. She was gone when I got here.”

“She’s not here? Where would she go?”

“Probably to the bar,” Dahlia says with a laugh.

“Not funny,” I say. “No one saw her leave? Have you questioned the guards?”

“I’ve been busy caring for your grandson, who by the way would make Mother Teresa want to slit her throat. A person can only handle so much noise. I’m not sure I blame the nanny for quitting,” Dahlia says.

“But where is Adelaide?” I say, pacing to my study down the hallway where I can find a place to put the little monster down. He makes a noise of contention when I lay him down. Starts the telltale sounds that precede his cries. “No, you don’t,” I snap at him. “Stay quiet.” And at once his mouth pops closed. His eyes go wide as he flays his little fists in the air.

“Okay, that’s hilarious,” Dahlia says.

“Buy a dictionary, diva. You don’t know how to use that word,” I say.

“Just saying that you of all people seem to be a baby whisperer, which makes total ironic sense.”

I spin around and face Dahlia. “Your logic is about as soundproof as a shredded up cardboard box.”

“I missed you, Ren,” she says, walking forward and sliding her arms around my waist.

I grip her head in my hand and hold her against me. At once I press my nose into her hair. “I missed you,” I say for the very first time ever. I had called Dahlia as soon as I left Vivian’s quickly cold growing body. I told her in a few short clipped remarks what had happened. Told her to come home, that it was all over with now.

Dahlia steps back, her hands finding mine and holding them between us. “You did the right thing. In all areas.”

I hadn’t told her I’d been on the fence about the Smart Pods, but Dahlia sensed it as she’s prone to do. And I didn’t tell her I had a strange soft spot for Vivian. However, when I told Dahlia that I killed her she said that she realized I did that out of thoughtfulness. It’s impossible to keep anything from this woman and really, why would I? If anyone is going to be connected to me I’d prefer it to be the one person who my abilities don’t work on. The one who loves me for who I am and not the monster inside me. I’m just about to pull her back to me, sensing I could use more of her comfort, when I notice something sitting on my plaid armchair. A white folded piece of paper. I press away from Dahlia and at first she protests but then spying what caught my attention, she lets me go.

The note has a few doodles on one side. Adelaide’s hand. And when I open it I know immediately by the slant of the writing that she was upset when she wrote it. My eyes scan the note. The three sentences that are insufficient for explaining what she’s done. They lack reason and emotion. They are too plain. Just words that tell what she’s done and what I can expect.

The paper pinches my palm when I crumple it.

“What is it?” Dahlia says at my side.

“She’s abandoned Lucien,” I say as the lines in the note stream across my retinas.

I’ve left. I’m not coming back. Goodbye.

Adelaide

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Three times Trey drums the tips of his fingers on his desk. I’ve let this quiet game go on too long.

“Can we fucking get this over with?” I say, tired of looking at his quiet disapproval and growing internal conflict. “I’ve got something I need you to address for me.”

“Ren, why did you do it?” he says, laying his hand flat and still on the surface of the desk.

“It was my life or Vivian’s. A battle to the death. She just barely lost,” I lie.

He draws in a long “I’m trying not to explode” breath. “I told you to bring her in unharmed,” Trey says.

“And I rarely handle these situations the way you ask me to. Aren’t you figuring that out by now?” I say.

“But with Antonio you had his guards shoot him. This time your hands killed Vivian,” Trey says.

My nostrils flare at the memory, which I know will forever live in my mind. A memory made of indestructible diamonds. The moment I stole Vivian’s life is a marble statue never to be changed, always the same three movements that preceded her death. The beautiful psychopath was in my arms. Trusting of me. I felt that in the way she breathed against me. And then I gave her what she wanted so she wouldn’t be tortured even though I knew that act would forever torture me. I, Ren Lewis, was unselfish, maybe for the first time. It’s hard to know since selfless acts are about as easy to qualify as cloud shapes.

“I want you to talk about this in therapy,” Trey says.

“With who? Your bloody therapist ran away with the fucking circus,” I say.

“I have other therapists on staff,” Trey says.

“That’s all right. I don’t want to talk to someone else.”

Trey begins drumming his fingers again because apparently he wants to see if I’ll kill him too. “I can cover this up but it won’t be easy,” he says.

“Then don’t. Let me learn my lesson. Let the authorities take me away for killing my wife after liquidating her company. It’s a bunch of easy dots for even a dumb detective to piece together,” I say.

“You know I’d never allow that,” Trey says. “They think she sold the company and ran away. Anyone who could be a potential threat has had their memory wiped, including your personal assistant.”

“You’re such a fucking god, aren’t you?” I say, a playful sneer in my voice.

“Ren, crime rates are already on the rise. Actually they’ve spiked heavily after this. Apparently people went to the other extreme.”

“Good,” I say firmly.

“Good? You think it’s good that families are fighting and abusing each other, and then acting out in society as a result? You can’t mean that,” Trey says.

“What I mean is that it’s good that people get to be human. They get to fuck up and hurt each other. And have broken hearts and then seek to find ways to mend things. People get to evolve. They get to figure out how to change so they don’t lose people in their life. Who are we, Trey, when we aren’t allowed to screw up? We are fucking lemurs who live no real lives.”

I stand suddenly, feeling my chest drum with a surge of adrenaline. “Those people Vivian was making play nice weren’t living their lives. They were dolls in a bloody doll house and she was the big kid making them play house by her rules. But now, just like before, they get to make mistakes. They get to run out on each other. Cheat. Abuse. Lie. Neglect each other. Fight one another. And you know what else? They get to feel the brunt of their mistakes and those kinds of people are the ones who make a better future. No, violence won’t go away and no, we can’t erase family pains, but why the fuck would we ever want to? It is that struggle that makes any of the love on this planet worth it. Where would you and your daughter be if she didn’t first hate you? Would you be as close if you didn’t have to fight to make things work between you? It’s not our bloody call to make people love each other. We are the fucking Lucidites and we save people, but them finding peace and love is their own bloody mission, not ours.”

The shifting in a person’s understanding is an incredibly interesting thing to watch. Like a fetus growing, a complexity made simple by human biology. And now that shift plays across Trey’s face. And then he simply nods. “You’re right. I didn’t see it so plainly before, but you’re right.”

“Of course I’m bloody right,” I say.

“Well, a flood of new cases came in while you were gone. I had them—”

“They can wait,” I say, cutting him off. “I need Roya on a job first. Actually put the whole news reporting department on this one.”

“What?” Trey says, that look of worry he wears so often deepening. “What do you need them to do?”

“I need them to hone in on someone’s energy. Find them in the very near future,” I say. This is how Trey found me almost two decades ago when I was in hiding. He looked for a future event where I showed up.

“Okay, I can have them assigned,” Trey says.

I’ve never asked for anything like this and Trey isn’t questioning me on it. He never would. “Who do you want them to find?” he asks.

“My daughter. She’s run away,” I say, and the statement makes my strategic mind feel like a bowl of noodles, slippery and tangled like the way emotions probably feel.

He nods at once. “Yes, of course. We will find Adelaide. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” I say, turning for the door. “Just do it pronto.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The door to the diner, which reeks of ancient grease, dings when I open it.

“Take a seat wherever you like,” a waitress says, smacking her gum and managing a pile of plates across her arms as she trots to the kitchen.

My dumbass daughter has her back to the door, like a bloody idiot. Have I taught her nothing, or is she just too engrained in her inferior ways to change? I kind of want to buy her a bloody pony just so I can take it away from her.

The sticky floor makes note of each of my steps as I hurry over to her table. Adelaide has earbuds in and is rocking her head slightly to whatever foul music she’s listening to. And as I spy over her shoulder I notice she’s sketching on a pad, each of the pencil marks light, but carrying a graceful anger in them. She’s sketching a portrait of me and it’s accurate. Spot on actually.

I slide into the booth across from Adelaide and promptly a gasp falls out of her mouth.

“How’d you find me?” she says, flipping the sketchpad over at once.

“I’m a fucking genius who works for the most powerful organization on the Earth. How did you not expect me to find you?” I say.

She thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I suspected you wouldn’t. That you didn’t care.” And the statement carries no pity in it and I know from reading her expression that she means it.

“That drawing isn’t rubbish,” I say, indicating the picture she has overturned.

“I was just about to put horns on you and a funny mustache,” she says.

“No you weren’t,” I say, now spying the lie in her voice.

“If you’ve come to demand I take care of my baby then you’ve wasted your time. I don’t want him because he doesn’t want me,” she says.

“I haven’t,” I say simply. “And I never waste my own time.”

“You haven’t? Then why are you here?”

“To ask you why you left. Why you ran away,” I say.

“You know why. You’re a fucking genius. A master at reading people. Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on inside my head,” Adelaide says with her usual sneer.

“I know you’re scared of taking care of a child, who even I admit is going through a bit of rough patch on reentry into this world.”

She laughs coldly. “Reentry, like it isn’t his first time?”

“Well, I don’t think there’s any first-timers anymore, but that’s only a guess judging by the length of time humans have been on this planet,” I say.

“That’s funny. I never took you as a reincarnation kind of person. Thought you believed in hell and all that stuff Granddad always talks about,” she says.

“I was raised religiously, but I tend to think a bit more revolutionary than what the Bible teaches. And I’ve seen things that most haven’t. I know things that most don’t. I’ve seen the framework that’s hidden to most,” I say, realizing I’ve never shared with another human the things my dream travels have shown me. I’ve never shared the extent of my knowledge on the makeup of this world and God, and I happen to know more than ninety-nine percent of the population. However, that’s not saying much since most of the population is ignorant gits.

“What’s bizarre is that I believe you. Believe you might be the only person on this Earth that knows where we go when we die. I bet you really know what’s really behind the curtain.”

“Why is that bizarre?” I say, almost offended.

“Because you’re my father. I always thought he’d be some bloke who works as a clerk in a shop or an accountant who overcharges people for his services. I thought maybe you watched football on the weekends at a pub with your friends. Maybe even played cards or something. I pictured you went to church. You know, that sort of thing,” she says,

“I must be a bloody disappointment since I don’t do any of those things,” I say.

“You’re not in the least. My brain just never had the framework to believe my father could be a man like you. Someone who saves lives working for a secret society. A person who knows the future and who knows every bloody thing. And is also soulless and the meanest person I’ve ever met,” Adelaide says.

“Well, this just proves that having expectations is never a good idea,” I say. There’s a long pause where we hold each other’s gaze until I’m uncomfortable and look away. “I do know most of what’s going on inside your head. I didn’t come to ask you a question or convince you to return and care for your child. I came to tell you something. Then I’ll leave you alone. Let you live your miserable life or make something of it. Whatever you do is your choice.”

“Go on then,” she says.

“You’re angry because you think I don’t care about you—”

“I know you don’t,” she says, cutting me off.

I hold up a hand, pausing her. “You think I don’t like you. That as your father I should be instantly bonded to you. That I should be proud. That I should have affection for you and Lucien. You want me to love you. You want me to care about you.”

“Well yeah, isn’t that what every kid wants from their parent?” Adelaide says.

“No one has a parent like you,” I say, and the words are rough in my throat. “What I’m telling you is that you shouldn’t want those things from me.”

“I thought you were going to tell me a story,” she says.

“When I was a kid, after I came into my abilities, I spent every single day scamming people out of their money,” I begin, realizing again I’m about to divulge something for the first time to someone. “I’m responsible for loads of damages due to my pranks. I was never happy unless I was doing something bad. It was like I got a high. It was like that’s who I was. A person put on this Earth to create havoc. At night before dream travel I was always restless like I was going to tear off my skin. The monster wanted me to be bad. That’s the only thing that ever made him quiet. And later I went on to London and did even worse things. I stole women’s virginity, like your mum. I’m sure you realize that she wasn’t the first. And I broke hearts. Stole money from old women. I’ve killed people, Adelaide. I’ve killed them with my mind and with my bare hands.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she says, not at all disturbed by my admission.

“Because loving someone who doesn’t care about themselves is emotional suicide,” I say.

She seems to consider this and then shrugs like she’s dispelling me entirely.

“And you’re wasting your time pining for the affection of someone who is an extremely bad man. You shouldn’t want my praise. You should want to be as far away from me as possible. And I feel like if you knew who I really was, not a bad-tempered man, but a truly despicable one, then you wouldn’t care so much. You wouldn’t be so disappointed that I’m not the father you wanted,” I say.

“I don’t think it works that way,” she says simply. “I don’t think you just turn love off, like a switch. If I had a choice not to care about you then I would. But I can’t. I’ve tried. That’s why I drank. Well, and also because that’s what kids drive people to do.”

I nod, not able to argue with that last statement.

“Why does he like you?” she asks and I don’t have to ask who she means.

“I don’t know,” I say at once, having tried to figure out why Lucien does seem to have a connection with me.

“Well, that’s a first. You know everything,” she says.

“There are things about people that remain a mystery to even me. We are a constantly evolving organism. It’s hard to say for certain,” I say.

“Maybe in a past life you saved his life or something,” Adelaide says, trying to joke.

“Maybe, or maybe he feels the monster inside of him and he feels it inside of me. And unlike you, I’ve embraced the monster that we all have living within us,” I say, all of that reasoning popping into my head at once. And once I’ve said those sentences, they actually feel right to me.

She looks up at me, and her eyes are a bit startled. “That actually makes sense,” she says, sounding suddenly breathless. “I’ve been really struggling with who I am since I met you.”

“I know,” I say, remembering going through what she’s going through. Coming to terms with the power we wield, with the inability to score true satisfaction when life presents itself so easily to my mind. The world could be mine and ironically I don’t want it. Most of the time I just want to be left the fuck alone.

“I realize now, I’ve always been my own worst enemy,” she begins. “I wished for you, someone who would never really love me. And I wished for a life I could love, not realizing I’m incapable of such things. So now I’m cursed with you and this life. Two things that won’t love me, that I can’t love. I’m cursed. But at the end of the day, when sobriety starts to peek at the edges of my vision, I still don’t wish I was different. I am yours and therefore I’m complicated and difficult and completely doomed. But still I’m yours, and being connected to you is the only thing I’ve ever been proud of. You may not want me, but for all my life all I’ve wanted is to be a part of you, without even knowing who you are. How fucked up is that?”

I nod. “It’s truly fucked up.”

“So your whole ‘I’m a bad man’ argument hasn’t dissuaded me. I’m still going to pine for your affection,” she says.

“I don’t deserve that kind of attention,” I say.

“But you do. And you don’t see it. You don’t see yourself the way that I do.”

“Ditto, Addy. Ditto.”

She laughs coldly again. “So we’re just two monsters, cursed to never love or be loved. Is that the way this life is going to go?”

“No,” I say simply. “Because we always have tomorrow to change. To evolve.”

“You think one day you might like me, maybe even care about me?” she says, and for once there’s not that hope accompanying the question.

“I think one day we might actually be able to express ourselves and our feelings better than we do now. But you have to come back to find out. You have to give your son a chance to bond with you. We all have to give each other a second chance,” I say, thinking of my mum and her words and how right she always was.

“What if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t love me? Resents me?” she says.

I shrug. “That’s life. We screw up. We break each other’s hearts. We break our own hearts. And then we change.”

A small, tender smile forms on her mouth. “I’m glad you’re my dad.”

Chapter Thirty

“Because God hates me I’ve had the displeasure of hiring my replacement as Head Strategist,” I say to the room of agents, all gathered around the large conference room table. “Forty mostly worthless candidates have been wasting my time with insufficient answers during the interview process. They’ve also offered wrong solutions to the hypothetical problems I’ve posed.”

Before, Trey hired the other Head Strategists who tried to replaced me. And that’s exactly why they were all worthless and horrid matches for the position. He had no idea what he was doing, as is usually the case. “Although the person I’ve chosen to replace me has only half of my skills and isn’t nearly as adept at strategy, I still picked them to be my successor,” I say to the blank faces in front of me. “They will probably make a lot of errors and not just in their first year but for the next dozen or so to come. It is not advisable to expect them to lead you in the brilliant way that I have. Nor should you hold them to the standards I’ve set with my success records. I think you’re best to set expectations low as far as department performance goes. However, I admit that out of the pool this person is the best fit and will have mild success.”

A hand at the back of the room rises. It’s the boy with a bad choice in hairstyles and a nose ring. Facial piercings should be outlawed, along with jingle bell earrings, T-shirts, and bumper stickers.

“What is it, Cardinal?” I say.

“My name is Raven, sir,” he says with a smirk. “And I thought I’d ask what everyone wants to know, why are you resigning as Head Strategist, sir?”

“Aside from the fact that looking at all of your dumb faces every day makes me want to travel back in time and off your ugly parents before they created a troll?” I say in one long sentence, no pauses.

“Yeah, besides that reason,” he says with a chuckle.

I let out a tired sigh. I have another clever retort ready but instead I say, “I have other matters that deserve my attention. I’ve been Head Strategist for twenty years now. And it’s a role I never expected to have and have never regretted taking. But it has owned my time. The person who fills my position should realize they’ll have to give up playing board games and knitting,” I say, my eyes connecting with a guy in the middle of the table. “A successful Head Strategist has no life/work balance. That’s not an option. For twenty years I never took a day off. People don’t take a break from trying to screw up this world and neither can this department. The cases never stop rolling in and your leader has to make decisions every day that influence you and therefore our world at large.” I run my hands through my hair, hesitation twisting in my throat.

Raven raises his hand again.

“What is it, Canary?” I say.

He smiles, showing his crooked teeth. “So you’re going to get a life. That’s what it sounds like, sir.”

“There’s a reason you didn’t get my position and it’s not just because you have bad teeth,” I say to the young agent. “You’re also incredibly illogical. I’ve had a life before and now I want to take a bit of time to try and see if it’s possible to enjoy it.”

“Are you and Dahlia getting married?” he says, sounding amused.

“Fuck no. We like each other,” I say.

“I heard she was pregnant,” Raven says.

“I heard you have STDs,” I say.

“Yeah, rumors are dumb. You shouldn’t believe them,” he says, still laughing.

“If there are no other questions then I’d like to announce—”

Raven’s hand rises again, cutting me off. “I have one more thing to say, sir.”

“Of course you bloody do. Go on then,” I say.

“I just wanted to say what we all are thinking,” he says.

“I didn’t realize you were the voice for all the tiny brains in the room,” I say.

“Well, I am telepathic so…”

“Get on with it, Finch,” I say.

“Well, we respect you,” he begins and then clears his throat, maybe losing a bit of confidence. “I know from sneaking into everyone’s thoughts that there’s no better position in the Institute than being an agent for this department. And working for you we’ve all been humbled. You don’t want to hear this and that’s why I’m absolutely going to say it. You, Ren, are fucking legendary.”

I lower my chin and look at Raven like I’m seriously disappointed in him. “And here I thought you were a) going to string together well-constructed sentences and b) tell me things I didn’t already know.”

“You are welcome,” he chirps and then winks.

“Well, without further ado it is my obligation to announce that your new Head Strategist is the incompetent Trent Reynolds,” I say, holding an arm out to my successor.

The young man who has telekinesis and also aced the interview process stands. I hired him even though he wears his hair in dreadlocks like a buffoon. He’s also Trey’s son-in-law since he and Joseph were married last week. I like creating a bit of rumor around this place. Now everyone will think that it’s nepotism running the Institute. It’s actually true though. Superior genetics is a thing. Greatness runs in families. Because it is bred amongst brilliant minds.

Trent holds his hands up over his head and like the unmannered clown that he is he says, “Fuck yeah, bitches. I’m your new boss.”

I wave my hand at the front. “The department is all yours to run into the bloody ground.” Then I stroll for the empty seat on the other side of the table. I lean back in the chair as Trent takes my former place.

“So what are you going to do now, Ren?” Raven asks.

I thread my hands behind my head and prop my shoes on the table in front of me, putting them on the girl’s notebook beside me.

“I’m going to be a part-time agent working only level-five cases,” I say, enjoying the plan already.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Are you sure about this, Ren?” my pops says, refolding a shirt and laying it in a dresser drawer.

“Of course I am,” I say.

“Well, you can change your mind,” he says.

“Do you want me to change my mind?” I say, a mock heat in my voice.

“No, not at all. I was just surprised by the offer.”

“Well, Pops, I know you prefer not to dream travel and I also know how important it is for you to spend time with Adelaide and Lucien.”

“I treasure them. I really do. But of all people I love spending my time with most, it’s you, son,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he smiles. “You won’t ever love anyone more than your child.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice gruff without my permission. “You need any more help unpacking?” I eye the room he’s moved into on the south wing of our house. He organized it pretty quickly. Excitement will do that.

“No, son. I’m good. I might lie down and take a nap, but I’ll see you downstairs for dinner later.”

“You know dream travel is much more restorative than sleep,” I say.

“And you know that I love the beauty and mystery my dreams serve up,” he says.

“I know that you’re a stubborn old man who’s never going to change.”

“Nor would you want me to,” he says and I offer him a slight smile as I leave.

***

I find Dahlia in the den reading a magazine that has her face plastered across the front.

“You really are fucking obsessed with yourself, aren’t you?” I say, taking the seat next to her on the couch and kicking off my loafers.

“Well, there’s not a better person out there so what’s not to be obsessed with?” she says.

“I guess. You’ve got a tight ass. I’ll give you that,” I say, hooking an arm around her shoulder.

“How’s your dad settling in?”

“Like liquid in a glass,” I say.

“Yes, and whatever you said to Adelaide seems to have had a good effect,” she says, pointing to the bank of floor to ceiling windows. Out in the yard Adelaide has an easel set up and is painting on a canvas. Strapped to her front in a carrier is Lucien and he appears to be asleep. Quiet. Content.

“I just told her that being a monster wasn’t such a bad thing,” I say.

“I think you told her more than just that,” Dahlia says.

Adelaide pauses. Tilts her head to regard the painting from another angle. Then she looks down at the baby strapped on her front and tucks her chin and plants a soft kiss on his red head.

“You know I never thought of you as a monster,” Dahlia says.

I slide down and lay my head in her lap, stretching out my long legs on the leather sofa.

“Oh no?” I say.

“No,” she says in a soft voice. “Unique. Brilliant. An incredible jerk. But not a monster.”

“Well, maybe this is just a discussion of semantics,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, sliding her fingers through my hair, pure adoration on her face. “All I know is that loving you is better than all the fame and riches in the world. I’d give it all up for you. I’d do anything for you, Ren Lewis.”

I catch her hand in mine. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to give up anything. You, dear Dahlia, get to have it all. You get your riches, your fame, and me.” And then I press her hand to my lips.

And strangely, I somehow managed to do that too. After a lifetime of treachery God decided to forgive me. In the end, I somehow managed to have it all.

Epilogue

Change is by far the scariest thing a human will ever face. We go to great lengths to avoid it. The idea of not having our usual ways or to be the same person we were yesterday isn’t intimidating, it’s fucking terrifying. But evolution is the only way for a bunch of beasts cursed with a heart and desires to survive. It’s through experience that we grow and therefore change is impossible to avoid.

But Churchill was wrong. He said, “To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”

But reaching for perfection would only seek to destroy us. There are no perfect homes, or families, or people. We are all flawed. Beautifully and ultimately flawed. And it is this imperfection that pushes us every day to find the only thing worth fighting for. Love. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we suffer. That’s why any of this bloody matters.

I’m Ren Lewis and I’m not perfect. Thank fucking God.

The End

Author’s Note

Writing Ren Lewis’s story hasn’t been easy, but it was a story I felt had to be told. I know this man in a way that I’ve never understood another character. Love him or hate him, but the truth is that he’s probably more me than any character I’ve ever written. And yet, he’s very much an enigma to me. I’m not British, nor male, nor an unsympathetic jerk. But I kind of want to be on some days.

Important note, I’m a YA author usually so being uncensored was a rare experience for me. Apparently, I had too much fun with it and really embraced my dark side. In the first book Ren uses the f-bomb twenty-four times. In the second book, he uses it eighty-eight times. And in this book, he drops that bomb one hundred and forty-nine times. Which to me felt wrong and like it really should have been an even one-hundred and fifty times.

And as the creator and keeper of Ren I wanted him to offer you one last farewell. So I’ll turn this over to him now.

Ren: “What an honor you’ve been given to read my life story. I promise you I’ll go on to do many incredible things. I’ve not enjoyed my time working with Sarah, having her recording my life. But I’ve done it, because it is a tiny hope that you all will learn how to be less shitty after hearing about my journey. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll do something with your pathetic lives. I doubt it but one could hope. Anyway, if anything you’re a little less repulsive of a person after hearing of the awesomeness that you could be. And I realize I’ve set expectations which are unobtainable for you lowly Middlings to reach. But do try. Or just fuck off and see if I care. Cheerio, love.”

Thanks for putting up with Ren.

Sincerely,

Sarah Noffke

Acknowledgements

Nine books this man has invaded. Ren Lewis. We love him. We hate him. And secretly I kind of think I am him. Wait, not such a secret anymore, huh? Anyway, this series is the direct result of amazing readers. Ones who demanded more of this man’s story. Ones who wrote me countless messages expressing their love for this sociopath. My first thank you goes to the readers. There wouldn’t be a Ren series if it weren’t for you. And then I would be so empty because writing these books has been amazingly fulfilling. So thank you!

Audiobooks are really important to many of my readers. I have some with health problems and audiobooks make it easier for them to read. And it’s important to me that I offer my books in ways that are suitable for readers. But audiobook production comes at a cost. And I want to thank the many funders who backed my kickstarter for Ren, book two and three. I was blown away by the generosity of so many people. And I’m grateful that I have so many of you who believe in the project. Thank you to Angel, Anne, Alicia, Katy, Jennifer L, Jennifer W, Jennifer S. Tim, Jon, Don, Paul, JN, Clint, Cheryl, Kimberly, Erin, Jessica, Heidi, Lisa, and all the readers who shared and promoted the kickstarter.

Thank you to my notches, Stephanie, Jessica and Colleen. You three keep me sane, or at least make me feel like my crazy isn’t that bad. Thanks for allowing me to bounce ideas off you. Thanks for the support and encouragement. Thanks for the help with the marathon group. And thanks for being awesome.

Thank you to my street team for promoting my books, supporting my projects, being there in so many different ways. I really depend on your awesomeness. Thanks to Kathy for pretty much running it all of her own. You rock.

Thank you to Colleen, my first chair. You. Are. Fantastic. Best beta reader a girl could ask for. My first eyes on the script and the person who helps me make the most changes.

Thank you to my beta readers Heidi, Melinda, Anne and Kelly. You three offer so many insights into how to make my books better. And you’re fun gals who I love sharing with.

Thank you to Anne for checking the British vernacular of this book. Thank you for also being a great supporter and lovely person.

Thank you to my friends. You all bring me so much joy. I’m blown away by the amount of awesome people in my life.

Thank you to my fan group on Goodreads. It’s growing and we’re having a ton of fun together. I’m so glad that Dominic started that group and continues to make it awesome.

Thank you to my fellow authors who cheer for me and fight over Ren. I’m not sure at which point I should tell you he isn’t real.

Thank you to BOD. To Katy and Jennifer for giving so much of your time and effort to making the parties great! I love this group and really don’t know where I’d be without those authors and readers.

Thank you to Ren. I know I just got finished saying you aren’t real, but I don’t really believe that. I know you too well, sense things about you. You have invaded my dreams and my head and made me laugh more than any character ever. Finishing this series has felt horribly strange, like I was being forced to part ways with a piece of myself. Forever and ever I want you in my head, spewing your snarky remarks. Thanks for gracing my pages, and spreading your uncheer.

Thank you to my family. You all are amazingly supportive of my career and my books. I realize I’m the eccentric in the clan, and I’m happy to play that role.

Thank you to my daughter. You are forever my muse. The reason I started writing. The reason I keep writing. One day these books will be your legacy and I hope they make you proud…and pay for your college education.

Thank you to everyone!

Love,

Sarah Noffke

One-Twenty-Six Press.

Ren: The Monster’s Adventure

Sarah Noffke

Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Noffke

All rights reserved

Copyeditor: Christine LePorte

Cover Design: Andrei Bat

All rights reserved. This was self-published by Sarah Noffke under One-Twenty-Six Press. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are seeking permission send inquiry at http: www.sarahnoffke.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary: A bordering psychopath must face the monster inside him before it tears him apart.

Published in the United States by One-Twenty-Six Press

ASIN: B01LZJA3EZ

To Cheer, Katy and Jennifer for the amazing support.

REN: THE MONSTER’S ADVENTURE

Prologue

People with a low IQ, no lives, and a serious misunderstanding of how natural selection works seek out adventures. It’s these dumbasses who elect to bungee jump or parachute or shop in malls. Did the Native Americans jump off cliffs for the sheer thrill? Did English settlers throw down with bears to find out who came out on top? Did aborigines walk on coals? No, and for the simple fact that surviving life was enough of an adventure for them.

But fat Americans and useless Europeans shell out big bucks to some guy with a soon-to-produce-cancer tan so they can go paragliding and jet boating. These people don’t need a high. They need to get a fucking life. They need to live on an edge, where they are doing something meaningful. Experiencing the real essence of life while in subconscious or conscious form. They need to get off the bloody sofa and do that which scares them, no wires and no parachute. Adventures aren’t something one seeks. If we are living a real life then the adventure is a part of the ride. It doesn’t have to be inserted or discovered. It’s in most moments. It’s a part of the job.

That’s how I’ve always lived. But then I had to go off and attach permanent people into my life. People with no real lives. People with questionable day jobs. People who poop themselves. People who drag me on their phony adventures.

I’m Ren Lewis and I’m a prisoner in this life.

Chapter One

I’ve faced madmen, crazed by a lifetime of abuse and looking to solely punish me for it. I’ve disarmed bombs with less than a handful of seconds on the clock. I’ve swiftly handled hundreds of thousands of deadly situations. But this, this is definitely going to kill me. It will be my undoing. I’m sure of it.

“Would you kindly stop repositioning yourself?” Dahlia says from beside me.

“Why? I was under the impression this was still a free country, although I hear rumor that’s subject to change,” I say, taking off my suit jacket and trying yet again to find a suitable position in the SUV passenger seat.

“Look, I’m trying to concentrate and all your fidgeting is making me nervous,” she says, squinting at the dials on the center console.

“Eyes on the bloody road, diva,” I say, slamming my foot into the floorboard like I can actually stop the car with the movement. Dahlia looks up in time and mimics my gesture, slamming on the brake, lurching us all forward. “And really, you had to insist on driving. You clearly don’t know how.”

“Look, it’s our first family vacation,” she says, sweeping her hand at me and the backseat, where Adelaide and Lucien are hopefully double seat-belted in if they want to survive. “I told you, we’re having an adventure. No chauffeurs, maids, cooks, personal assistants, or guards for the next two weeks.”

I flick my finger at the brim of the oversized black straw hat balanced on her head. It looks like the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. And if I’m, honest Dahlia looks a bit like the movie star with her slender neck and high cheekbones, which can barely be seen under the ridiculously giant sunglasses. “Yes, no guards and you in constant disguise. Sounds like a stellar vacation.”

“It’s going to be tons of fun. And I wouldn’t have to be the one driving if you ever learned how,” she says, slowing the car without giving me whiplash for once. We left an hour ago and have cleared less than twenty miles. Oh, the bliss of living in Los-fucking-Angeles. There’s four million people in this godforsaken city. In that population there are a zillion hipsters who don’t know how to drive. There’s also a bunch of sleazy car salesmen who sell the American dream as an SUV on steroids. Then there is a city planning department who makes parking spaces extra small and highways that encourage collisions. And a slew of automobile body repair shops who sit back and laugh at all the repugnant socialites who lose most of their lives sitting in traffic, getting their cars repaired and their terriers groomed. I’m certain no one in this city actually has a life. Hence the reason for all the adventure seekers.

“What use have I ever had in learning how to drive?” I say, adjusting the vent so more filtered air is blowing on my face, quickly drying out my freckled skin. “I just dream travel wherever I like and use a GAD-C to generate my body. No carbon footprint. No valet fees. No bullshit.”

“Well, we could have flown if you wouldn’t have been such a baby about it,” she says.

I lower my chin and regard the pop star through my long red eyelashes. “You weren’t calling me a baby last night, woman.”

“I will whip open the door and throw myself out of this slow-moving vehicle,” Adelaide says from the middle row, her elbow perched on the car seat where Lucien is thankfully asleep. The little monster is calmer now that he’s entering his toddler years, but now he can crawl. And if I don’t keep kicking his legs out from under him then he will be walking in no time. Then there will be no peace.

“You actually can’t,” Dahlia sings, looking up at the rearview mirror. “I have the child locks on.”

“Oh great, now I’m your prisoner,” Adelaide says, crossing her arms like she’s pissed, although I spy the laugh in her voice.

“Join the bloody club,” I say, drumming my fingers on the armrest.

“You both need to stop with the bad attitude. This is going to be really fun. Our first family vacation,” Dahlia says, taking the exit for the 101 north. Who knows where the fuck we are headed. Guess I should have been paying more attention when she was babbling on about the plans for this hellish excursion. “I need the sense of normalcy that a family vacation provides,” she says, that familiar stress in her voice, weighing on the word need. She’s been working nonstop for so long. Well, for all her life.

“How do you know anything about normalcy?” I say.

“I don’t, but I hear things. And normal people go on vacations and road trips and take pictures and have stories they tell. And they don’t travel thirty weeks out of the year and perform until they make themselves sick,” she says.

Ever so gently, as to not draw attention to the moment, I slide my fingers into Dahlia’s hand, resting on the shifter thingy in the middle of the car. From behind her dark sunglasses I still see her eyes shift to look at mine. My gaze hopefully helps her to buckle the emotions back down. I know she doesn’t want Adelaide to know, to worry. The two have gotten close. But still there’s things Dahlia doesn’t want anyone to know.

“Yeah, I’ve never been on a family vacation. Honestly, we hardly had enough money for fare to the shops,” Adelaide says from the back.

“Sounds rough,” I say. “I still don’t bloody care how bad you had it. You’re rich now.”

Adelaide likes to continuously remind me how hard her childhood was because of my absence. I continuously have to remind her that it doesn’t bloody bother me.

A swift jolt knocks into my back. “Ouch,” I say, pulling forward and twisting about. “What the bloody hell?”

“Oops, my foot twitched,” she says, guilt written on her freckled face, her green eyes mischievous but also reminiscent of my mum’s, which were conversely always honest and full of good.

I turn back around after a few seconds, certain I’ll be carsick if I’m not focused forward with Dahlia’s bad driving.

“Yeah, I get that you two are bent on some defunct family experience. However, I don’t see why I couldn’t just meet you at the Alamo or Disneyland or whatever cursed place you have us scheduled to see,” I say.

Dahlia laughs but it sounds forced. “Those places are both south of LA,” she says. “And Lucien and I can’t dream travel like you and Adelaide. We are doing this together because travel is part of the experience. It’s a part of the adventure.”

“Yeah, yeah, but will you stop using the word ‘adventure’ in place of the word ‘punishment.’ You can sell this ten different ways but when you force people to travel together and pay for canned experiences then that’s classified plainly as torture,” I say.

Chapter Two

Three hours into this phony affair we’re labeling as a “relaxing endeavor” and I’m about to take an axe to the glove compartment. I turn toward the window, my legs stretching but finding roadblocks.

“Oh really, Ren, it’s an Audi SUV. How do you not have enough leg space?” Dahlia says, her high-heeled foot coming off the gas as she talks. Apparently the glamour queen can’t multitask.

“Did I complain?” I snap back.

“You didn’t have to. You’re turning this way and that way every few seconds. Maybe if you would have worn something more comfortable this wouldn’t be an issue,” she says, indicating my suit.

“You’re wearing bloody high heels,” I say.

“And do you hear me shifting all the time?” she says. “Besides, I’m more comfortable in high heels. Commoners wear flats. People like me need to be elevated.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say with a growl. “You’re the one who said you were striving for normalcy with this whole vacation.”

“There’s normalcy and then there’s slumming it. Don’t think for a minute that I’ve lost my will to live,” she says and winks, but there’s a new defiance to her voice.

“No, I’m clear on the fact that you’re intent on making me lose my will to live with this repugnant trip. And don’t worry, my remaining spirit is waning.”

“Oh good,” Dahlia chirps. Then she lifts her chin up and looks in the rearview mirror. “When your father passes then you’ll have the front seat.”

Adelaide, who has been rummaging around like a bloody squirrel, pops her head up. “I can’t wait,” she says. “By the way, where did you put the snacks? I’m starving. And Lucien will be awake soon and will wail without a biscuit.”

Dahlia looks at me, real confusion on her smooth face. “Snacks?”

“They’re things people eat when they don’t want a meal but need a little something. I mean, mostly just weak people,” I say.

“Yes, I know what snacks are,” she says to me. Then she looks to the rearview mirror where she can see Adelaide in the back. “Chef said he left them on the kitchen counter. I figured you grabbed them.”

And just then the monster starts the telltale signs of stirring. If like usual, it will be a fast awakening. Full of a torture from arriving back in a world where fellow redheads and selfish divas mock him.

“Oh, you did,” Adelaide says, her voice oozing with condescension. “Because grabbing Lucien and the trillion outfits he will mess over the next few days wasn’t enough for me to remember?”

Dahlia looks at me, a little bit of worry in her stare. “You grabbed the bag, right, Ren? Is it in the far back?”

I huff, readjust again. “I don’t grab things, dear Dahlia. I save lives. I tolerate people who should be dead already. But I don’t grab things, or do chores or run errands. I am a man, you do remember that, right?”

“Barely,” she says, thankfully refocusing on the bloody road.

“Well, we will just have to stop,” Adelaide says, juggling some plastic keys in front of the monster’s face. Yeah, let’s substitute overstimulation using plastic for real nourishment. We are in America and such is the way. “There’s a petrol station up ahead. Will you pull over there?”

“No can do. We can’t afford to stop. I want to make it to the alpaca farm before sunset,” Dahlia says.

“The what?” I say.

“Alpacas,” Dahlia says, sounding lame and cheery. “You know, they’re like llamas and have that nice wool that makes those sweaters of mine that I love.”

“I didn’t understand half of what you just said,” I say.

“So you’re not going to stop,” Adelaide says, sounding pissed. She’s always that way though. Can’t figure out where she gets her sour disposition.

“No, we don’t have the time to stop,” Dahlia says, her voice casual.

“This is unfair,” Adelaide says, about to throw a tantrum to match one of Lucien’s.

Dahlia shrugs, uncharacteristically sounding patient, and then looks over to me. “I just thought it would be quaint and fun to visit a farm.”

“You’re not missing anything. If you’ve gone this long without having your nostrils laced with shit then count your diva ass lucky.”

“Come on, Ren,” she says. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

I clear my throat. “Must have gotten my fill last week when I stepped in and stopped that bank robbery. Or maybe it was when I prevented an evil mastermind from stealing a ton of Americans’ money through a treacherous tax scheme. Or it could have been—”

“We get the point,” Adelaide says, trying and failing to push a pacifier into Lucien’s mouth.

“Yes, she’s trying to shut me up too, little monster. I feel you,” I say back in the direction of the baby who I can’t see in his rear-facing car seat. I complained that turning him backwards was one way to make him feel left out of the “fun.” That’s when my pain-in-the-ass daughter informed me that it was the law. The government just isn’t happy unless it’s telling us how to sit, what to eat, and how much of our salary to give them. God fucking forbid I get a splinter in my finger. Then they shut up and tell me I’m not any of their business. Good thing I work for a real entity who has exemplary healthcare. The Lucidites might be a scorching sunbeam on my soul, but what they do makes sense.

“That’s curious,” Dahlia says.

“Yes, it’s a sun and the earth rotates around it,” I say, pointing at the fireball making its fiery path through the sky. “I know you always thought that the earth rotates around you, but contrary—”

“Shut up, Ren,” Dahlia says. “I meant this light that just blinked on the dashboard. I wonder what that means.”

I flick my eyes at the orange light. It isn’t a symbol that instantly registers in my mind. “Maybe it means you’re going too fast,” I say, eyeing the speedometer.

“I don’t think so,” Dahlia says, like she’s actually considering and disqualifying my notion. “It looks like a door with one arm.”

I glance at the orange light in the dash. Nothing in my memory connects with that image, but my knowledge of mechanics is fairly inadequate. It’s one of the few areas where I can say I’m a bit sheltered. I chose to learn about philosophy, psychology, and history while others were schooled in these lesser subjects. Truthfully, all my battles have been ones of the mind. No wars are fought with actual machines, so one shouldn’t confuse their history lessons. People fight people. Outmaneuver others. Machines aren’t really a part of the equation if a mastermind is involved.

“That’s not a one-armed door,” I say. “It’s a wire connected to a circuit.”

“What?” Dahlia says, yanking her hands off the steering wheel like it’s on fire. “Are we okay?”

I reach out and grab the wheel with a single hand. “Not if you wreck the car.”

It’s tricky to steer this beast of a vehicle with one hand. “Take the wheel back, would you? We are fine. If the light was a problem then it would be in red and there would be other warnings.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” she says, taking the wheel again, as she inhales a breath. “I mean that other light just came on.”

“Which?” I say, leaning over to scan the dash.

“That one,” she says, pointing at a scale. “E” is at the bottom of it.

“Hmmm,” I say, wishing I did anything more than high-level stuff my entire life. “E. I wonder what that means. Maybe it’s for engine.”

From the backseat I hear a giggle. I spin around and Adelaide immediately covers her mouth with her hands. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Just delirious from hunger,” she says.

“Then eat your young,” I say, indicating Lucien beside her, who is now waving the dumb plastic keys around like he’s a big hotshot. “That’s what rats and other pests do.”

She nods, still giggling.

“If I find out you brought along a flask and are getting pissed back there I’ll drop you off on the side of the road,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Nope, just giggling at something this child did. He’s seriously funny,” Adelaide says, tears in her eyes from her increased laughter. She’s never been this entertained by the little monster. Must be the hunger.

“Check the manual, Ren,” Dahlia says, grabbing my attention. “Look up this light. I bet it’s in there.”

“Where’s the manual?” I say, staring around at the numerous compartments in this monstrosity.

“I don’t know. Probably the glove compartment. That’s where the one was in my first car,” Dahlia says.

“You’re first car? You mean when you were sixteen? Is that how long it’s been since you bloody drove? It sure feels like that many decades,” I say, opening the compartment in front of me. It’s neat and filled with multiple manuals. One for the audio system, electronics, and extra features; a quick reference manual; and then a thick one that has way too much information. I flip open the smaller guide and go straight to the table of contents.

“You both really don’t know what that light means?” Adelaide says from the back. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this a practical joke for my entertainment?”

I twist around. “I never do anything for your entertainment because I’m hoping you will get bored to death, if you know what I mean,” I say. “And you know what that light means? I thought you didn’t know how to drive.”

“I don’t, but I’m not a sheltered bloke like you two appear to be,” she says.

“I’ll have you know I’m a fucking genius,” I say, slapping the manual shut.

“Yep, but you don’t know what that universal symbol means,” she says, busting out with a laugh that her offspring joins in with.

I look at the light on the dash. “Universal? What? Look, I haven’t been in any mental hospitals so maybe I have a gap in knowledge that you own. What do you think that means?” I say, pointing at the light.

“Well, if you’re going to be rude then I’m not telling you, look it up,” Adelaide says.

“Whenever have I not been rude? Tell me what the symbol means, Addy, or Dahlia will start singing.”

She claps her hands over Lucien’s ears. “God no! I’ve kept him away from that source of evil this long. Don’t you dare!”

Dahlia smiles into the rearview mirror. “I think it’s overdue really,” she says and then begins humming in that voice I love so dearly.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Adelaide says, waving her hands frantically in the air. “You’re about to run out of gas. That symbol is a gas pump.”

I turn and look at the symbol, then at Dahlia. “Gas pump? This car takes gas?” I say to her. “I thought it was electric.”

“I have no idea what it is,” she says, eyeing the symbol hard like she’s trying to decipher it.

“Well, just pull over at the next turn-off. There’s bound to be a petrol station up ahead,” I say.

“Not for thirty miles actually,” Adelaide says with a laugh, doubling over.

“What?” I say to her.

“There was a sign back there. We passed it when you buffoons noticed the problem.”

“Adelaide,” I say, a warning in my voice.

“Guess you two should have agreed to pull over when I asked. And maybe next time Dahlia will grab the snack bag,” Adelaide says, too proud of herself.

“Thing is, there can’t be a next time when you’re dead,” I say, slamming back around and into my seat. My eyes hone in on the orange light which really should be red based on its significance. This is what happens when bloody engineers and scientists run the world. Fucking incompetence.

“Oh, again with the threats. Haven’t you learned by now that I’m acting out for the attention?” Adelaide says with a repugnant chuckle.

“Fine,” I say, not turning around. “If we don’t make it to the gas station then you’re dead to me. Hope you’re happy.”

“I’ve never been so cheery, actually,” she says, too much glee in her voice.

***

“Oh, thank the gods,” Dahlia says, turning on her blinker. “There’s a gas station.”

“When did you a) become the religious type and b) adopt a poly-gods’ religion?” I say.

She shrugs, veering the automobile off the highway and onto the off-ramp. “I figure why not adopt all the religions. It can’t hurt.”

“Except that a divided heart won’t work for baby Jesus. He wants all of your faith,” I say.

“Well, he can just deal with my polygamous ways the same way I’ve dealt with yours,” Dahlia says.

And I eye her now. The woman before me has changed so much in the last three weeks. It was inevitable. And I’m not sure how to think about it. Mostly I don’t. Mostly I pretend that what’s happening to her isn’t real. It’s the only time in my life that I’ve stuck my head in the sand but it feels like the right call. Like if I maintain a deluded perspective then it’s better than facing reality and cursing it with my negative thoughts. That’s why Christians baptize, right? And why we have shit television and lame sporting events. It’s all a distraction from what’s really going on and going to happen. We are going to die and who knows where the fuck we are going to go. Well, I’m ninety-nine percent certain I know where we go. I’ve seen it. Heard testimony. But I’m not at liberty to share that one secret that God keeps tucked in his pocket.

“There’s a station just down the block,” Dahlia says, relief in her voice. “After that little scare and family treachery everything is going to be all ri—”

And just then the motor to the vehicle stalls, clicks, and then fizzles out like a battery losing its spark. The crunch of the gravel under the tires is suddenly loud as Dahlia yanks the monstrosity of a vehicle onto the shoulder, away from cars speeding off the highway with drivers hoping to grab a soda and a bag of crisps for the rest of the journey.

“It’s dead,” Dahlia says, punching the button for the ignition.

“And guess who else is dead to me?” I say, my head turning over my shoulder but not connecting with the girl in the back who is suddenly silent.

Chapter Three

“Well, on the bright side the gas station is just right there,” Dahlia says, angling her hand at the petrol station roughly one hundred yards down the road.

I was cursed with fiery red hair that usually earns me double takes from strangers when I enter a room. For that reason I prefer not to look on the bright side of anything. Bright things are jarring, distracting, and rarely are they actually positive as in the context that Dahlia is using the term.

“And we are way over here. So what’s your plan, dear Dahlia?” I ask, looking out the car window at the sunlight threatening to roast us in this godforsaken machine.

“Well, one of us has to walk over there and get a gas thingy to fill up the car,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact.

“Which one of us?” I say, my tone full of heat.

“It’s not going to be me. I’ve got to stay with the baby,” Adelaide says from the back.

“Dahlia, did you hear something? It sounded like wind and smelled like it was carrying a strong scent of bullshit,” I say.

Dahlia shakes her head at my antics, dismissing me. “Well, you know I can’t risk being seen,” she says, pulling her hat down like the paparazzi is waiting in the bushes outside the vehicle.

“So it sounds like I’ve been elected to walk over to that crummy station and fix the mistakes that never should have happened, is that right?” I say.

“It is the manly thing to do,” Dahlia says.

“The manly thing would be to dream travel to a GAD-C and be lounging in my armchair within the hour,” I say.

“Actually, that sounds like a man who never wants to have sex again,” Dahlia says.

“Oh, gross,” Adelaide says from the back.

“Fine, as I’m accustomed to doing I’ll save your bloody asses,” I say, throwing the door open and stepping out into the disgusting summer sun. I immediately feel a dozen freckles pop up on my face, shoving the other billion to the side so they have their own permanent resting spot. The dust from the vehicle is thick in the polluted air and although the trek to the rusty gas station isn’t far, it also isn’t pleasant. Three mosquitoes try to suck my blood during the short walk. They must sense that it’s rich in vitamin D and chock-full of more goodness than that of most of the population. Worst of all is that I’m sweating like a fucking goat when I arrive to the shade and bad smells of the station. The door buzzes when I push it open. Instead of wasting my time looking at the poorly organized shelves, I march up to the counter where a guy is busy watching MMA on a TV screen overhead.

I snap at the buffoon and slowly, as if he lost his reflexes in his own lousy fight, he turns to look at me. He doesn’t say a word, instead just blinks at me, like he’s waiting for his visual cortex to catch up and deliver the present image along with an appropriate response.

“Gas can. Where are they?” I say.

He lifts his chin and looks over my shoulder. Then directs his gaze back to me. “All out, mister.”

“What? This is a fucking petrol station, is it not?” I say.

“Waiting on a shipment,” he says, like that’s a sufficient answer for his incompetence.

“How do you expect to make money with this hell hole of a business?” I say, honestly looking for a real answer.

“Is that your car?” he says, angling out the window at the black SUV in the distance.

“It is and it’s apparently out of petrol, hence the need for a gas can,” I say.

“Why don’t you push it here and fill her up. Won’t take you too long.”

“Why don’t you?” I say and then pause to look at his dumb face. Then I realize he doesn’t get it. “Seriously, I’ll pay you to push that shit over here.”

He looks at the vehicle and then at me. Then does it again like a fucking idiot doing calculus. “Can’t,” he says like that’s a real answer.

“Can’t why?” I say.

“I’ve got to man the shop,” he says, waving his hand at the grossness around us.

“I would think that you’d have to be a man to do such a thing and you clearly don’t meet that description,” I say.

His brow wrinkles as he tries to piece together the insult I’ve made at him. “This is the only convenient station for a long bit, mister.”

That’s the low-life’s way to threatening me. Warn me. “Yeah, fine,” I say, not seeing a better option here. Yes, I could get in his head and make him push the car. But then, what sort of example would I be setting for Adelaide, who I sense is struggling with how and when to use her powers. And she’s sloppy, still leaving tracers. Making messes for me to clean up when she gets into people’s heads and manipulates the wrong way. I have to resist using mind control for Adelaide’s benefit. And if this is what being a parent is then I kind of want to slit my own throat. It makes me feel old and accountable and thoroughly self-righteous.

The buzzing sound seems to mock me when I throw the door open and leave. And for some fucked up reason it’s hotter now outside than a few minutes before. Fuck my life.

Now there’s a woman standing outside the shop. I use the term “woman” loosely. She’s more of a troll dripping in wrinkles, with a nose that would fit better on a bulldog who has seen better days. Judging by her clothes, she’s a gypsy. And judging by her smell when I march past her, she is allergic to soap and water. Bangle bracelets clang on her arm as she waves to me. “Hey, sonny,” she says.

I consider ignoring her, but then realize I could pay her to push the vehicle. It might kill the hunched over old woman, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. “What?” I growl.

“You’re a Lewis, aren’t you?” the woman says, and I just then notice that her eyes are glassed over. She’s blind.

“A Lewis?” I say.

“Your surname,” the woman says.

I scratch my forehead beading with disgusting sweat. “What do you want? How do you know me?”

“I rarely know how I know anything, but I was sent to give you a message,” the woman says. Her hair is in long dreads and blends right into her dark tattered clothes.

“Tell the voices in your head that I said to fuck off,” I say. “I don’t play games.”

“This isn’t a game. It’s only a message,” she says.

“Look, do you want to make some money?” I say, wondering if I can really go through with making the old bag push a gigantic vehicle.

“You will meet three wise women on your travels,” the bum says.

“What? What do you mean?”

“They will bestow great wisdom on you. Wisdom that you may know, but have forgotten. And if you put it all together, then you’ll benefit greatly,” she says, her voice croaky.

And I want to bark at her and run off but instead I say, “How? How will I benefit?”

“That’s not for me to know. I’m the messenger who alerts you to this. It is your job to listen. To piece it together. Your future relies on your compliance at the very end,” she says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say, taking a step closer to the woman.

She swivels her gaze at me, although I’m certain she can’t see me. Her eyes are bluish white. Mostly white. And it’s strange to look directly at her. “I’m talking about helping you to make sense of something. Three wise women. They will find you. And you must listen to them or pay the consequence of ignoring their wisdom. One will give you the key to your future.”

“Whatever, you old drunk,” I say and then turn and stalk off. That was a horrible waste of time.

Dahlia has her head down and is busy checking her messages on her daft phone when I pull up to the SUV, which now has all windows down to let in the nonexistent breeze.

“Thought you were unplugging for the vacation,” I say with a snarl to her.

“I am. I’m just checking my horoscope,” she lies, powering off her phone. “Can’t have Mercury going into retrograde and me being in zero position to deal with it decision-wise.”

“Oh, thank fucking god you’re a pop star and not in a real position of power,” I say.

“Where’s the gas?” the jerk in the middle row says.

I look straight at Dahlia. “Did you hear something? Like the sound of a cat puking or a bull letting out its last breath?”

Dahlia lowers her glasses a bit and regards me over them, a not so amused expression on her face.

“Anyway, that petrol station which is supposed to sell gas and things related to cars is plumb out. Isn’t that cute? And in a beautifully poetic turn of events I’m going to push this massive piece of shit over to the pump, so get ready to steer, dear,” I say, loosening my tie and throwing it in the passenger side seat.

Then I start for the back of the dusty vehicle and as I do I hear my daughter say, “Throw it in neutral so he can push.”

Oh good, now she’s being fucking helpful. A bit late in my opinion.

***

Never in my fucking life have I experienced something so ridiculously horrid. Pushing that vehicle was like giving birth to a giraffe. It felt weird and wrong and it hurt and I sweat in places that I didn’t even know I had. And yet I did it. Fucking pushed all five tons of the bloody machinery to the pump, where I quickly realized one crucial piece of information.

“Ren, what are you doing?” Dahlia says, peering out of the window.

“I’m thinking,” I say, staring at the pump and then the side of the car.

“You’ve been thinking for a while.”

“Well, it’s what pays the bills, isn’t it?” I say.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she says.

“Of course I do,” I say, staring at the front of the car. Where the fuck does the gas go? Into the top? Side? Bottom? Honestly, I’ve been to petrol stations but I was always so busy scamming and drained from mind control that I never once witnessed the act of a car receiving gas.

“Adelaide!” I yell loud enough for Satan, aka her real father, to hear.

“What?” she says from the back.

I stomp over to the passenger window. “How do you pump gas?”

She bursts out laughing. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”

“But you knew when this piece of shit was empty,” I say.

“That’s because I watch the telly. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to fill it up. I think you put that thing in the side of the car. However, I’ve got no clue where,” she says, pointing at the pump.

“Infinitely helpful,” I say.

“But don’t blow yourself up, because I’ve seen people do that on the telly too,” she says.

“Thanks, life-ruiner, now go back to being dead to me.”

“My pleasure and absolutely,” she says, pushing back into her seat.

I then look at Dahlia, who shrugs. “I don’t really know, Ren. I think you take that nozzle thing and put it somewhere in the car.”

“Thanks, diva. Write a sugary sweet ballad while papa gets this shit done.”

I then do the only thing left. I march though the empty grounds of the petrol station and back for the dumb door with a daft buzzer. The gypsy woman is gone. The life reject behind the counter doesn’t turn away from his daft fight on the soul-sucking TV. He just says, “Will that be cash or credit?”

“I need your…” and then I cough on the last word.

“What’s that again?” the guy says, not taking his eyes off the repulsive screen.

“I need hel—” The word freezes in my throat. “I need you to pump the gas,” I finally manage out.

The fuck face blinks at me blankly. “This isn’t a full-service station. It’s self-serve.”

“You know, Jon,” I say, throwing my chin in the air, “if you’re not willing to bloody adapt then you’re not going to make it in this fucking business or any other.”

He jabs a finger at the name tag pinned to his shirt. “I’m Jeff, actually.”

A simple sentence with an intention behind it would have Jeffrey here detailing my automobile, but I resist. I pin my palms on the counter. “Would you pump my gas?”

“Oh, are you from Oregon where they don’t let you do it and no one knows how?” he says.

“God no, I’m not from that shitty state with bloody awful trees.” I pull out my wallet and throw a tenner on the counter. “Here, now let’s get this over with because talking to you and smelling those week-old hotdogs is murdering my usually happy nature.”

Chapter Four

When the dumbass servant boy slaps the side of the SUV, Dahlia starts it up with a yelp of excitement. It’s like she feels victorious by way of sitting in the vehicle and doing nothing. I had watched the MMA fighter–obsessed boy while he pumped the gas, learning the steps to fueling it up so I could do it the next time. I was a bit surprised to learn the nozzle fit into a compartment on the back side of the vehicle. Other than that it was a simple process and there’s absolutely no reason people in Oregon shouldn’t do the task themselves.

“Well, that was easy,” Dahlia chirps as she pulls the beast back onto the road.

I slide around and stare at her like she’s lost her mind and is speaking in tongues.

“That’s because we didn’t have to do anything and Ren took care of it all,” Adelaide says from the back.

“Shut up, vacation-ruiner,” I say, cutting her off.

A jolt sounds on the floorboard, probably from her stomping feet. “God, there’s no winning with you.”

“No, there isn’t, so if you’d like we can let you off here. I bet that gas station owner would take you in and you two could breed your dumb-ass ways all over this bloody area,” I say.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the gas signal,” Adelaide says. “I didn’t know we’d actually run out of gas.”

“That’s because you live in a world where you forget that there are consequences to actions.” I turn to Dahlia. “Is it too late to send her to a girls’ school? One where the administration is questionable and their behavioral practices are untraditional?”

“We are putting this little snafu behind us,” Dahlia says, plastering that look on her face she’s been trying to make permanent lately. A pleasant smile, reeking of false peace. She taps the screen of her phone, bringing up the GES or PGS or whatever her digital map is. Poor thing can’t close her eyes and have her consciousness lock onto the ley lines of the planet. She has to rely on technology to tell her where to go. “The good news is that we are only a few miles off the exit for the alpaca farm.”

I click my tongue three times and shake my head. “Honestly, it’s not too late to send you to community college or one of those lame online universities or whatever institution that will accept you with laughable test scores. That way you can learn how to properly use the English language. Good news is making a few million dollars in a half hour. Good news is single-handedly saving a fleet of soldiers who were about to slide into the bloody ocean. Good news isn’t that a farm full of hairy giraffes is a few miles away and they’re most likely going to spit on my rattlesnake loafers.”

“I knew you’d be as excited about the adventure as I am,” Dahlia says, reaching over and slapping me on the knee. She pulls her hand back in time to negotiate the large automobile onto an off-ramp that immediately turns to gravel. Dust swarms up from the road, clouding the road ahead and bathing the SUV in a fine layer of dirt.

It’s just then that the little monster starts his usual round of complaints, screeching followed by all out crying and incoherent babbling.

“You didn’t by chance think to grab something when you were in that petrol station?” Adelaide says.

I twist around at lightning speed. “Strangely, I was a bit busy trying to figure out how to get petrol into the vehicle which ran out because of you. And I didn’t realize that your legs were broken and you couldn’t get your ass out of the vehicle to purchase snacks with the credit cards I so graciously pay for you.”

“It’s not really graciously if you constantly remind me of it,” she says. “And I’ll go ahead and take that as a no,” she adds, her focus on Lucien, who is now crying loudly.

I turn back around, proud of myself for handling that with such elegant diplomacy. And I’m starting to feel nausea from Dahlia’s driving and the series of turns she’s taken, dragging us farther and farther into the middle of no-fucking-where.

“Well, that’s curious,” Dahlia says, squinting at the screen attached to her dash.

“I’m almost certain that it isn’t curious,” I say, tying my arms in front of my chest, realizing I smell like sweat. It’s bloody awful. “What is it?”

“Well, the GPS just stopped working. It just looks to be thinking,” she says.

“Adelaide,” I say, “make yourself useful for once in your bloody life. Help us.”

She sighs. “I’ve been useful loads of times,” Adelaide says.

“Giving therapists unique case studies to write up in a science journal doesn’t count,” I say.

Then there’s another daft sigh. “I don’t know. Let me see it,” she says.

Dahlia plucks the device from its container and holds it over her shoulder, all while driving down the road that keeps narrowing further.

“Oh, well there we go,” Adelaide says, handing the phone back at once. “You don’t have any reception. No service. No GPS.”

“Hmmm, well, what do we do?” Dahlia says, placing the phone on the center console. “The farm is really off the main road and it will be hard to find without directions.”

I throw my head back on the rest. “Am I the only one here with a three-digit IQ?” I say mostly to the heavens, which I know have abandoned me and will be of zero help. I lower my head and look at Dahlia. “Go ahead and retrace our path back in the direction of the highway until we have reception. Then we can jot down directions and proceed to this hellish destination,” I say over Lucien’s constant complaints.

“Well, that would be a great solution but I don’t know how to get back,” Dahlia says, continuing the trek on the endless gravel road. “I’ve taken a ton of turns and all the roads look exactly the same here. There’s not even proper signs.”

“Then may I suggest that you stop driving us further into the middle of nowhere. You do realize that we have no food, water, cell service, and a load of worthless brains that could fill up a science lab.”

“Well, you’re in this predicament with us, Ren,” Dahlia says.

“By predicament, do you mean the beginning of a horror movie? And no, I’m a dream travel away from abandoning your asses.”

“And if you do, you better not show up on my doorstep again. Well, only to collect the ashes of your beloved chair,” Dahlia says.

I jerk my head at the pop star. “You wouldn’t,” I say with a dramatic gasp.

“Try me,” she says.

“And still you keep charging ahead like you’re on a walkabout. Maybe we should pull over, turn around, do anything rather than drive farther into the pits of hell,” I say, staring out at the tree-lined road. The bloody things are everywhere. I never forgave the noxious weeds for what they did. Yeah, they supply bloody oxygen, shade, and habitats for animals. But these flawed plants are also responsible for tragedies. How many people have fallen from a tree’s canopy and broken bones? How many trees have fallen on homes, crushing the innocent people inside? And don’t even get me started on the flimsy branches that can break off from a strong gale and attack a guy in the head, killing him instantly. Sometimes I wonder how my life would look different if Jimmy hadn’t died. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten myself into so much trouble. Maybe I would have stuck around, knowing he needed me. Maybe I would have tried, knowing that I had a friend who believed in me. But that’s not what happened and my life was a series of mistakes after Jimmy’s death. That’s what happens when trees are allowed to unfurl without consequence. They create a domino sequence of mistakes.

“There, up ahead,” Adelaide says, pointing at a drive that ends at a series of buildings. “There’s a place where we could stop and ask for directions.”

“It looks clean enough,” Dahlia says, injecting false hope into her voice.

It’s the first place resembling civilization we’ve seen since we turned off the highway, at least twenty miles back.

“Yeah, it actually looks kind of cute,” Adelaide says. And then to Lucien she sings, “Be quiet, little monster. We will get you to a place that has food.”

The buildings, a house, a barn, and a storage area of sorts, are all painted in different pastels. As we near, I make out large crown molding lining the roofs. The detail work matches that of a quaint Dutch village. And the grounds around the compound are a bright green flecked with purple and yellow flowers. Even I have to admit it looks quite idyllic. And it’s strange to find it in the middle of nowhere, like a tourist attraction dropped straight out of the sky. There’s a large colorful sign at the entrance to the drive. Bubbly letters line the top.

“Well, I think this will be a good place to stop. Let’s hope someone is home and can get us going in the right direction,” Dahlia says.

“Yeah, let’s hope,” I say, feeling my body vibrate with exhaustion. Then I turn to take in the words on the sign that’s just come near enough to make out.

It reads:

Welcome to Colleen’s Goat Farm. The friendliest place on earth.

“Oh fuck,” I say with a tired sigh.

Chapter Five

“No,” I say, clear and loud.

“Oh, come on, Ren,” Dahlia says, turning the vehicle in the direction of the place which may look cute but will be anything but. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Up a goat’s ass,” I say.

“What’s your deal with goats?” Adelaide says over the loud crunch of the tires and wailing toddler. “They’re cute and supposedly a lot of fun.”

“Have you ever been around the dumb animals?” I say.

“No. If you remember, I grew up in London,” she says.

“I hadn’t actually,” I say. “You’re British? I had no idea.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” I admit. “And I grew up in Peavey with an abundance of goats everywhere. The pesky animals were always making a racket and breaking out of their pens. One broke into our cottage this once and found my mum’s keepsake album. Out of an entire house full of rubbish the fucker decided to eat the albums of our ancestors. My mum cried for a whole week.”

“Ren…” Dahlia says, her voice careful. Almost cautious.

“What?” I say as she throws the car into park.

“You’re sharing.”

“I’m not,” I say with an edge of hostility, although under it I feel slightly embarrassed. Why had I said so much about such a long-ago memory? Maybe it’s the trees. Or the stress. Or the driving.

“I was answering the question. That’s one of the numerous reasons I loathe goats. That little dipshit should have eaten Lyza’s useless belongings, not Mum’s pictures,” I say.

“Who’s Lyza?” Adelaide says.

“A soul-sucking bitch,” I say, getting out of the car.

“What was she, a neighbor or something? Why do you hate her so much?” Adelaide says.

Just as I’m about to shut the door I hear Dahlia say, “It’s his sister. She’s crazy.”

The questions will no doubt continue now.

I walk around the car to see a tall woman in front of a bright blue barn trimmed in orange and she’s scattering chicken feed. Hens with feathers to match my red hair are clucking around her feet. She holds up a hand to us in acknowledgment and starts in our direction. The hens, who apparently have a codependency problem, follow after the woman.

“Hi there!” she sings across the dusty yard. The woman with shoulder-length hair and a broomstick skirt walks in our direction, chicken feed in tow.

I’m just about to state our reason for visiting when a fucking herd of the nastiest vermin ever put on this earth charge out from behind the blue barn. The goats race at us like a bunch of happy bulls intent on knocking over their prey and then slightly annoying them until death ensues, as is the fate of such. The little pygmy goats, some small, some huge and pregnant with Satan’s pets, rip forward. I’m just about to dive back into the vehicle when there’s an assault on my behind. A soft but deliberate invasion rips just between my legs. I jump forward and simultaneously turn around to see what caused the trespassing. It’s a little brown goat with kind eyes and zero soul.

“Now you be nice, Brina,” the woman says, wagging a finger at the goat who has gone off to create pandemonium with her goat friends.

“Hi! I see you’ve met the welcoming committee. They just love visitors,” the woman says, staring around at the fuckers who have congregated around us. Adelaide stands too close, just at my shoulder. Lucien is under one of her arms and held up high so the goats don’t nibble off a foot. Dahlia, on the other hand, is clear out in the middle of goat alley surrounded by ten of the little assholes. They are ramming her in the knee or working to jump on each other’s backs to get higher. And the lady, born and raised in Los Angeles proper, is giggling like this is the best show she’s ever seen.

“They’re adorable,” Dahlia says, through a laugh.

“I think so,” the woman says, and a goat jumps up and rams its dumb head into her pail, knocking its contents to the ground. The goats scramble after the feed like a bunch of homeless destroying a money bag full of dollar bills. And to my relief this does send the goats blocking our feet away.

“Well, welcome to Colleen’s farm,” the woman says, laughing at the shit storm happening all around her. “I’m Colleen, but you can call me Leen. And as I always say, this is the friendliest place on earth and feel free to lean on me.”

She then looks down at a goat who is chewing the thread right off the top of her shoe but only giggles.

I clear my throat to gain the woman’s attention away from her thirty kids. “We are here because—”

“What’s that smell?” Adelaide says, her nose high in the air, like she’s a blue heeler finding a scent.

“It’s shit,” I say.

“No, it smells good,” Adelaide says, taking a long inhale. “Really good.”

“That would be apple pie cooling,” Leen says, throwing her finger in the direction of a cottage on the opposite side of the barn. It’s yellow and sectioned off with a fucking pristine white picket fence. This woman has issues. She must really want to live in a fairytale. And then I spy in a window, bathed in herbs and vines, an apple pie sitting on its edge, steam rising off it just like in the proverbial movies.

Just then I feel a hand on my bicep. “Ren. She’s got an apple pie cooling in her fucking window. This can’t be real,” Adelaide says, disbelief and fantasy playing in her voice.

“I know,” I say and simultaneously my stomach makes mention of the realization.

“Not just any pie. Leen’s apple pie, made with apples from my organic orchard,” the woman says, indicating something at our back. I don’t look. I can’t tear myself away from the pie. Too perfect and begging for my consumption.

I slap reinforcement down on my weakness. Clear my throat again. “We are here to get directions to the…” And then I snap in Dahlia’s direction, who to my horror is cradling a baby pygmy goat. She won’t touch Lucien but give her a flea-ridden farm animal and she cuddles with it? Dahlia looks up.

“Samantha’s alpaca farm,” she says through the smile and distraction.

“Oh yes, that’s—”

“Can we have pie?” Adelaide says, cutting the woman off as she bounces the still fussing and always fiddling Lucien. “He will pay you for it,” she says, pointing at me.

I narrow my eyes at my soon-to-be-dead offspring.

“Well, of course, and I can give you directions to Samantha’s while we eat. But I think we better have a proper meal before dessert. And it’s just after lunchtime. How about some of my homemade crepes made with my hen’s eggs filled with bacon from the ranch down the road. And served alongside it we’ll have buttermilk biscuits, or goat milk biscuits as I like to call them.”

To my shock my daughter, the second most apathetic person I know, jumps up and down and yells, “Yes! Yes! Please!”

Before I know what’s happened the three women have made their way through the feet-wrangling goats and cleared the picket fence. I almost call out to them to wait for me as I try and find footing amongst the beasts littering the ground, but decide against it. “Move it, you little fuckers,” I say, shoving them aside, stepping like I’m bloody ice skating. I’m afraid to pick up my feet in fear one will get underneath it and bring me down with him.

The women are settled around a large wooden table set just in front of an oversized window that looks into a field of lavender. The house smells of mint and sage and somehow the three women and Lucien are already slurping ice cold lemonade.

“May I offer you a glass?” a voice says at my shoulder, startling me. It’s a man. Well, more like a boy. Young man. He’s wearing overalls but no shirt and his hulking muscles are a little distracting, like he just jumped out of a gross shirtless fireman calendar that thirty-something women giggle over.

“Sure,” I say and allow him to shove a glass into my hand. I bring it to the table but don’t sit. I’ve done enough of that in the car. The glass is cold and the lemonade has the perfect amount of sweet and sour; it must be made from fresh-squeezed lemons and recently by the taste of it.

“Oh good,” Leen says, noticing me. “You got a glass.”

“Your husband gave it to me,” I say.

She slaps the table with a laugh. “Rhone isn’t my husband,” she says and then I notice there’s no ring on her finger.

“Whatever,” I say, setting the perspiring glass down.

“You can put him down anywhere,” Leen says to Adelaide, indicating Lucien. “It’s safe in here. I have to childproof thanks to all my little kiddos out there,” she says, pointing to the front door where goats are waiting to chop at my crotch.

“That’s all right,” Adelaide says. “I think he’s hungry.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Leen says.

And then another man swoops in holding a plate in either hand. This one is built too but he’s got black-framed glasses and a white T-shirt and is trying at the James Dean look. “Your food is ready, sir,” he says, putting a plate down at the empty seat in front of me, serving me first. I take the seat but only stare at the food. Then I look up at Leen, who is smiling broadly at the man now serving Dahlia.

“And he is?” I say, pointing at the guy.

“That’s Aaron. He’s smart as they come and irreplaceable,” Leen says.

“Your boyfriend?” I say, overly curious about this woman.

She winks at Aaron when he lays a plate in front of Adelaide and then herself. “Nope,” she says with a mischievous glint in her voice.

I then look down at the plate. On the blue Wedgewood are three crepes, made to perfection, filled with bacon and greens, hugged in a hollandaise sauce and flecked with country potatoes. Dahlia is elbow deep in it by the time I look up, sauce running down her chin. I’ve never seen the woman eat like this. Well, I’ve hardly seen her eat at all, as she’s supposed to maintain a certain figure for the stage. And she’s even abandoned her glasses and hat, but by the look on Leen’s face she doesn’t recognize Dahlia or doesn’t care. She appears completely impassive about the popstar eating at her table like she’s a pig at a food trough.

“This. Is. The. Best. Thing. Ever,” she says between bites.

“Slow down and don’t get fat,” I say to her.

“If this is heaven, then I’ll die now and pack on the pounds,” Adelaide says. She is about as gung-ho on the food as Dahlia and the little monster is making quick work of a potato he’s fisting.

This place is too nice. This lady is too nice. Something is nefarious. People don’t just take others in. Not without a reason.

“Go on, now, enjoy,” Leen says to me.

“I’m Jewish,” I say in response.

“Oh, so you don’t eat bacon,” she says, scooping a bite on her fork. “And that’s odd. I didn’t take you as the Jewish type.”

“And I didn’t take you as the axe-murdering type, but that’s the feeling I’m starting to get,” I say.

“Don’t mind him. He’s always like that. Angry without reason,” Dahlia says.

“I have reasons,” I fire back at her.

“I’m sure you do. I’m sure you do,” Leen sings and there’s a knowing look in her dark brown eyes. A wisdom I’ve rarely encountered, like she’s seen things most haven’t, been granted special access to a private library.

“Franklin, the biscuits, please,” Leen yells to a doorway where warm and inviting smells and sounds emit.

A third man appears carrying a basket, its contents covered by a cream-colored napkin, but steam wafting from its edges. Franklin appears to be wearing tights and is shirtless.

Dahlia, like a hungry jackal, yanks a steaming hot biscuit from the basket, not even offering one to the baby beside her. Such a disgraceful heathen. I apparently can’t take her anywhere anymore.

“Oh gods, this is good,” she says through a bite as she spreads some purplish jam on the other half. “Everything is so good here and fresh.”

“I know,” Adelaide says, almost as undignified as Dahlia, crumbs dripping down her chin. “I can’t believe you made all this food. It’s delicious.”

Leen chuckles. “Oh, heavens. It wasn’t me. My boys make all the food.”

I eye the woman, who looks to be in her early thirties. “These boys look a bit old to be your sons.”

“So observant. No, it’s more of a term of endearment,” she says with a wink. “Aren’t you hungry?” she says, eyeing my untouched plate.

“I am, but I despise poisoned food,” I say.

The woman’s expression grows a bit curious. “Ren, you can rest assured that my food contains the best ingredients and zero poison. I pride myself on taking care of people. Call me a humanitarian and my goal is to nourish through food.”

I narrow my eyes at the goat farmer. “How do you know my name?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe I heard your girlfriend or daughter say it.”

“How do you know she’s my daughter or gluttonous over there is my girlfriend?” I say.

She taps her finger to her head. “It’s called instinct and the very best employ it often as it’s the most strategic way to live.”

I stand at once, my chest beating. Something about this place and this woman has my adrenaline pumping. The old bag at the convenience store couldn’t be correct about me actually meeting three wise women. There aren’t that many worldwide.

“We are leaving,” I say, chin tucked and my eyes seeking to sear the calm woman in front of me.

Dahlia looks up, heartbroken. Adelaide too. Lucien beats his tiny palm on the table; a smile is his response to my exclamation. He gets it.

Leen simply nods, seeming to understand. “Travelers must travel,” she says, snapping her fingers in the air.

A moment later Franklin returns carrying the pie, which is now covered with foil. He also has a bag dangling from his other hand. “Take this for the road ahead,” Leen says, handing the pie to Dahlia. “There’s a bag of utensils, napkins, and plates. And be careful not to get sand in the pie. It always makes it gritty.”

“What?” I say, baffled that the pie was already prepared to go, like the woman knew. But that’s impossible. I shake my head.

“Now you better be on your way. Sunset approaches in just under two hours. A perfect amount of time to make it to your next destination,” Leen says.

“What do you mean? The alpaca farm?” I say.

“Sure,” the woman says. “Now I’ve had one of the boys jot down directions to Samantha’s alpaca farm if that’s where you choose to go, and also the main highway.”

“When did you give that order?” I say, strangely curious like I’m in a funhouse and staring at a strange mirror of myself.

She only smiles and leads us to the door. I’m the last to leave and when I trudge through the yard a twig and leaf from the apple tree overhead falls on my shoulder. Maybe because I’m unnerved by this experience or because I fucking hate trees, I jump and let out a growl of protest. Adelaide and Dahlia, who are drunk on food, don’t notice, but Leen turns around and stares at me, allowing the other women to pass. Then Leen looks at the tree and back to me.

“May I offer you a piece of wisdom?” she says.

“No,” I say through a snarl.

“Well, I can’t allow you to pass without offering you something,” she says, angling to the gate which is just beside her and closed. “You ate nothing and seemed not to have had fun at my farm and I like everyone to go away with something.”

I could just teleport to the car but I don’t. Maybe I’m curious what this bloody hippie considers advice. “Go on then,” I say.

Leen kneels down and picks up a small stick, a leaf attached to it. Maybe it’s the same one that assaulted me. “The past can’t be undone. Nor can it be redone differently. It’s set for your own freedom,” Leen says and then tosses the small branch over her shoulder. “Now I dare say you should be on your way,” she says, stepping to the side.

I don’t grant her a response. Honestly, I don’t have anything to say to a dumb goat farmer.

When I arrive at the SUV Adelaide has her mouth covered, her eyes wide. Lucien is thankfully strapped down in his seat. But Dahlia is white with shock, and is standing at the rear of the vehicle, the doors open wide.

“What is it?” I say.

“It appears in my haste, I forgot to close my door,” Adelaide says beside me. “And so the goats might have gotten into the car.”

“What?” I growl. “Did the little fuckers shit all over the place? Because I refuse to smell goat crap for the rest of this trip.”

“No,” Dahlia answers, her face still covered in disbelief. “They just tore up some stuff.”

“Oh, I bet the little shits ate the upholstery,” I say, stomping over to Dahlia, who is gaping at the back of the SUV.

“No, just one suitcase actually,” she says.

I turn and look. Two suitcases sit untouched. The third can’t really be classified as luggage anymore and its contents are absolutely ruined. How the fuck did I not guess that the evil creatures destroyed my things. All of my things.

Chapter Six

“Well, it appears this vacation is over,” I say, slamming the passenger side door.

“No,” Dahlia says with a desperate plea in her voice. “It’s only stuff. I’ll have my personal shopper replace everything and send it to our hotel in San Luis Obispo. It will probably be there first thing tomorrow morning.”

I want to close my eyes and dream travel away, abandoning this farce of a vacation. However, when I look at Dahlia, that soft vulnerable expression on her face, my resolve crumbles. She needs this vacation. She needs me beside her. And I want every second with her. Lord knows if I make myself think on it, she’s my second chance to handle this right. To be with someone when they need me. To not abandon them because of what might happen in the future. And then Leen’s words about the past not being undone filter back through my head. And that’s for your freedom, she said. Is Leen right? Is not being able to change the past supposed to free us to the present? To the future? Is it supposed to release us from regret? I know there are many parts of my past I’d do anything to change. Eloise’s death for starters. She was Trey Underwood’s wife and her murder during childbirth was totally my fault. And Jimmy’s death, which was absolutely preventable. And then my mum. I shake off the grief starting to build up in my chest like a bolt of electricity.

“Fine. I’ll stay,” I say, quirking up the corner of one side of my mouth, faking a half smile.

“Thank you,” she says. “Now Adelaide, will you read me the directions to the highways. I’m too stuffed to stop off at the alpaca farm.”

“Wait. What? After all this bullshit and goat shit?” I say.

Dahlia simply nods. “I’m ready to get back on the road. I’m glad Leen gave us both direction options. That’s a smart woman,” she says.

“Yeah, a regular Einstein,” I say, sliding down in my seat, repulsed by the last hour and also starving.

***

Inside my head there’s more power than that inside of NASA. I can do and have anything I want and yet I find myself being pulled on this vacation like a fucking mule. That’s what happens inside of committed relationships and I’m fairly uncertain how I feel about it. Something feels inherently wrong with that sort of obligation, and yet here I am.

“Oh my gosh!” Adelaide squeals, probably waking Lucien up. The little monster went straight back to sleep as soon as the SUV started on the road, over an hour ago. “There’s the ocean!” she says, as the PCH twists, giving us a new glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. We hadn’t seen the blue tucked around the mountain sides in quite a while.

“You see the ocean every day from our house,” I say. And it’s true. The endless horizon can be seen from half the rooms in our not at all quaint home sitting high up on the Santa Monica Mountains.

“I guess I missed it. Or maybe it looks different.” Then I notice Adelaide tilt her head to the side as she sizes up the landscape outside her window. “It definitely looks different here. More peaceful somehow. The colors brighter. Where are we?”

Dahlia skips her eyes to the GPS. “Pismo,” she says.

The sun is a half inch off the horizon. And it’s doing that glistening thing on top of the water. It’s like a fucking show dog looking for attention.

“Can we stop? Pretty please,” Adelaide asks, her voice excited. What was in that food?

“What?” I say, perturbed on a whole new level. My clothes are gross and I’m longing for a shower and a clean bed. “No, we can’t stop,” I say but dumb Dahlia is already exiting.

“Of course, dear. What would an adventure be without a sense of spontaneity?” Dahlia says.

“Why are we stopping?” I say.

“Because I want to put my toes in the water,” Adelaide says.

“The ocean is always right outside our door every-fucking-day,” I say.

“Yeah, but Malibu is full of jerks. They like to stare to see if I have the latest XYZ and I always want to make them drown themselves,” she says.

“Thanks for refraining. That would be a bloody mess to cover up all those drownings,” I say, throwing my head to the rest behind me.

“This beach looks quaint and exactly like the kind I want for Lucien to see,” she says and then goes to rustling the finally peaceful toddler with tickling fingers.

I want to continue my protest but seeing her smile and imagining the child’s sleepy face she’s torturing by waking pauses me. Adelaide and Lucien have come a long way and I know it hasn’t been an easy journey for either of them. My daughter unsurprisingly isn’t a natural mother like some. She has to work to be nurturing. I see it constantly in her. Adelaide has to continually figure out how to be kind when she’s never experienced that kind of unconditional love. And Lucien, from my observation, isn’t the cuddling type. Not with most anyway. He’s more like me and would rather be left alone. But still he’s found ways to bond with the mum who won’t give up on him. In many ways Adelaide and Lucien remind me of my mum and me. An unlikely pair. And yet perfectly matched.

Dahlia pulls the SUV up to a space in a parking lot. A long stretch of sand dunes separates us from the ocean.

“I’ll wait in the car,” I say as the three filter out of the vehicle.

Dahlia has a giant bag slung over a shoulder when she stops back by her open door. “Ren Lewis, please stop being a dipshit and join us.”

“I’m afraid being that which you’ve labeled me is all I know,” I say.

“Then when I’m dead and gone, as you prophesied all those years ago, a full two to three decades before you, you’ll have one less memory of me,” Dahlia says and she’s trying to be a witch but her true emotions come through. She’s pleading. Clinging a bit to me out of fears. But it’s not something I can tolerate right now. Maybe ever. That’s why I allow her to walk off without me. I watch from the car as Adelaide and the little monster make it all the way to the water’s edge. They’re laughing most of the time. Lucien is cradled against Adelaide’s hip because the newbie still can’t figure out walking.

I look to the center console where I notice the sunscreen is perched like it was placed there and then left as an afterthought. Doesn’t Adelaide realize that she and Lucien are going to melt into a trillion freckles inside a ten-minute period? It doesn’t matter that it’s almost sunset. The bloody sun doesn’t care. If it can give our skin the kiss of death then it will.

“Fuck my life,” I say, grabbing the spray and throwing the door open.

I’m only ten feet through the sand when I realize my loafers are trashed. I peel them off, along with my socks, and roll up my hosed trousers. It will be good to get replacements tomorrow at the hotel. Dahlia already made the call.

The sand makes each step a chore. I’d teleport to the blanket Dahlia has set up but there are a few dozen people around. It’s not that many people by usual beach standards but still. Adelaide’s instinct was actually right on this beach. It’s quiet compared to the ones in Malibu, which are always swarming with shabby chic tossers. Still, I notice Dahlia thought to wear her oversized hat and glasses. This is a woman who can rarely go to a random village in China and not be recognized. She’s more iconic than the President of the United States or Shakespeare. There’s no one more famous than Dahlia and yet she’s paying a price for this fame.

“You losers forgot the sunscreen,” I say when I reach them.

“That’s the extra bottle,” Dahlia says. “I already have Addy and Lucien covered,” she adds, throwing a hand out to the pair who are dancing in front of the tide like they are tempting it. Adelaide has Lucien cradled and keeps running to the ocean’s edge and then away from the approaching tide. She’s calling out, “Don’t get us. Don’t kiss our feet.” The child is giggling, his green eyes wide.

“But since you’re here, come sit and enjoy the view with me,” Dahlia says, patting the blanket next to her.

I regard her for a few seconds. There are so many things I want to say to the woman before me. The first few reflexive statements aren’t nice: I wish I never met you. You are my greatest weakness. I’d do anything to forget you. And then the next messages are new to me but solely meant for Dahlia: You are all of me. You’re my strength. Don’t leave me, my love.

I take the place behind her before settling down on the soft earth. I stretch my legs out on either side of her and then thread my arms around her, pulling her to me. A thousand words spin through my head but all I say is, “I fucking hate sand.”

“I know,” she says, patting my arm. “It’s going to be everywhere now. In every one of your nooks and crannies.”

“I fear you’re right,” I say, my breath whisking through her hair.

“See, Ren, you always dream travel but rarely experience a place in physical form. Doesn’t it feel nice to have the sun on your skin and the wind running over your face?”

“It’s less than tolerable,” I say, my chin tucked to the side and my being pulling the woman in front of me as close as science allows.

And then as they are prone to do, Adelaide and her monster interrupt by plopping down beside us. Lucien grabs a clump of sand at the edge of the blanket and thrusts it in our direction. Dahlia and I both look away to shield ourselves from the assault. Children are so uncivilized.

“I’m hungry,” Adelaide says. “But only just a bit.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Dahlia says, pushing me off her as she reaches for her bag. She withdraws the covered pie and utensils. “How perfect will it be to eat this and watch the sunset? It’s almost as if Leen knew,” she says, starting to uncover the still warm pie. The smell of apple and cinnamon swirls through the salty air.

“Un-fucking-canny,” I say, thinking of the gypsy woman and her prophecy.

Dahlia hands a piece to me but I decline since I’m not interested in poison dressed in pie.

She shrugs and hands it off to Adelaide, who grabs it and takes a giant forkful and shovels it into her mouth. “This is perfect,” my daughter says, her voice blissful for the first time in…well, forever. Adelaide takes another bite, an intoxicated smile on her face as she stares out at the golden sunset and glistening water.

And the look on Dahlia’s face is similar except her joy is from watching Adelaide and Lucien’s experience. Then she shoves a forkful of pie into her mouth and sighs inwardly.

And then a screeching motor interrupts my observation. I wheel around to find a gaggle of four-wheelers speeding in our direction, the riders howling with joy. The wheels of their vehicles are no doubt destroying the ecosystem of the beach. “Hur-fucking-ray. People…” I say, realizing that once again, fuckers passing as Homo sapiens are ruining my life and the earth.

Chapter Seven

Sand will now live permanently in my rattlesnake loafers. Worse is the horrid bits are stuck between my junk and just about everywhere else. My forest green tie hangs loosely around my neck. It’s not a way I’ve ever worn it but I’m currently in a rare state after a day of sweating, annoying farmers, and a bunch of bloody goats who in five minutes destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes. Fuck vacations.

“Are you having a good time?” Dahlia asks when we load back into the SUV.

“Oh, it’s been quite lovely,” I say in a syrupy sweet voice.

She regards me with an amused expression. “Lying only further reserves your place in hell.”

I look around the car, confused. “Wait. This isn’t hell? I could have sworn I died pushing this monstrosity, and this vacation was my own personal hell.”

“Well, I’m sorry to inform you that this isn’t hell, only the primer,” she says.

I toss my chin to the ceiling. “You are a cruel and unjust God,” I say.

Dahlia nearly hits three pedestrians on her way out of the parking lot.

“Why didn’t you tell me that guy was walking around the front of the car?” she says. Dahlia had been looking the opposite direction for oncoming traffic and a dumb bloke went to cross the road.

“He looked like a bloody git. I figured I was doing some dissatisfied wife a service,” I say, watching the guy scowl at us as he veers around the vehicle. “Imagine how disappointed she’ll be when that wanker returns home yet again unscathed by a fucked up world that won’t take him out.”

“You really are such a romantic,” Adelaide chirps from the back. “Do you think that most married people want their other half dead?”

“Probably,” I say, not really thinking about the question. “Who knows how daft people who get married think. I fail to understand the logic of contractually binding yourself to a person for eternity.”

“Well, what does that say about you and Dahlia?” Adelaide says. “You two are practically married. Do you wish her dead?”

I whip around so fast that I catch my seat belt in my face. “Dahlia and I aren’t married.”

“But you two live together,” Adelaide says.

“There’s a difference in living with someone and marrying them. And we aren’t married because we care way too much about each other to enter into an agreement where we would force the other person to stay. If she wants out then she can leave. Vice versa. And every single day that I wake up I choose to be with her. I’m not obligated and hiding behind the excuse that I agreed to be loyal or committed or not give up. I’m a fucking human who makes mistakes and changes my mind. And I don’t have to dupe her with false promises. I care about her way too much to make her be with me. To force her year after year. And therefore I would never wish to marry her or wish her dead.”

Adelaide shrinks back. “O-kay,” she says slowly. “I was just joking really.”

Adelaide didn’t deserve my wrath but her off-the-cuff question triggered something in me. Something I’m trying to suppress. An old demon. An ancient worry.

“Ren just has strong opinions on the institution of marriage,” Dahlia says, patting me on the leg, giving me a sideways look that communicates her concern for my reaction. “And I happen to agree that it’s an archaic practice. Yes, some people say it’s about committing and never giving up. But how do we know we are truly with the right person if we don’t give them a choice? People want certainty in this life, but what they miss is the chance to allow each other to grow, to change, to evolve. And if that happens and I’m not on the same page as Ren, then he has my permission to move on.”

“But more than anything,” I say, cutting Dahlia off, sensing the fragility in her voice, “I get the pride of knowing that she’s with me because she wants to be. It’s not a matter of convenience or customs. When we aren’t obligated to each other then we are more valuable. The couple who celebrates a marriage anniversary are only saying they have chosen appearances over choices. It’s about like celebrating your mortgage every year. Hur-fucking-ray, you’ve fulfilled your contract again. How bloody romantic.”

“Well, I think we’ve covered that topic,” Dahlia says. “Who is hungry for dinner?”

I turn and regard her like she’s suddenly speaking French. “You just ate an apple pie, woman.”

“I shared it with those two,” she says, her mouth gaping open.

“Barely,” I say but then nod, realizing I’m starving. “Yeah, I could go for some real food.”

***

We don’t end up in the bistro that had the ambience that Dahlia was after. That was fine by me because the waitress probably would be sporting tribal tattoos that she got when she was drunk and has no idea what they represent. And this waitress would undoubtedly serve us chips fried in oil they change out every day. The menu would have no real hearty options, just leeks sautéed in truffle oil and cheese that smells like feet and is drizzled in a reduction of bullshit. Foodies should all be dropped off in Ethiopia where their pretentious drivel will have them being roasted over a pit by the locals in no time.

We end up in the only place where Dahlia could manage to park the beast. It isn’t even a restaurant. I stand staring at the food truck where a surfer is lurking out the window waiting to take our order.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to Dahlia, who is scanning the three options on the menu like choosing what to eat is a real conundrum.

“Oh, Ren, where’s your sense of adventure?” she says.

“This is a bloody food truck,” I say. “This guy can’t even afford a secure location. And you’re going to eat seafood that he makes in a kitchen that probably doubles as his bedroom.”

The guy who isn’t smart enough to realize I’ve insulted him smiles widely. “I sleep in the front, dude,” the dumb surfer who has obviously drunk too much salt water says.

“Thanks for proving my point, dude,” I say.

“I’ll have the fish tacos,” Dahlia says to the guy, and then turns around, offering us a chance to put in our order.

“I’ll take an order of no-fucking-way with a side of you-have-to-be-out-of-your-bloody mind-Dahlia,” I say.

The guy scratches his sun-bleached hair with a pencil. “We don’t serve any of that,” he says as his honest to god reaction.

“Oh, shucks,” I say and turn to Adelaide.

“I’ll take an order of chips and a couple of waters,” she says.

“Don’t have any chips either,” he says.

“Fries,” I cut in. “She wants fries.”

The guy smiles broadly, his crossed eyes beaming. “Right, you two are from that place where they call fries chips and cookies biscuits. Where is that again, Canada?”

“Yes, you’re quite the cultural expert,” I say, not even in the mood to insult this git.

“Well, thanks, bro,” he says and then ducks back to the restroom slash grill to make Dahlia’s tacos.

***

“Well, I love any opportunity I get to dine al fresco,” Dahlia says, sliding into the picnic table parked next to the greasy food truck.

“Oh yes, you get to pair the smell of the traffic on the street with your mystery fish tacos,” I say.

“Oh, Ren, you know I love your cynical side. It always makes me smile,” the woman I love says, not at all deterred by my quips. Her new sunny disposition needs to go and soon. I’ll wear it out of her.

Because the lame surfer would have to put on pants to serve the food he just whistles through the window when the poison is ready. Dahlia brings it back to the table, her hat blowing in the wind, threatening to fly away. Then the mobs on the street will recognize her and tear her limb from limb, out of love, of course.

She wastes no time inhaling the first of three tacos, all the time trying to convince me they actually don’t taste horrid. “Just try a bite,” Dahlia says.

“Not on Adelaide’s life,” I say.

“Hey, why do you have to bring me into this?” Adelaide says, handing a chip to the little monster. Lucien thoughtfully studies the thing and because he and I are the only ones with brains at the table he chucks it to the ground.

“Good boy,” I say but my words are immediately drowned out by a loud siren. It’s not like an ambulance or fire truck. It’s lower pitched and so loud it covers all other noises. It’s like a tornado warning but on the west coast that’s not possible. My first thought is of a tsunami. Adelaide and I could possibly get away in time, but Dahlia and Lucien would be stuck. Suddenly I’m assaulted by the strangest sensation. It feels like my insides are tacked to the outside of my body. I, for the first time ever, feel vulnerable.

I immediately look to the ocean on the other side of the street. People, locals mostly, are bustling along not at all concerned. I turn back to the truck where the surfer is outside wiping down the counter where people order. And as I suspected he’s not wearing pants but rather a towel wrapped around his waist like he just got out of the ocean.

“Hey,” I yell loud enough to be barely heard over the siren which is still going off.

He turns and trots over. A dumb smile on his tanned face.

“What is that?” I yell, pointing in the air.

“Oh, that’s the emergency alert test siren,” he says. “The nuclear plant nearby runs the drills every month so we’re prepared in case of a meltdown. It will go off for three minutes and then again in a bit,” he says like that’s the coolest thing ever and not morbid at all.

“Right,” I say and turn back to Dahlia and Adelaide, who has Lucien’s ears covered from the racket. “You wanted ambience and now you get to eat your food apocalypse style.”

Chapter Eight

“What the fuck is this?” I say, holding a tiny shirt in the air. The package from Dahlia’s personal shopper arrived at the hotel this morning.

“That isn’t your size at all,” Dahlia says with a laugh, holding up a suit jacket that would fit a penguin.

Adelaide grabs the jacket and checks the tag. Her and Lucien’s room is just adjacent to ours and apparently being in a closed-in space for hours on end isn’t enough for the girl.

“That’s Lucien’s size,” she says.

“What did you tell your shopper?” I say to Dahlia.

She’s giggling now. “I might have said the monster got all his clothes eaten by goats, but to my defense that’s how you’ve often referred to yourself. She must have thought I meant Lucien.”

“Oh, and why be bloody specific when it’s me benefitting,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Ren. I didn’t think she’d mix it up when I ordered a batch of suits, not onesies,” she says.

“And I didn’t get my clothes eaten. If I remember correctly, which I always do, the mistake-maker left the door to the automobile open,” I say, pointing to Adelaide.

She’s giggling now too because she obviously wants to die.

“Well, I’m now on day two and no clean clothes,” I say, my rage like a bull about to charge.

“Well, this is an adventure,” Dahlia sings.

“Yes, and how do those clean clothes feel?” I say, pointing at her crisp linen pants and silk shirt. “If you want to join the adventure then you should go roll around in the dirt.”

I’m still wearing the wrinkled button-down sans tie and my trousers refuse to relinquish all the sand from the beach.

“We will just stop at a store and buy you clothes,” Dahlia says.

“I don’t want a tie-dyed suit or whatever other rubbish they sell in this granola town. I want Armani,” I say, and catch the eye roll Adelaide releases at my demand.

“Well, I’m afraid they probably don’t have Armani in San Luis Obispo. This place is nicknamed SLO for a reason,” Dahlia says, trying to sound sympathetic but it’s just making me more livid.

“Fine. Call your personal shopper again and this time be fucking specific. I want those clothes sent to our next hotel room first thing,” I say and Dahlia, who is more and more not acting like herself, salutes at me.

“Here,” I say, shoving the box of clothes in Adelaide’s direction. “Go ahead and take these for Lucien. He’s the only other intelligent person in this lot and now he can look it.”

She’s suppressing a laugh but I don’t care at this point.

I stare around. “Where is Lucien, by the way?”

“I thought you had him,” Adelaide says, staring around the floor of the hotel.

“What?” I almost yell.

Then she burst into the laugh she’d been repressing. “I put him in the closet with some toys so I could get ready,” she says, combing her fingers through her long red hair.

“You did what?” I say and I do yell now.

She waves me off. “He’s fine. I left the light on and he likes small spaces.”

I march through to the room adjoining ours and whip open the closet door. There I find Lucien sitting on the hotel floor and chewing on the holy bible, probably the one the hotel leaves in the bedside table to try and convert all us heathens.

I tug the bible out of Lucien’s reluctant grasp. “Toys,” I say, holding the bible up in front of Adelaide’s face.

She laughs. “Yeah, it’s like one long joke. And it’s the only the thing I could find for him to play with.”

“Have you tried a ball or an action figure?” I say.

“The toys were in the snack bag that someone forgot.” She says the last part loudly and in Dahlia’s direction.

***

We are on the road for two bloody minutes when I turn to find Dahlia eggshell white. Her hands are clutching the steering wheel like her life depends on a sharp grip.

“Dahlia,” I say, leaning forward and taking her in. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she lies and then tucks her chin like she’s trying to hold something in.

“Dahlia,” I say, my tone cautious.

Then she wraps one arm around her stomach and says, “I might be feeling a bit ill.”

“Oh, for fuck sake! I can’t say I’m surprised after you ate fish tacos served by a half-naked surfer,” I say.

“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want you gloating about being right,” she says.

“But I am, aren’t I?” I say.

“I feel fine,” Adelaide chirps from the back.

“Shut up, you poor decision maker,” I yell back to her. “Now go ahead and pull over,” I say, angling to the side of the road.

“Why?” Dahlia says, but as dutiful as ever slows the car and guides it onto the shoulder.

“Because you’re in no position to drive,” I say.

“So what are we going to do?” she says, throwing the car into park.

“I’m going to drive,” I say, opening the door. “Trade me spots.”

“But Ren, you don’t know how to drive,” she says.

“I’m a fucking genius who has been watching you do it for a whole day. I dare say I have the science of driving down better than most by this point,” I say.

She nods, looking greener now.

***

As I suspected, I figured out how to drive just fine by watching Dahlia yesterday. I’m a master of observation and my photographic memory catalogues everything. I have the car easily speeding down the highway in no time. It’s not a fun experience but there is a charm to the whole thing. Probably makes a lowly Middling feel powerful to operate a giant machine. For me, it’s rather dull. I’ve actually driven one other car in my life. When I was fifteen I stole a Bentley. However, because of Jimmy’s incessant cackling I wrecked the thing into a pile of hay on the side of something that hardly classified as a road in Peavey. A small smile surfaces at the long ago memory. That chap and I had a lot of fun together in our almost seventeen years as friends. But then, as I always joked, he went and got himself killed.

“Ren,” Dahlia says, grabbing my arm. “You’ve got a cop on your tail.”

“What?” I say, looking in the rearview mirror. There just behind me is another SUV, but this is one white and black with red flashing lights going off on its top. “What the fuck?”

“You’re going ninety,” Dahlia informs me.

I spy the speedometer. “So it looks like I am,” I say.

“That’s illegal,” Dahlia says.

I shake my head. “Oh, I’ve got this covered,” I say, slowing the vehicle and pulling it over.

A police officer who has no discernible features approaches on Dahlia’s side. He has the most forgettable face. Regular everything. Nothing unique about his nose, mouth, or chin. It all just is. Dahlia rolls down her window.

“I clocked you doing eighty-five back there, sir,” the guy says.

“I think it was over ninety,” I say.

“Well, then that will increase the fine,” the guy says. “Now I’ll need your license and insurance.”

Dahlia looks from me to the police officer, who is studying the life-ruiners in the back seat.

I’m just about to tell him that Adelaide is a runaway I picked up when Dahlia opens the glove box and hands over the insurance paperwork.

It’s only fun to use mind control on the bloke if I first get myself into a real bad predicament.

“Here you go, sir,” Dahlia says.

“I don’t have a driver’s license. This is actually my first real experience driving,” I say.

“And the girl in the back I picked up in San Luis Obispo. She said she stole the baby and offered it to us in exchange for money for meth. I think you should frisk her.”

The guy peels off his glasses. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”

“And I’m going to have to tell you to fuck off,” I say, actually enjoying this. The whole trip has lacked this opportunity to berate someone. And it’s been entirely too long since I’ve used my control or hypnosis. Like an addict, I’ve been trying to cut back. Just so I can say I’m able to.

The policeman lays his hand on his gun, pinned in the holster.

Finally a little fun.

“Sir, again I’m going to ask you to step out of the vehicle,” Copper says.

I’m just about to turn on the mind control when Dahlia plucks off her large black shades.

“Oh, Officer, I’m sorry, my new chauffeur has an awful sense of humor. He’s British and fresh off the boat. Reynold doesn’t get how poor his jokes are to polite Americans,” she says.

“What?” I say, gawking at Dahlia as she commences to remove her disguise by pulling off her large hat. She still looks ill but beautiful and definitely recognizable.

“W-w-wait,” the guy stutters. “You’re Dahlia.”

Oh, here we go. “You’re Dahlia,” I mock in a childlike voice to the steering wheel.

“I happen to be, and you are?” she says, extending a hand to the guy.

“I’m Officer Hodges,” he says, throwing a dumb finger to his name badge.

“That’s a repugnant name,” I say, now realizing there’s no fun to be had. Dahlia had to intervene and use her celebrity status.

“Pleasure to meet you, Officer Hodges,” Dahlia says. “And thank you for your service to our community.”

The guy pulls his police officer’s hat off his head and giggles like a dumb school girl. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Now I’m just on my way to an appearance,” Dahlia says.

“No, she’s not,” I say. “Dahlia is lying. She’s on vacation.”

“Reynold,” Dahlia says. “I’ve told you before that your job is to drive and my job isn’t to make you a comedian.” Then she turns to the officer. “Everyone is always trying to use me to break into the business. This guy wants me to introduce him to an agent,” she says, pointing to me.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of people riding your coattails. You’re Dahlia,” Officer Nobody says.

“You’re Dahlia,” I mock again. “Dahlia happens to be smuggling a bunch of illegal marijuana in the back.”

Dahlia turns to the cop. “It’s true, but it’s just so I can deliver this medical-grade drug to a bankrupt nursing home up north. Most of the residents suffer from an ailment and the pain can be relieved by the drug.”

The man smiles widely. “A wonderful artist and a humanitarian,” he says. “I believe it and I will keep the life-changing drugs a secret between us,” he says, putting a finger to his lips with a repulsive wink.

She glides a finger to her own lips. “Between us, Officer Hodges.”

“Well, you all better be on your way. An important mission awaits you,” he says, stepping back away from the SUV.

I consider telling him there are dead bodies in the back but Dahlia will find a way to have him dismiss that too.

“Bye now,” he says and waves us off.

I peel out, screeching the tires and clouding the guy in a dust storm. When the vehicle is at ninety I turn on the cruise control.

“Are you happy now?” I say to the road but it’s directed at Dahlia.

“One hundred percent,” she says.

“Well played, my dear,” I say.

“I wanted you to realize that in some ways I’m just as powerful and manipulative as you,” she says.

“Oh, I know, believe me, I know,” I say and smile at the woman beside me who never stops giving me reasons to love her.

Chapter Nine

“Can you stick a cracker in his mouth or something?” I yell back to Adelaide. Lucien has been blabbering on for an hour alternating between sounds bordering on crying and incoherent ramblings. Toddlers really are daft with their inexperience and lack of communication skills. They all need to fucking grow up.

“I’m trying. He’s tired of being locked in the car. There doesn’t seem to be any way to appease him. He keeps chucking all my distractions back at me,” she says, holding up a magazine.

“Shocking, he doesn’t read Time magazine,” I say, wanting to ram Adelaide’s side of the car into the vehicle I’m passing. Now I know why mums in minivans are such bloody awful drivers. They are being driven insane by their passengers who are probably talking nonstop, dripping juice all over the upholstery, and thinking of ways they can waste more of their parents’ hard-earned money.

“Look, there’s a turn-off just up ahead. It seems like a popular stop,” Dahlia says, pointing to a parking lot adjacent to the ocean.

We’ve been winding our way along the PCH, the girls taking the liberty of telling me the view I’m missing on the left.

“I’ve seen the whole fucking world,” I finally informed Adelaide after she tried to describe the Pacific Ocean to me.

“So does that mean there’s nothing that excites you anymore? There’s no new sights for you?” she said, always trying to find my buttons.

“Pretty much. I’m fairly certain I’ve seen it all,” I said smugly.

“Well then maybe you should off yourself. You’ll be leaving some resources on this earth for the rest of us who have yet to take in every experience this world has to offer,” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “This world would spiral into a black hole without me on it.”

“That’s the elephant seals sanctuary,” Adelaide informs us. She’s reading from a map and along with describing the landscape has been telling me of each upcoming road and point of interest based on her map. She’s lucky I’m such a tolerant and patient man.

I pull the SUV off the road and find a parking space without nearly killing anyone. “You see, that’s how it’s done. That’s how you park a car,” I inform Dahlia.

“Thank you, Reynold, my chauffeur,” she says, sliding out of the car.

The smell of seal shit is strong in the ocean air, overwhelming the usually salty breeze.

“Elephant seals stink,” Adelaide says, pinching her nose.

“You should hear what they say about you,” I say.

“You’re so immature,” she says to me, taking Lucien’s hands and leading him a bit from behind. His unsure feet wobble over the rock parking lot.

“You keep doing that and he’s going to figure out how to walk,” I say.

“Well, it is kind of a life skill so excuse me for bestowing knowledge on my son,” Adelaide says.

“Oh, now you’ve decided to be a real parent. No more locking him in closets, is that it?” I say.

“You two are ridiculous,” Dahlia says, sidling up beside me, wrapping a shawl around her head and then neck. I’m not sure who she thinks she’s fooling with her disguises but we will have to hope that the crowd of people peering over the fence up ahead are dumb as seals.

“Well, that’s not what I expected to see. Those things are ugly,” Adelaide says.

“They’re probably saying the same thing about you,” I say, staring over the fence at the creatures which are prehistoric in appearance. Some are huge, easily the size of a car, and others more the size of a motorcycle. Their bodies resemble seals but they have small trunks on their faces and make enough racket to wake the bloody dead.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Adelaide says, her focus on me and not the three dozen seals lounging on the beach. Nor is she paying attention to the child who is reaching through the chain-link fence and pulling vegetation from the earth.

“No, I haven’t actually,” I say, realizing it’s true. I’m having a rare new experience and it’s been so long that I feel the neural pathways making new networks. Wow, it kind of feels exhilarating after everything I’ve experienced lately to witness something new.

“Well, looky there, there are things that you’ve yet to see and experience. You may not be a know-it-all after all,” Adelaide says smugly.

“It’s true. Like I’ve yet to experience you keep your trap closed for more than a few minutes,” I say.

A nearby family catches our banter. The mum turns, giving me a displeased look. Then her gaze shifts to Dahlia and I instantly notice recognition dawning on her. She hasn’t figured it out yet but the pieces are starting to lock together.

“We are going,” I say, tugging Dahlia’s arm.

“But we just got out of the car,” my obtuse daughter says.

“And now we are going,” I say, angling my head at the crowd. Thankfully she catches my hint and nods. “Unless you want to stay and make a life as an elephant seal. You’d fit right in. You’re loud, funny-looking, and lazy as bloody hell.”

Dahlia has slid into the driver’s seat by the time I arrive at the car, after delivering a few more insults to Adelaide.

“You’re driving?” I say. “Are you up for that?”

“I’ll make it work. Otherwise your driving is going to give me a heart attack,” she says.

“Whatever,” I say. These women are thoroughly ungrateful.

Chapter Ten

“Ren, you’re supposed to be on vacation,” Trey says when he picks up the phone, confusion in his voice. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine. But you and Dahlia have the same poor education in vocabulary. Vacations are supposed to be relaxing and that is not how I’d describe this hellish excursion,” I say.

“Oh well, that’s too bad, but maybe it’s just your perspective. You’re with your family. It can’t be all bad,” Trey says.

“It’s day three of me wearing the same clothes, so I’d say my perspective isn’t the problem. Girls who can’t close bloody doors are the problem. Goats are the fucking problem. Dahlia’s incompetent shopper is the problem,” I say.

The douche bag who Dahlia obviously overpays wasn’t able to have my suits delivered to the hotel in Monterey before we left. The personal shopper is having them transferred to our hotel in San Francisco. Like a fucking pioneer I had my tattered suit laundered by the losers at the hotel who obviously have no idea what they’re doing. Now my suit feels stiff but at least it’s clean-ish.

“That sounds rough. Your vacation has hit a few snags?” Trey says on the other side of the phone.

I look at Dahlia, who is probably going to drive us into the bloody ocean. Taking the hairpin turns through the coastal towns has nearly given me gray hairs, which I always thought I’d like because they’d mask the obnoxious red. However, I didn’t want to earn all those grays in one sitting. I’m fairly certain the state of California wants its residents to die. Why else make curvy roads with no guardrails on the side of a cliff with zero shoulder? One false move and we’re plummeting over the edge and into the rocky Pacific. Yay for bloody vacations and adventures.

“Anyway, enough about this farce of a trip. What’s going on with the Strategic Department? Any level five cases come in while I’ve been gone?” I say.

“Trent has it all covered,” Trey says and then nothing else. We both go silent.

“Ren,” he says after a long few seconds. “I recognize that you prefer to work.”

“Well, I’m not a lazy drain on resources,” I say, throwing a glance at Adelaide in the backseat who returns it with a hateful smirk.

“But you haven’t taken a vacation in over twenty years,” Trey says. “This is good for you and although it will take an adjust—”

I switch off the phone, tired of listening to his unsolicited advice.

“Well, that was an abrupt ending to the phone call,” Adelaide says.

“Stops eavesdropping, loser,” I say.

“So Trey didn’t have any use for you,” the pain in the ass continues.

I remain silent, unsure if it’s the constant proximity or the gross clothes or the lack of work that’s driving me fucking crazy.

“Maybe the Institute really doesn’t need you anymore,” Adelaide says, again searching for my buttons. “Maybe you should retire, grandpa.”

“Do you know how many cases I’ve successfully overseen the strategy and solution for?” I say.

“You’ll no doubt tell me,” Adelaide says because she wants to be strangled.

I stayed focused forward and say, “Over one hundred and twenty-six million people owe their lives, livelihood, or mobility to me and the work I’ve done.”

“Is that all?” Adelaide says. “Gosh, after twenty years of service you think you’d have more of an impact. Maybe this guy Trent will have better results as Head Strategist. He can’t do any worse than his predecessor.”

She’s trying to get to me and it’s working. But I attempt to cover up my frustration. “Do you realize that the pyramids were supposed to be destroyed ten years ago? Flattened. Completely and utterly destroyed. But I prevented it. And three U.S. Presidents were going to be assassinated in the last two decades. And the Grand Canyon was supposed to be fill—”

Cold wind rips through Adelaide’s window as she lowers it completely.

“What?!” she yells up to me. “I can’t hear you.”

I shake my head and turn away from the ungrateful heathen.

***

“You’ve got be kidding me,” I say, staring at the gigantic building in front of me.

“I’m not and I don’t see what the big deal is,” Dahlia says, grabbing my hand and tugging me forward.

“The big deal is you expect me to trudge around a rinky-dink aquarium and compete with a bunch of Middlings for a chance to see a fucking sea horse. Next thing you know I’ll be waiting in a queue and standing next to a worthless bloke while I take a piss. What kind of man do you think I am?” I say.

“A changeable one, who is open to new experiences and adventures,” Dahlia says. “And this isn’t just any aquarium, it’s the world-renowned Monterey aquarium.”

I size up the lobby, taking in the mass of people staring at their dumb phones and talking in their outside voices. “Dahlia, you know I don’t do public places. That’s for everyone’s health and benefit.”

“Ren, your grandson wants to see fish. And this is important to me that we do it all together.” Then she gets that look, that almost pitiful one that’s been plaguing her. She’s close to really dealing with this all but for now it’s still fresh, and until then I know she will struggle to reinforce her soon to be indomitable spirit.

“Oh, fine,” I say. “But stop calling it that.”

“You mean calling Lucien your grandson?” Adelaide says, pushing a giant stroller half the size of the SUV.

“Yes, that. It makes me feel old and sound like…” I trail off, not sure what it makes me sound like.

“A real person with a real life,” Dahlia says, hitting the nail on the head.

“Shut up, diva who knows zero about being a real person,” I say.

“I want to see the sharks,” Adelaide says, holding up the map of this blasted place. She’s just exchanged one map for another. It’s like a bloody obsession of hers.

“Lead the way, little life-ruiner,” I say, holding up my hand.

She pushes Lucien in the stroller through the crowd of people. They are every bloody where. Most stand in the thoroughfare with zero clue that other people need to get around their fat asses. People are so unbelievably oblivious. “Coming through. Move to the side,” I say loudly.

People jerk their dumb faces in my direction as I yell. And the fuckers grimace at me, but they indeed move out of our way.

“Why can’t we just use mind control to clear the space?” Adelaide says.

I regard the ceiling that has life-sized sea creatures hanging from it. The lamest shit really entertains these dumbasses.

“Because the last time I checked I can only simultaneously control three to five people at a time depending on their IQ. And you’re about as messy with the skill as a dog eating powdered donuts. Besides, why the hell would I want to drain my reserves so you all can see a bunch of goldfish? I’m only here to appease the pop star since I’m still in the doghouse for abandoning her for a few years,” I say.

“Nineteen years,” Dahlia chirps. “And you’ll probably die in that doghouse.”

“Well then I might as well just teleport back to Malibu where I’m sure my lovely armchair is missing me,” I say.

“Do it, Ren Lewis, and that death of yours will be sooner and rather unnatural,” Dahlia says, her eyes scanning although I can’t see them behind her big glasses.

“You know I secretly love your threats,” I say.

“You’re awful at keeping a secret then,” she says, tucking her hair back into the shawl around her head. She looks about like a pop star trying to walk around in disguise. It’s so bloody obvious.

“Wow,” Adelaide says when we arrive in a large dim-lit half-enclosed area. The aquarium is easily two stories tall. Bright blue reflects off the dark faces gawking at the sea life swimming around the golden seaweed. A large school of minnows earns a few gasps from the crowd when they skirt across the glass, moving like a single beast instead of ten thousand separate creatures.

A kid in the front slams his hand on the glass. “Come here, sharky,” the little shit hollers. “Come here now!”

The black-eyed monster, graceful and with a deadly air about him, shoots across the tank, almost like answering the call. In all of my travels I’ve never seen a shark. Never much cared to, I guess. My dream travels have taken me all over, but I’ve always been concerned with studying people because the human condition is the least understood and the one in need of fixing. Animals have never been the problem. But now to see this menacing creature in front of me brings a rush of competing thoughts and also with it a wave of anger. Watching these animals behind closed glass is a vastly different experience than observing the elephant seals. There we were the ones held back by a fence, and they were free to the entire Pacific ocean. They made the choice to lounge on that beach. But here we are the free mammals and the sea life in front of us held captive behind glass.

“Woohoo,” a guy beside the boy yells. “Right on,” he says and slams his palm flat on the glass. The shark, who had turned its tail and was swimming away, turns around and darts for the glass, spinning downward just before careening with the glass. He must be used to the perimeters of his cage. Then the shark swims away and, as though he’s called the tuna and other giant fish to follow him, the tank wall empties in front of us. They’ve probably only retreated to the other wall where fuckers who paid too much to get in here are antagonizing the animals. This whole situation is too fucked up. I’ve never considered myself an advocate but to watch animals being put on display for our entertainment and education flips a switch in my head. I get that many are living better lives than they would in the wild. I get that some are rescues going through rehabilitation, but how often do we tell ourselves that when it’s just a caged animal. Zoos and aquariums with glass walls serve a purpose but they also teach ignorant fuckers that they are better because they aren’t the ones being held captive. When was it ever our right, because we have opposable thumbs, to put God’s animals on permanent display in every major city in the world? We might be saving a few, but we wouldn’t have to save any if we weren’t fucking up the whole planet. And believe me, I know what humans are responsible for. I stop half of the fucked up stuff they do.

Billy or fucktard or whatever shitty name his parents gave him jumps in the air trying to spy where the shark went. “Hey,” he screams, slamming his hand on the glass. “Where’d he go? Where did they all go?”

“I don’t know, buckaroo,” the man beside him says, and he’s about to slam his hand on the glass too. I’m certain the staff here wouldn’t allow this. However, they are probably too busy dealing with all the other fuckers who are creating havoc in the aquarium because they are all hyped up on ego, thinking they are the biggest fucking fish in the ocean. I teleport just in time before the man’s hand slams down on the glass. I land just in front of him. The man freezes completely, stunned by my sudden appearance.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Wait,” the fool says, looking behind him and then spinning around to look at me. “Where’d you come from?”

Behind him the fifteen or twenty people in the area gawk and begin to point at me.

“From your worst nightmare, and you better back up unless you want me to send you straight to your personal hell,” I say, sticking my probe in the wanker’s mind to understand its workings, which are unsurprisingly simple and full of useless bullshit.

“That guy just appeared out of nowhere,” someone says. Then it becomes a chorus of whispers.

“Hey, buddy, what’s with the threats? We are just looking at fish,” he says, still in shock.

“You want to see fish? You are a fucking sardine, look in the mirror,” I say.

He cups his son’s ears. “Watch your mouth. Don’t you see there are kids here?”

“I won’t watch my mouth. And I see the kids, but my saying words like ‘fuck’ isn’t the worst thing they’ll witness today,” I say, and then point out to the crowd. “You all gawking at imprisoned fish while you chomp on sugary snacks and contribute zero good to the world is the biggest injustice. You fuckers drag your imbecile asses around this planet, sucking up resources, terrorizing, and leaving your bloody trash for others to bury. You came here to see a shark or whale or a rattlesnake. Well, go out in the bloody world and see them in real life and not imprisoned for your enjoyment. And while you’re at it stop fucking around because I’m tired of watching the repugnant shit you all do,” I say. And I’m not sure where this explosion has come from, but it feels overdue.

“Who do you think you are?” the guy says.

“I’m the man who is responsible for you being alive, you good for nothing son-of-a-bitch. I’m the very reason any of you are breathing semi-passable air. I’m the man you all should be thanking, but you don’t even know it. I’m the biggest fucking shark you’ve ever met.” Then I spin around and throw a finger in the little boy’s direction. “And if you ever slam a hand on the glass of an aquarium I will haunt your bloody dreams, got it?”

Chapter Eleven

“Well, that was fun,” Dahlia says, not meaning it.

“You could have stayed,” I say, slamming the door shut.

“No, I think after a crowd witnessed you teleport and then throw a fit that it was time we all got out of there,” she says.

“I didn’t throw a fit,” I say.

“What are we calling what happened back there?” Adelaide asks from her familiar place in the backseat.

“I made a stand. I’ve just had enough of human stupidity. This is your fault,” I say, pointing at Dahlia. “Take me to a crowded tourist attraction and I’m going to explode.”

“I take full blame and should have realized you’d never be able to behave yourself in a situation like that,” she says.

The old Dahlia never would have admitted a mistake here. She would have teased me incessantly. Found another way to provoke me.

“Is that why we couldn’t fly? Because you’d take people out if you were locked in a small compartment with mindless blokes?” Adelaide says.

“Well, if that was the reason then you wouldn’t be with us anymore,” I say.

Instead of responding to the insult she says, “Hmmm, that’s not the reason, huh? Flying is easy, convenient, and would have cut our travel time and therefore your torture. So—”

“Would you shut up about bloody planes,” I say, my anger at a new level since I haven’t had a chance to cool down after the aquarium.

“Why? What is your deal with planes?” she says, her tone playful.

“I don’t have a deal with planes, so cool it,” I say, my voice sharp and about to break.

“Hmmm,” she hums. “Is it possible, just maybe, that you’re afraid to fly?”

I press my head into the cushion behind me. “No, that’s not possible, you worthless detective.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve gotten pretty good at observing based on your instructions and I noticed a few micro expressions in you that are linked to fear responses,” Adelaide says.

To hell with this girl. Why do I ever teach her anything? “You’re wrong,” I say.

“Then why did you just lie? I saw that micro expression too. Wow, this training you gave me is super valuable and helpful,” she says.

Fuck! “Look, I have zero reason to fly. I can teleport, remember. Something that will make you combust if you try it,” I say.

“But there’s also the fact that you, the man afraid of almost nothing, are obviously afraid of flying,” Adelaide says, and she’s using that voice. My voice. The one I use when I’ve figured someone out against their better efforts to thwart my invasion.

“I don’t get it though. If a plane started to go down you could just dream travel away,” she says.

“Apparently you’ve never had to dream travel under incredibly stressful factors. It’s about like trying to fall asleep at a rock concert,” I say.

“So you may not be able to get away. And then you would plummet to your death like a Middling,” Adelaide says.

“I never do anything like a Middling,” I say in response.

“But you are afraid of flying, aren’t you?”

I snatch the magazine that Lucien was chewing on earlier and Adelaide left on the center console. “Flying is unnatural. And planes are a bunch of daft technology,” I say.

“They’re built using science,” Adelaide says, enjoying this too much.

“Enough said,” I say.

“Well, it looks like we’ve found your weak spot. You’re afraid to fly. A Dream Traveler who can soar through space and time as long as his toes don’t leave the earth and he has to depend on science or technology or anything besides himself,” Adelaide says.

I turn and scold her with a single look. “You may think you’re being cute, little girl. However, when you find yourself on the side of the road, and that burden you’ve bestowed upon yourself your ball and chain, ensuring you can’t dream travel away, you may not be laughing so loudly,” I say.

“You wouldn’t desert Lucien,” she says.

“No, but I may make him endure an hour or two alone on the side of the road with your grouchy ass to make you suffer. And just imagine that people can’t pass a stranded woman and child. You’ll have truck drivers lining up to help you. So many your tiny brain will explode trying to use mind control to get them all to bug off,” I say.

She slides down in her seat. “It’s not any fun to tease you when you act like that.”

“Like what? The person with way more power?” I say.

Chapter Twelve

“She just quit,” Dahlia says, disconnecting the call. “After twelve and a half years, Monet, my personal shopper, just quit.”

The SUV’s tires rub the curb when we park.

“Did she order my suits first?” I say.

“No, Ren,” Dahlia says, annoyed. “Your damn suits are the reason she quit. She said no matter what she did she couldn’t get them to you. She blamed the universe, saying there was something preventing it.”

“I blame incompetence,” I say.

“Well, Monet has always been a bit of a mystic. Anyway, she said she placed three orders and something different happened to each of them,” Dahlia says.

“So no suits waiting for me at the hotel?” I say.

“I’m afraid not,” Dahlia says.

“Fine, I’ll just have to deal with this on my own,” I say, pushing up the wrinkled sleeve of my stiff shirt.

Travelers reuniting with their families or friends clog the curb at San Francisco International Airport.

“He’s right there,” Adelaide says with an unusual squeal in her voice. She bolts out of the backseat and rips across the next ten feet until she’s thrown herself at a man who is my same height and build. He also has a full head of hair like me but his is mostly gray.

I think to get the child out of the car, since his mum is too absentminded to remember such things. I thrust the sticky, drooling mess into Adelaide’s hands just as she pulls back from my pops.

“Son, look at you. Vacation is treating you well, you’re even bonding with your grandkid,” Pops says.

I clap him on the back and grimace at the observation.

“Hi, Pops,” I say.

“But what happened to your suit?” he says, pulling back and looking over my wrinkled jacket and shirt frayed in places from the various “adventures” I’ve been on lately.

“Incompetence, that’s what happened,” I say.

And then Dahlia is at my side and my pops’s earnest eyes switch to her. “Oh, sweet Dahlia. How are you, my dear?” And he wraps her in his arms, holding her longer than usual, really pressing her into him.

“I’m wonderful, Reynold,” she says when she steps back but only an inch. The crystal blue of his eyes seems sharper as my pops regards Dahlia with a solemn stare.

“Wait, he knows?” I say to Dahlia.

“Well, yeah,” she says, taking my hand. “I figured that he might be able to help you. To advise you on—”

“I don’t need fucking advice,” I say, cutting her off.

“Son, she just thought I might—”

“I don’t want to hear it. This conversation is over,” I say, interrupting him.

“Wait,” Adelaide says, her knuckle in Lucien’s mouth. “He knows what? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say at once.

“Again, you’re lying. Why are we being left in the dark?” she says, angling her head at the little monster in her arms.

“It’s just you. We already told Lucien,” I say.

“What? No you didn’t,” she says like she half believes me.

“We did, because he doesn’t forget to close car doors or withhold information that keeps us from getting stranded,” I say.

“Shut up. Tell me what’s going on,” she says, looking between me and Dahlia.

“Actually, we need to get going. I planned a fun excursion and don’t want to be late,” Dahlia says.

“Your fun excursions leave me wanting to hang myself,” I say, walking back to the SUV, taking the passenger seat.

***

“It’s just up here,” Dahlia says, breathless, a few paces ahead of us. She has the whole clan following her down Marina Boulevard, the bay on our left. She halts in front of a woman holding a clipboard and wearing an indignant expression. I realize when I stop in front of the woman that she is close to my height. She’s wearing a blue ball cap on top of her smooth light brown hair. The embroidery on the hat says “Colman’s San Fran Tours.”

“Oh, for fuck sake,” I say to Dahlia. “You’ve got to be bloody joking. Did you learn nothing from the aquarium experience?”

“Ren, this will be fun. I’ve always wanted to be a tourist in San Francisco. Do you know how many times I’ve per… been to this city?” she says, correcting herself. “I want to know details. See it on foot in a way that Bobby wouldn’t allow.”

She’s referring to her head guard, Bobby, whom she can thank for keeping her alive. And what do most do the second they’re away from their protector? Go against all their best initiatives.

“Sounds like you need to tell Bobby to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge,” the tour guide woman says. “No man should tell you what to do.”

“Oh, Bobby and I aren’t together. He’s… a friend,” Dahlia covers. “A protective one. Ren is my guy,” Dahlia says, taking my hand. The woman looks down at Dahlia, a bit of an exaggeration in the movement. Then she swivels her gaze up to me.

“Really? You’re with her? I pictured you with someone your own size,” she says to me.

The remark is so off the cuff and similar to something I’d say. It catches me off guard. Maybe it’s for that reason that I don’t respond.

When Pops and Adelaide, who is thankfully carrying her offspring and hasn’t left him in a city trash bin, arrive the woman clasps her hands behind her back. The street is fairly busy but still she manages to make a path around us like a wolf circling its prey.

“My name is Stephanie Colman. I go by Ephanie. Don’t call me Steph or any other version of my name if you want to live with both kidneys. I go by Ephanie and I get enough name-calling on these streets that I don’t put up with anyone’s shit. Now this tour is approx—”

“You want me to go on a tour with a woman who misspells her last name?” I say, pointing at the cap on Ephanie’s head.

Dahlia actually laughs at this. The woman, Ms. Colman, doesn’t.

“As I was saying, this tour is approximately sixty-eight minutes long. There are no breaks for the potty or refreshments and I don’t take questions. If there’s any problems with these rules then leave now,” the tour guide says.

“Wow, way to find the guide overflowing with charm,” I say to Dahlia.

“You want charm? Go take the rainbow tour down the block. Wesley will even braid your hair at the conclusion of the tour. If you stay on my tour then count yourself lucky if I don’t throw you in the bay or push you out into traffic,” the woman says.

Dahlia turns and even under her disguise I spy the raised eyebrow and tentative look. I shrug and acquiesce to these dreadful plans she’s made. She wants to be a tourist, fine. Hopefully she’ll realize how horrid it is and get it out of her system. The only reason anyone ever seeks a tourist experience is because they think their own life is underrated. Usually waiting in a queue and having a commercial experience shoved down one’s throat makes people retreat from the notion for a year. That is, until their faulty memory forgets and they find themselves lined up for something ridiculously expensive that comes with a matching T-shirt. I shiver at the idea. T-shirts are the absolute worst. Another dumb idea the masses clung to instantly.

“All right, this is a walking tour, so keep up or get left behind,” Steph says. She turns and begins trotting down Marina Boulevard. The woman throws her hand at the building on our right.

“We start this tour of San Francisco at the Grand Ole Opry,” she says, indicating a brand new bank skyscraper. “This is the oldest building in San Francisco or as the city is commonly nicknamed, Papillon Escargot,” she says, her last words flaring with a French accent.

“None of that is true,” I say, flatly.

The crowd in front of us begins to part as we walk on the wrong way of the busy thoroughfare. A cursory glance at my back tells me that unfortunately Pops and the other monsters are still in tow. I take Dahlia’s hand, sensing she’ll like the dumb gesture as I turn back to the lady still babbling on.

“There’s roughly two hundred and seventy million people who call San Francisco their home,” Stephanie says.

“That’s absolutely false,” I say over the rush of traffic on the street.

“The city was founded by pioneers who were trying to escape the oppression of the English crown,” she continues.

“Nope,” I say.

“The Chu-Hoe Indians were its original inhabitants,” the Amazon woman says, charging ahead, almost knocking people over.

“Wrong again.”

“It’s known for its corn fields and wide variety of licorice,” she says.

“Are you even hearing yourself speak this bullshit?” I say.

The tour guide spins around. “Not really. You’re not actually paying attention, are you?”

“Why? Don’t most people?” I say, now a bit curious.

She doesn’t grant me a response. “We will cross here,” she says, indicating the middle of an intersection. An oncoming slew of cars are hustling down the road when the woman steps out, making the first lane come to an immediate halt. The other lanes quickly follow suit, realizing that manslaughter would really delay their day. I follow behind the guide, slightly impressed by her brazen nature and then also strangely entertained. Most people act out because they’re dumb. I get the impression this woman is doing it out of pure apathy.

“Over here you’ll see San Fran is also host to a wide variety of exotic animals. Many find our streets to be like a modern rain forest,” she says, indicating a flock of flea-ridden pigeons pecking leftovers off a bum sleeping on the curb.

I turn to Dahlia, sure she isn’t having the glamorous tourist experience like she thought she was going to. To my shock she’s smiling up at a building, and then turns her head to the gray sky above it. The fog has drifted in, coating us all in cold moist air. It actually transports me back to London for an instant and those youthful days I had there with Dahlia so long ago.

“And over here we have—”

And then a commotion down the block cuts off the woman’s words.

“He’s having a heart attack,” a woman screams. “Someone help!”

The guide turns for the crowd and then back to us. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to help.”

“How?” I say, wondering what she could possibly do to aid a bloke with cardiac arrest.

“I’m an EMT on the side,” she says.

“How is that your side job? Shouldn’t it be tour guiding?” I say.

“Well, I make more taking tourists’ money and giving them bullshit tours,” Ephanie says. Then she’s gone, sprinting into the crowd of onlookers.

“What a strange woman,” Dahlia says, staring after the tour guide.

I turn now to gauge Adelaide and Pops, who is playing with Lucien, holding him high above his head. The image reminds me of a memory I don’t have, but can envision, of him doing the same with me. Adelaide beside him reminds me distinctly of my mum and then of her love. She never withheld. Never gave me less than I deserved and usually more. My mum was a woman who most aspire to be and fall short of, realizing they don’t have the patience for such things. Like Jimmy, more than him, I miss her every-god-damn-day. They say those losses recede with time, but those fuckers are wrong. You never stop missing the people who were there in the formative years. The ones who shaped who you became.

The tour guide rushes back over to us. “All right, where were we?” she says, staring around like searching for her script full of falsitudes.

“Wait, what happened to the bloke with the heart attack?” Adelaide asks.

“False alarm,” Steph says. “He had indigestion. Common mix-up people have and confuse the condition as a heart attack.”

“So what did you do?” Dahlia says.

“I sent him to the pharmacy down the block for an antacid and told him to stop eating crap for lunch,” she says. “Now where were we?” she repeats.

“I think we were done,” I say, pulling out my wallet to tip the woman who knows zero about this city.

“Oh no, the tour isn’t done until I say so. If you weaklings have sore feet then I’ll take you back to where we started, but I always finish every tour with where I began. Things need to circle back around,” the tour guide says, and then she boldly hooks her arm through mine, pulling me back the way we came.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Stella, I—”

“You’re excused,” the woman says, a smile in her voice. Her arm is sleeved and for that I’m glad, since I don’t want to hear her thoughts.

“Now I don’t know you, but I wanted to tell you something,” she says, releasing me, but I still stay walking beside her, the others following dutifully behind us. Dahlia is lost in images of the city.

“I’m listening,” I say, a bit curious.

“Well, I’m not sure why this set of words occurs to me. I meet people every day, most of them worthless shits, but it seems to me that you could use…I don’t know, some advice maybe,” Stephanie says.

“That’s atrocious,” I say. “I’m the last per—”

“Well, it’s just that back there when I returned I noticed this look in your eyes. You looked stuck somehow. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overstepping my boundaries,” she says.

“There’s no maybe about it,” I say but then nothing else. This tour guide/EMT spotted me when I was recollecting old memories of my mum. She probably did see something trace itself on my face, but what, I’m not certain.

“Well then you can file a complaint with my supervisor,” she says with a devilish smile. “But like I said, you seemed like you had time traveled for a second to the past. Like you weren’t here with us. And I suspect, because I’m also a private detective on the side, that you’re never in the present. Maybe you spend your time fretting over the past or worrying about the future. There’s definitely a heaviness to your eyes, like you see more than most.”

“What’s your bloody point?” I say as we near the avenue where this festival of foolishness started.

“My point is that the present is a bitch until you realize it’s all you have. And when we agonize less over the past we are able to enjoy where we presently are,” she says.

“Well, I was going to tip you but not now that you’ve bestowed worthless advice on me. Do you want to read my palm now since you’re probably also a psychic on the side?” I say.

“How did you know?” the woman says, stopping and turning directly to me. “And just think about what I said. Maybe paired with other advice you’ve gotten it will make sense.”

“I doubt it,” I say, thinking of Leen’s words. Of the old gypsy woman’s forecast of the three wise women. What’s the bloody point in all this? It must be my imagination. I don’t believe in coincidences but this makes zero sense.

“Thanks for the lovely tour. It was very informative,” Dahlia says, extending a hand to Stephanie. She must not have been paying attention. That’s usual these days.

Pops and Adelaide mutter their own bit of gratitude to Ephanie.

The tour guide holds up a hand and waves to us as we turn, making our way down to our car. I suddenly get the strangest impression that the woman and I have met before. I then turn back but she’s gone. The pavement where she stood is empty.

Chapter Thirteen

The high street shop smells of fresh linens and dry-cleaning chemicals. From the second story there’s a view of Market Street below where homeless people in sorry states of varying grossness are parked against a shiny building. Businesswomen in pressed suits and sneakers hurry on their commute to work, where they’ll sit behind desks and give zero thought to the bums they passed in the morning. They’ll make deals so they can increase their paycheck and buy expensive heels that are too uncomfortable to wear on the five-block walk from the transit station. People don’t baffle me anymore. I used to chalk up half of the dysfunction to stupidity. Now I realize that most people just don’t know any better because logic isn’t engrained into our culture. Convenience and greed are the staples of our society.

“Son, why don’t you just buy one of these shirts and a pair of khakis?” my pops says, indicating a short-sleeved polo shirt hanging on a display rack.

“I actually don’t think that question deserves a real answer,” I say, continuing to the back of the shop where I have an appointment with a tailor to have measurements for a new suit taken.

“Do you have to wear a suit? This is your vacation,” Pops says.

“I do,” I say, not even acknowledging the tiny old man with the measuring ribbon draped around his shoulder. I simply take a spot on the measuring pedestal and hold out my arms, legs separated.

“You should be comfortable. It’s not like you’re working at that job of yours and need to keep up appearances,” Pops says.

I shake my head at him. “Appearances aren’t something you keep up. They are a reflection of pride and I’m most comfortable when I look my best.”

He nods, probably realizing beforehand that would be my answer. My pops has always been casual in comparison to me, having worked most of his life in the tiny town of Peavey. It is mostly farmers and simple blokes who covet the ways of a small town. Pops always remarked that in his bookkeeping business he would have made his clients feel uncomfortable if he dressed too formally. For all my life my father has worn the same starched plaid shirts and khakis.

“That job of yours,” my pops says, standing tall, arms crossed. “Well, I never asked about it because I know you don’t like me to pry.”

My pops wouldn’t question a lion as my constant companion if he sensed a comment on the matter was going to be discouraged.

“What about it?” I say as the old tailor quietly goes to work taking measurements of my inseam.

“Well,” my pops begins, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “I usually subscribe to the philosophy of ‘don’t ask the question if you might not like the answer.’”

“You want to know what I do?” I say.

He nods as the tailor dutifully returns to the back to fetch the suit I picked out.

“Currently, I’m a rogue agent for the Lucidites,” I say.

“Oh, that’s a private society of Dream Travelers, isn’t it?” he says and although he’s trying I still hear the disapproval in his voice. I don’t fully know the extent of the experiences my pops had with Dream Traveler societies, but I know that he never appreciated that they usually maintained a division between themselves and Middlings. He fails to understand that this was to preserve our already small race. Our population of Dream Travelers wasn’t always tiny. However, once Christians feared us as witches we were slaughtered by the thousands. Preservation of the race rested in our ability to stay a secret. But explaining that to my pops would only be a headache. There’s no way I can convince the man in front of me that his religion is responsible for his race’s near extinction. This is because now he’s more Christian than he is Dream Traveler.

“Yes. The Lucidites are a secret society of Dream Travelers,” I say, slipping on the unfinished suit jacket the tailor has just returned with.

“Do you…well, what kinds of things do you do in this job? I mean… you don’t have to tell me if—”

“I don’t hurt people,” I say, cutting him off. That’s what he thinks. I know it.

He blows out a breath of relief. “That’s good. But… well… Do you do other things? You know… bad things?”

He’s looking at me with that old expression. The one where he was constantly trying to bolster himself against the disappointment I was about to cause. He still thinks I’m a scammer and a thief.

“I don’t cheat people, Pops. The Lucidites save lives. They use clairvoyance, strategy, and technology to see future events and prevent disasters. It’s because of them that this bloody planet is still spinning on its axis,” I say and this gains me the first curious look from the tailor. I’m not worried about what he will overhear though.

“Oh,” Pops says, the tension from his voice suddenly gone. “Well, that doesn’t sound all bad.”

I shake my head at the man before me whom I know thoroughly and have never understood. “It’s not bad at all. The Lucidites are the most upstanding and powerful organization in the world,” I say.

“And you’re an agent for them,” Pops says, almost smiling now with pride. “Like you work on cases to save people? That’s something to be proud of, son. You should have told me that.”

“You know I never sought your approval,” I say. I thoroughly believe that other people’s judgments of me are none of my concern and that goes for my pops. I don’t need to prove myself to him or make him proud. What’s the bloody point anyway? As soon as I subscribe to others’ endorsements of me then I set myself up for failure when they undoubtedly disapprove of me one day.

“Yes, I know, but for all these years I thought you were… well, you know,” he says.

“Working in a shifty business,” I say.

“Well, yeah,” he says with a relieved chuckle. “Actually even worse than shifty at times. When you disappeared for all those years, well, I thought the worst. And then you returned but had changed so much. However, to know you work as an agent helping people. Well, that’s nice. Do you think you’ll continue to move up the ranks in the company?”

I now regard him with a great deal of annoyance. “What do you think the most powerful position in the world is?” I say.

He thinks for moment. “Well, it has to be leader of a free nation.”

“Wrong,” I say. “Those blokes are fairly useless. They work for us and don’t even know it,” I say, pointing at my chest. “And for twenty years I held the second most powerful position in the world as the Head Strategist for the Lucidites.”

“Wait… what?” he says, his eyes growing large.

The old tailor’s red eyes do the same as my pops when he looks up at me.

“Well, it could be argued I was in the most powerful position, but the Head Official probably doesn’t want to hear that,” I say, thinking of Trey Underwood and what a great team we made together. His moral fiber and my superior logic.

“Son, you’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

I lower my chin and regard him with a dull expression.

He releases another laugh. “That’s right. You’re not the type for such things. That’s what you’re going to say, aren’t you?”

I nod.

“Well, this is just too much. Who would have thought, my son, the most powerful man in the world. Saving people and making the world a better place. That would have made your mum real proud,” Pops says.

I don’t nod or respond. The idea I could have made my mum proud. Well, that tightens my throat. I actually cared what she thought, but only a little. Really, I just never wanted to hurt her. Didn’t want her to worry about me, although I realize now that was impossible.

Then confusion wrinkles my pops’s long forehead. “However, why aren’t you still in that position?” he says. “Did something happen?”

“It was just time for me to be done,” I say.

A look of remorse falls on his face. “Oh, it’s Dahlia, isn’t it? You wanted to be with her in case—”

“No, that’s not it!” I yell, making the fragile old man beside me jump slightly.

“Son, this is something—”

“We aren’t discussing that,” I say, jerking my arm away from the tailor now sticking pins into the sleeve.

“But Ren, I know what you’re feeling and—”

“You don’t know what I’m feeling because I don’t have emotions,” I say, stepping off the platform.

“If you’d just talk to me about this then—”

“This discussion is over,” I say and then whip around and face the tailor, who is staring at me, bewildered. “The suit is off,” I say, pulling off the jacket and grabbing mine, which is stiff and worn in too many places. “And you will forget everything you heard just now. We never met,” I say, throwing a strong intention behind the words.

The man nods like in a daze. The mind control was effortless on his crippled brain.

Then I turn and stalk out of the shop, leaving my pops behind.

Chapter Fourteen

Pops rides in the middle row, making strange noises at the little monster. I didn’t say anything to him after leaving him in the shop. And in typical Pops style he just let the whole thing go. There was really nothing to discuss. I wish for him to mind his own bloody business in this instance like he did with my job for all those years. However, I sense he thinks he can help Dahlia and me. He can’t and should just stick to entertaining toddlers.

“Mind if we stop?” Dahlia says when we approach a city in Northern California.

“Yes!” Adelaide says dramatically.

I turn to see her spring up from the third row, her red hair stuck to her face where there are crease marks from her lying on the seat.

“Oh, bloody hell. I was certain we left you in San Francisco,” I say.

“I know you did and were trying to leave me behind. That’s why I had Granddad knock on my door when we were about to depart,” she says.

“Always so helpful,” I say to the man who I love and also slightly resent, mostly love though.

“Anyway, yes, let’s stop. I’ve got to piss like a race horse,” Adelaide says. “Please pull over soon.”

“Miss Doolittle would also benefit from a book on etiquette if you think we can find such reading at one of these stops,” I say.

Dahlia pulls the car onto the off-ramp. “Eureka, California. Sounds like the perfect place to stop,” she sings.

“Where does this thing you’re labeling a trip have us going?” I say, realizing that we’ve just been toddling up the coast. The diva might have us staying in a hostel in Canada or washing hippies in the streets of Portland. I really should have been on the planning committee for this foray.

“We’re going all over,” she says simply.

“Is there a final destination planned, like a grand finale, or is that at a mortuary, like I suspect?” I say.

“Just you wait, Ren Lewis,” she says.

“The anticipation is killing me,” I say in a monotone as Dahlia parks the beast on what appears to be a main road. Quaint shops line the avenue, and in the distance the blue waters of a bay can be spotted. I’ve always enjoyed water. Maybe it’s because of my time at the Institute and because it is considered a protective element to Lucidites, but there’s something healing about water. I don’t believe the same can be said for the other elements.

“Let me out,” Adelaide says, busting through the door. She sprints for a nearby shop to do her business.

Pops already has Lucien out of his seat. “I’ll take the little tyke to that patch of green over there,” he says, indicating a park area. “Let him get out some energy.”

I peel out of the car to find the air is moist and full of salt. It’s clean and not laced with the exhaust I’m used to in Los Angeles.

“Come on, Ren, walk with me,” Dahlia says.

I join her on the sidewalk, offering an arm to her. Even with the ridiculously large hat and glasses she’s still the most beautiful woman in the world. Not beautiful because her features are perfectly balanced, although they are. There’s a mystery in this woman’s eyes, something that hints at her wild side. And what she said all those years ago when she barged into my flat and demanded I take her to lunch is true. Dahlia is too big for this world. She’s a magnet for attention because she’s completely extraordinary in a mostly ordinary world. And she has a work ethic to match mine. How could I not be enamored by this woman, the only person in the world that my powers don’t work on?

The shops fall away and we find ourselves on a boardwalk, the harbor quickly approaching.

“Ren, I want to talk about it,” Dahlia says, her voice faltering a bit on the last word.

My arm tightens around hers. “We promised we wouldn’t. Not while on this trip.”

“I know, but it’s starting to overwhelm my thoughts and I feel like talking about it will help,” she says.

Dahlia tugs me over to the rail, where the water stretches out in front of us. I have the urge to throw myself into the bay. It’s not like I need to worry about messing up my suit, which was cleaned again at the hotel but now has holes in places and my shirt has stains marked by this journey.

Instead of launching myself into the mossy water I turn to Dahlia, giving her what she deserves, my full attention.

“What do you want to discuss?” I say.

“Well, for starters, I feel like since we were given the news we’ve avoided talking about the future. We should discuss how we will handle things in a worst-case scenario. Actually, I think we are both in denial and need to come to terms with this reality,” she says.

“What’s happened isn’t something that we need to worry about affecting the future. We are going to deal with it and then we are going to move on,” I say simply.

“This may be something we can’t fix,” she says, taking my hands. Hers shake in mine, causing something to vibrate in my throat.

“We can fix this, Dahlia. This is going to go away,” I say, my voice gruff and raw.

She releases a nervous giggle and it sounds all wrong right now. “You, like me, are afraid to say it. To name it,” she says, and the smile is gone, replaced with a tragic piercing look. It’s as if all the light evaporated from her eyes all of a sudden.

“I can. It’s just not necessary,” I say.

“Cancer,” she says. And that one word is a bullet ripping through my insides. “Ren, I have cancer. We have to face it together.”

I want to tell her I haven’t stopped facing it but it isn’t true. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea. I’ve seen so much. My mind has sorted through the most complex scenarios in history and yet… The idea that the love of my life has cancer isn’t something I can come to terms with. It’s in her, the same way it was in my mum threatening to steal her life away. And again I’m helpless. And it’s not that I have so little faith in God. It’s that I know him. Know he rips people out of my life. Finds ways to make me tear my own heart out by tearing people away. Making me vulnerable to the one thing I can’t control. Saving the people I love.

“What do you want me to do?” I say.

“Nothing. I want you to allow me to say those words, the ones you interrupted the other night. The ones that should have followed when you read the doctor’s report and bleak prognosis,” she says.

“Why? What good will it do?” I say, squeezing her fingers so tight I’m afraid I’m hurting her. And that thought slices at my heart.

“I need to say it. I need you to allow me to say it,” Dahlia says. The event that triggered this trip’s conception happened three weeks ago. It was the news that Dahlia had cancer and it had taken over. My photographic memory won’t allow me to forget that look Dahlia gave me when she told me the news, like she pitied me, like this was my diagnosis and not hers. And then she opened her mouth to say those two words and sensing what she was about to say, knowing it, I turned and stormed away.

And she’s right. I blotted out her moment to express herself, and for the selfish reason that I couldn’t stand to see her weak.

“Go on then,” I say to her as warm summer air dashes across my cheeks.

Dahlia releases my hand and straightens, like she’s conquering something rather than lying down in front of it. Like she’s overpowering it rather than admitting she’s at its mercy.

With clear bright eyes she says, “I’m afraid.”

“I know,” I say with a curt nod.

“I’m afraid that this cancer is going to kill me. That it will take me away from you. And that you’ll never forgive God. That you’ll explode with fury and never have a moment of peace again,” Dahlia says.

Of course she’s worried for me in all of this. Worried of how I’ll survive if she dies. “Dahlia, if fucking cancer takes you away from me….” I say, but lose the right words, and they need to be right. My words need to be exact in expressing what I want to say.

“Ren, this is what we need to face together. To deal with. We need to talk through all of this,” she says.

I now grip both her shoulders and look down at her. “There’s nothing for me to deal with. I won’t be bitter if you die.”

She tilts her chin to the side, baffled by this response. “Really? Why?” And Dahlia almost appears a little disappointed, like me not being heartbroken without repair is unacceptable.

I squeeze her shoulders. “If God takes you from this world then I know how to find you. I know where you will go and I know how to get there,” I say, pure conviction in my voice. No one knows I have this power, but I indeed do.

She doesn’t look surprised. Dahlia would never be. She would have sensed this all about me. Know the great secrets I’m forced to keep. “What will something like that do to you?” she says because she’s incredibly brilliant and knows there would be a cost for something that great. She is keen about how actions and results work in my world, which is different than hers.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Ren…”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, and it’s true. Even though the act of finding her in the afterlife will create a schism in my soul I would do it. I know I’d have to. The way to journey into the land of the dead is relatively new knowledge for me but I believe it to be true and know I could pull it off.

“You mustn’t do this, Ren. I can’t allow you to follow me if I die. It isn’t natural.”

I smile and feel the tenderness in the expression mirror itself in Dahlia’s eyes. “You won’t be able to stop me.”

“Ren—”

“If soul mates exist, then Dahlia, you are mine,” I say, cutting her off. “And that’s exactly how I know I can find you. No matter where you go from this world I can find you.”

“But you belong here,” she says.

I shake my head, a sincere smile on my lips. “No, Dahlia, I forever belong with you. That’s not marriage, that not me blindly committing myself to you. That’s pure instinct. If I’m not yours, then I’m nothing.”

“Ren,” she says, breathless.

“I know it makes me sound like I need you, but—”

“It’s okay,” she says, pushing forward into my arms. “Because I need you.”

And I press her into me, realizing she’s right. And it’s all right for us to need each other.

Chapter Fifteen

Dahlia lets out a long relieving sigh when she settles into the middle seat next to Lucien. “It feels so good not to drive and relax back here. Thanks, Reynold, for taking a leg of the trip,” she says.

My pops has checked the rearview mirror’s position fourteen times before putting the car into reverse and getting us back on the road.

“You know I could have driven,” I say to the road but meant for Dahlia.

“That’s okay, I wanted an adventure, not a car wreck,” she says.

“I’m a bloody fantastic driver,” I say.

“Yes, dear, but your driving is a bit aggressive for my taste,” she says.

“Well, at the speed we are going now we will never arrive to the bee farm or cheese factory or whatever other revolting place you have in mind for us,” I say.

“Well, I’m hoping you will keep an open mind about our next destination,” she says with a yawn. “Reynold, just follow the GPS and we will be there in an hour or two.”

“Or three,” I say, eyeing the speedometer. “You realize that this beast can manage speeds that would put the tractors in Peavey to shame. Feel free to step on it.”

Pops chuckles. “Oh, Ren, not everything is about speed and efficiency. You’ve got to learn to enjoy the ride.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, instantly dismissing his awful cliché advice.

“I’m just so thrilled to be on a family vacation,” he says and then slaps the steering wheel. “Who would have thought? You and me on a road trip. It’s about the best experience I could have dreamed of.”

“You should really get out more,” I say.

“Well, and to have you, Adelaide, Lucien, and Dahlia all together. Well, I’m one lucky man,” Pops says.

“It is wonderful being all together, Reynold,” Dahlia says, a smile in her tired voice. She sounds like she’s about to drop off into Middling dreams.

“I agree,” Adelaide sings from the back. “Even if Ren loathes my very existence, I’m glad we’ve taken the opportunity to do this trip together.”

“You all are going to make me throw up,” I say.

“And I appreciate you guys allowing me to tag along,” says a voice that I don’t recognize.

I twist around to see a woman sitting next to Adelaide. She’s in her thirties and has boring brown hair and glasses and looks just like an accountant with a rap sheet.

“Who the fuck are you?” I say to the lady.

“I met her back in Eureka,” Adelaide says, giving me a proud smile. “She asked for a ride and I figured no one would mind if she joined us.”

Dahlia, who is half asleep, waves absentmindedly at the back. “Whatever,” she says.

“The more, the merrier,” my pops sings.

“No,” I say to him. “Not whatever,” I say in Dahlia’s direction. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I say to Adelaide.

“Oh, shocking, I’ve screwed up again by your standards,” she says.

“Not by my standards,” I say. “By any sane person’s standards. You all apparently aren’t that. Not anymore.”

“I’m not an axe murderer,” the lady says.

“That’s what all axe murderers say,” I say to the woman, who looks somewhat amused.

The hitchhiker then laughs. “He’s funny,” she says to Adelaide.

“Who are you?” I say, realizing we are in the middle of nowhere now but I’m going to drop this thing off at the next sign of civilization. I have really softened up.

“I’m Jessica. But I go by Sica,” she says.

I shake my head at her. “What? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. Who goes by the last part of their name?” Then I remember Leen and Ephanie, the dumb woman with the idiotic advice.

“I do,” Sica says with a shrug.

“Addy,” I say, looking at my dumbass daughter. “Why the fuck did you bring a hitchhiker into our vehicle?”

She gives me a mischievous smile. “I was bored.”

“That’s because you’re boring,” I say, realizing she did this as another tactic to try and irritate me. It really is her hobby.

“But honestly, I just felt compelled. I think she’s one of us,” Adelaide says with a giant wink. “You know, a DT. A reamda ravelerta. A sleep journey person. A—”

“I know what you mean. And if this woman was then she wouldn’t be hitchhiking. Did you ever think of that?” I say, resisting the urge to rip back there and strangle my offspring.

“Laide is right,” the woman says, pointing at my daughter. “We are really all one. We are the same. I am you and you are me and we bring people along because we are all connected.”

“No, no, and fucking no,” I say to the woman.

“Ask her where she’s going,” Adelaide says, looking excited.

I roll my neck, feeling a strain start to press into my muscles from being turned around in my seat.

“Jess, where the fuck are you going?” I say.

“Sica,” the woman corrects. “Jess is my sister.”

“How the fuck do you have a sister by the same name?” I say.

She shrugs. “My parents thought it would be cool,” the woman says, drawing out the last word like a fucking hippie would. “And I’m going through space and time, man. That’s where I’m headed.”

“See,” Adelaide says. “She’s one of us.”

“No, she’s on drugs,” I say.

“Aren’t we all on something?” the woman says.

“No, Sue, some of us are trying to hold onto our brain cells,” I say.

“What’s the point? Intelligence is infinite,” the hitchhiker says.

“No, stupidity is. Intelligence, I’ve found, is rare and possibly something most humans are allergic to,” I say. “And since this conversation with you is making me feel dumb, why don’t you shut your mouth unless you want me to hit the eject button for your seat.”

“I told you he’d let you stay,” Adelaide says. “He’s really a humanitarian, my father.”

“Thanks for allowing me on this part of your adventure, Nold,” says the woman, who obviously wants today to be her last on earth.

“Shut the fuck up, Jessy,” I say to her.

***

The ocean disappears on our left almost at once when the road veers to the right and then all at once we are cloaked in a green darkness. I look up from my book to find trees. Trees every fucking where. Massive trees with bark as red as my hair.

“Oh, we’re almost there,” Dahlia says, waking from her dreams.

“Almost where?” I say, an edge to my voice.

“Don’t be mad, but I’ve always wanted to see the redwoods. I knew you wouldn’t like the idea, but I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind for me,” she says.

“Dahlia, you know I don’t do trees…” I say, pressing my eyes shut, my fingers pushing into my temples. An old anxiety storming back.

“Then stay in the car,” she says as Pops pulls into a turn-out. “I picked up a picnic at the town back there, though, and think you should join us.”

“No fucking way,” I say, staring out the windshield at the massive beasts towering everywhere, surrounding me like a bunch of demons about to close in on me and suffocate me with nightmares.

“Have it your own way,” she says as the lot pile out of the car.

Pops slaps me on the shoulder. “Hope you change your mind, son.” Then he slides out and joins the women and toddler as they stretch and walk off into the forest.

I pull up my book, certain that the last thing I’m going to do is join those pain in the asses as they cram cheese and crackers into their mouths. Then I remember I have to take a piss, which I should be able to do just outside of the vehicle. And then I can be back inside the compartment with a long stretch to read my book which offers the distraction I need.

I open the door and jerk with surprise when I find Jessica standing nearby, leaning beside the SUV.

“What are you doing here?” I say with disgust.

“Waiting,” she says simply.

“Well, sod off. I’ve got to take a piss,” I say.

“In a minute. I wanted to tell you something first,” she says.

I consider getting in the woman’s head and making her climb up a tree and jump, but decide against it. Something in her eyes gives me a curious pause.

“You seem like a man who has lived half a life,” Jess says.

“I’ve fucking had more experiences than anyone on this planet,” I say.

“And yet you’ve never experienced the shade of a tree or the laughter of a child or the heartbreak of losing a loved one,” she says, too much confidence in her words. And how could she know all that?

“I’ve lost people,” I say, my voice tight. I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with this halfwit.

“Yes, but have you ever allowed yourself to experience that loss or have you only shoved it away? Retreated from the pain? My guess is that you’re not a man who has dealt with the loss. That’s why it marks your eyes, and restricts your past and therefore your future,” she says.

“You know nothing,” I say with a hiss.

“Maybe, but I will offer you one piece of wisdom I learned on my travels.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say.

“Then don’t, but I’m going to say this anyway,” she says with a prideful smile. “The future is a product of the demons we lay to rest. Get over the past to enjoy what’s to come.” And I don’t like her use of the word demons, knowing I’ve just described the trees as that.

“That’s shitty advice,” I say.

“Maybe so, but couple it with other words of wisdom and it might help you,” Sica says.

“Help me with what?” I say.

“With finally being present, not restricted by the loss of the past and the fear of that loss that will come in the future,” she says.

I give the woman a cold stare, not certain how to respond.

She looks up at the dark canopy overhead. “I can’t think of a better place to bury your demons,” the woman says and then turns and walks into the forest, humming a song I know and yet I can’t place.

I’m in a slight daze when something on the ground catches my eyes. I lean over and grab the object. It’s a key. But not a regular one. It’s an old-fashioned skeleton key. It’s attached to a wooden keychain. And on it is engraved the name “Sica.”

“You dropped this,” I say but when I look up the woman is gone. I consider leaving it but instead I trudge forward into the darkening forest.

Chapter Sixteen

The forest air is rich with the smell of dirt and chill, laced with so much moisture my shirt feels instantly wet. Jessica took a path that is partially obscured by bloody ferns. The fucking weeds are everywhere, it appears. And the trees, they’re more like buildings. I’ve never been to the redwood forest. It’s one of the few places I haven’t seen because why the hell would I want to. But the love of my life had to see some overgrown trees and now here I am. People go off and get cancer and then I have to do everything they say.

The key in my hand is warm. I’m not sure why I feel the need to get it back to the woman. Maybe the do-gooder mentality from the Lucidites is slowly starting to wear off on me. All I know is the key feels familiar in my hands, like I’ve held it before. Or seen it maybe. It’s copper and rusted in places and edged in green patina in other places.

“Jessica!” I call out at the edge of the woods.

There’s a stirring in the distance. Leaves move from someone or something retreating or approaching.

“I’ve got your key,” I say like a fucking idiot to the trees.

Again something shakes a small twig-filled tree, but this time on my right.

“Are you there?” I say, louder this time.

“Huh?” I hear the woman say, although her response could have been a bird.

“Jessica, is that you?” I say, and with every passing second I feel like a bigger moron. I turn back to stare at the SUV, sitting in the parking area, roughly ten yards away. I could be comfortably sitting in there, reading my book, and not out in bloody nature.

“I’m here,” she says, but on my left, and she sounds so far away.

“You dropped a key. I have it,” I say, rolling the thing around in my fingers.

“What?” she says, her voice now directly in front of me.

What the fuck is going on?

“Your key!” I yell at top volume. “I have it!”

“Will you bring it to me?” the woman’s voice sings and she sounds closer, although I can’t see anything besides trees stacked on top of each other.

“No, I bloody won’t bring it to you,” I say. “I’m going to leave it right here.” I hold the key up, about to drop it on the earth below.

“Presently, I’ve got myself tied up in some thorns,” she says.

“Well, it will be here for you when you get your git ass out of there,” I say, my fingers about to release the key.

“No, don’t. I can’t lose it. Everything gets lost in the forest. I’m just right here,” she says, and her voice sounds like it’s on the other side of the closest tree to me. “Would you be a dear and help me out. I’m hurt from the thorns. They’ve tangled me up pretty badly.”

I turn back to the SUV and then to the forest.

“Presently, you’re all I have,” she says, and her voice reminds me of Dahlia’s when we spoke on the pier. It was pleading and weak and tender and struck a note in me.

My chin rises and I regard the beast in front of me. Trees. Huge trees with trunks bigger around than the Audi behind me. These monsters that are hundreds of feet tall tower over me. Precarious branches hanging from them. The whole scene in front of me is organic and untidy and in need of a serious manicure. The British would never keep their forest in such a sorry state, all overgrown and smelling of rot.

“Please,” Jessica says, her voice so much closer than before. “I need help.”

What am I really afraid of? I’m a man who can create illusions and control minds and teleport. These are just stupid trees. I look at the sign beside the path. It reads “Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park.”

“All right, Jedediah, make sure your trees fucking behave themselves. I’m going in,” I say, walking forward. The ferns caress my slacks as I enter the path. The earth under my feet is soft, probably covered in a billion dead leaves. Fucking dumbass trees and their disorganized ways. It takes longer than I figured to walk around the tree where I suspect Jessica has gotten herself tangled up. Maybe the length of time it takes is because the fucker is so huge, or because each step is followed by a tentative pause. Am I really worried about being knocked out by a branch like Jimmy? It would be something I couldn’t easily escape. Like him, I probably wouldn’t see it coming. And then I’d be gone from this world. Away from Dahlia with no way to comfort her.

But truly, after everything I’ve been through, am I really afraid to die? That doesn’t seem realistic. And yet, everyone must fear their own death on some level.

“Where are you?” I say when I don’t find Jessica behind the tree.

“I’m over here,” she says, and her voice is quieter, a few yards off. “I’m past the first line of trees.”

“Of course you bloody are,” I say, turning back to the road; however, I can barely see it now. I’m not that deep into the woods and yet it feels like I am.

I stalk forward, the key clenched in my hand. I could just teleport over to her, but I don’t know where I’d land. And I’m growing more pissed by the second that this little errand is causing me to do the one thing I haven’t done in all my life: hang out in nature. Even before Jimmy’s death, I never spent much time outside. I didn’t appreciate what a showoff nature always is. I’ve always been powerful, but in the backwoods I’m mostly powerless. And that’s a problem, but I’m not sure why. My thoughts, which seem to be spinning around like cotton candy on a spool, have me distracted. That’s probably why I march farther than I intended and off the path by the time I realize I still haven’t found the daft woman tangled in thorns.

“Where the fuck are you?” I say, turning about. All I see now are trees. No road. No sky. Just trees.

“Past the point of return, I’m afraid,” I hear her voice behind me, even deeper in the woods.

“What?” I say, and her words trigger the message that Leen said to me at her farm. And then like a storm following a steady wind, the tour guide’s words stream through my head. Ephanie had also spoken about the past. What had each woman said? And as if the play button on a recorder has been pushed I hear their voices in my head, one on top of the other.

The past can’t be undone.

You need to enjoy the present to not regret the past.

Nor can it be redone.

The present is a bitch until you realize it’s all you have.

Get over the past to enjoy what’s to come.

I halt. What’s going on? I hold up my hand and realize I’m shaking from adrenaline, but this makes no sense. I’m always steady. And yet, I have no idea what’s going on right now. I’m deep in the redwood forest, chasing after a stranger and replaying conversations I had with bloody nutters.

“Jessica, where are you?” I yell.

“Past the point of return,” she repeats, her voice like it’s coming through a tunnel.

“What? I thought you just got yourself tangled in a patch of thorns.”

“Not me. You,” she sings, and the last word sounds like a call from an owl, almost melodic.

“What?” I say, spinning around, doing a full three hundred and sixty. I then march back the way I came, but it looks different. There is a tree lying on its side, having toppled due to age. On its side it is taller than me, making me feel instantly small. Weak. Human. On top of the fallen tree is moss and other trees have grown. I definitely didn’t pass this set of trees. I would have remembered. And then my photographic memory blanks. For the first time in all my life, I can’t accurately remember how I got somewhere and how to get out. I turn and go a different direction. And soon I realize that I’m fucking lost. There’s no sky to tell me the direction of the sun or how I’m supposed to get my ass out of here. I slap my trouser pocket to learn that I’ve left my mobile in the car. That’s fine. I’ll just have to teleport away.

“I’m leaving your fucking key here,” I say to the forest.

“It isn’t my key,” I hear overhead. I jerk my head up to see the green canopy above me. The leaves sway in the cool breeze.

“What? But you said… And it has your name on it,” I say and hold up the key. But then the word on the key chain shakes my chest. There engrained on the redwood placard attached to the key are three single letters.

REN

“But I saw… Your name was here,” I say, holding up the key, talking to the forest that appears empty.

What the fuck is going on? And then the old gypsy woman from the petrol station darts to my memory, which is apparently restored. Her words pour through my consciousness.

“Three wise women. They will find you. And you must listen to them or pay the consequence of ignoring their wisdom. One will give you the key to your future.”

I stare at the key. How is this piece of junk a key to my future? I throw my head up to the sky which I can’t see, but I do spy golden light pouring through the trees now, dusk fast approaching. “What the fuck, God? What kind of game are you playing at?”

When I get no answer, as usual, I say, “Jessica, this is dumb. I don’t care if you’re lost, I’m not playing anymore.”

And I expect to hear more silence, but instead the woman’s voice sings, “I’m not the one who is lost. Or unwilling to deal with the losses that have happened.” And her voice seems to come from everywhere.

I spin around. “What are you talking about?”

There’s no answer. And I’m angry. Livid. What does she mean? I’ve dealt with loss, I think… But then I realize I have no evidence to support that. I ran when my mum died. I sought revenge when Jane died. And most recently, I pretended that killing Vivian, my wife, was not a mark on my soul. Have I really never dealt with loss? And my mind flashes to Dahlia and the inevitable fact that I’ll lose her. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or this year, but her death most likely will come before my own. Most don’t beat a cancer as aggressive as hers. And I can follow her, but the death will still be an experience. One I’ll have to deal with. An adventure I can’t avoid. I realize I’ve been walking, pacing through the forest, managing my way around the fallen trunks and vines as nimbly as ever. I roll up my sleeves, realizing I don’t know where I’m going or why I continue to go. Trudge on, deeper into the humid forest, like there’s something just up ahead. An answer to this riddle that I didn’t even know was my life.

My mind thinks of my mum, that loss that did scar my heart. I let her die, never telling her so much. And then I pretended as if it didn’t matter. I’ve continued to live this half-life, feeling that it was a punishment I deserved. Even now, I realize I’m the strongest man I’ve ever met and prone to avoiding adventure. Is it possible that the past has bound me, making it impossible for me to allow my daughter close? Made me cold to Dahlia when she needs me? Cursed my pops when he’s all of my past that I have left? And then there’s Lucien, a boy I look at and see myself, but I rarely allow myself to look at him. Afraid of what I’ll really see.

The future is a product of the demons we lay to rest, I hear the hippie woman, Jess, say in my head.

I look down at the key in my hand. It’s a symbol and I don’t discount such things as insignificant. Signs have saved humanity more than once. And symbolism has power. I know that. My mind flashes to Sica just before she walked into the forest. She had said, “I can’t think of a better place to bury your demons.”

I hold the key in one hand and look up at the great redwood in front of me. It’s just then that the tree’s size accosts me. It’s somehow bigger than any other I’ve stumbled upon. It’s actually a cluster of trunks and easily the size of a large house. And my chin keeps reaching up higher, and higher, trying to allow my eyes to find where the tree ends, but it seems infinite. And just then my breath feels shallow, my head swims in a cloud of mist. The beast in front of me is mesmerizing. It’s beautiful and majestic and not the horrid thing I’ve always thought it was.

My weight brings me down and I’m on my knees. The earth underneath me. My always well-manicured fingers dig into the soft soil. Old memories and hurts rise to the surface, like lily pads in a pond. Jimmy’s death. My mum’s passing. Jane’s murder. And with these scars the fears associated with them unfurl in my chest. The way I’ve allowed each of these losses to restrict me seems to be undone. When my eyes adjust to the present moment I realize I’ve dug a hole that’s a foot deep. I pull the key from beside me and drop it into the earth. It somehow feels heavier than before and I’m greatly relieved when I let it go. Then I shove the dirt on top of the key, patting down the earth, which feels cool in my fingers. It feels healing. With my last pat I hear words come out of my mouth and they surprise me. “The past is gone. The present is all I have or need.”

As soon as I stand, I hear giggling. It’s the unmistakable laughter of a child. And then I realize that a child’s laughter is an unmistakable sound. This is a new idea for me. Not at all tentative, but rather curiously, I peel forward, managing my way around the trees. Each scene changes as I clear another tree, and then from around a large redwood a little figure appears. It takes my eyes a second to recognize the sight before me. There, toddling on two feet, is Lucien, walking and laughing.

“Lucien,” I say, unnerved and elated. “What are you doing out here?”

“What do you mean out here?” Adelaide says, running around a tree. And then she looks down. “Lucien, you’re walking!”

And just then the little monster rocks back and lands on his bottom. Relentless as ever, he pushes up again as steady as if this isn’t his second time walking and marches forward until he’s gripping my slacks with his dirty hands. I lean over and pick up the child, holding him to my waist. His hands make dark marks on my already filthy shirt.

“Was that his first time?” I say to Adelaide, because I need to know for certain.

“Yeah, it was. And what are you doing? I thought you were staying in the car,” she says, angling her hand in the distance, where through a few well-spaced trees I can see the SUV.

“I was,” I say. “I changed my mind though.” And then I set Lucien down and walk forward, toward the sound of familiar humming. Just on the other side of another massive tree, there in the clearing is Dahlia throwing a blanket down on the ground. Pops stands beside her, his hands pinned to his lower back as he takes in the great trees around him.

Dahlia turns when I approach, a radiant smile unfurling when she sees me. “Ren, you decided to join us. I’m so glad.” And then she throws her arms around my shoulders, pulling me down to her.

I peer back at her when she releases me. “I didn’t want to miss this adventure,” I say, placing a single kiss on the corner of her mouth. And then I realize I’ve somehow been freed to live in the moment. The future is a free beast allowed to be whatever it becomes.

Epilogue

Life isn’t an adventure. That’s like saying life is a riddle. It’s not. Sometimes it’s confusing. Perplexing. But often life presents itself fairly straightforwardly. Usually we aren’t listening or paying attention. Or maybe even we have our vision obstructed by the past or colored by old hurts. And life isn’t a missile we’re forced to ride. There are ups and downs. There are uncertainties. But life is usually a series of days linked by chores and learning and hopefully punctuated by the kindness of another person or two.

Life is a journey.

Sometimes we’re stalled. Sometimes we get lost. Sometimes we’re speeding by so fast we miss something. And sometimes we break down. The path we take dictates most of what we experience, but our approach is the vehicle. And hopefully we enjoy the time with the people we’ve decided to take the ride with, because they aren’t guaranteed to be on our journey with us forever.

Past, present, and future are three parts of the whole, constantly intertwined and shifting as we change and grow.

I’m Ren Lewis and this is my evolution.

The End

Acknowledgements

Thank you first to the readers. You all love Ren. Strangely you can’t get enough of this guy who if he met you on the streets he’d tell you to sod off. I get the best messages regarding our unlovable redhead. It’s funny that I think he’s everyone’s alter ego in a way. He’s the part of us that we filter out. He says the things we want to and yet won’t allow ourselves because society would reject us. But Ren gets away with it. He gets away with being a jerk and you all seem to love it. I wrote this novella because the readers wanted more Ren banter. It was supposed to be a short story, but Ren tells his own tales and he had a lot to say and so this became a novella. Thank you to Jennifer for the fabulous ideas. Also, thank you to my inner circle who sparked much of the inspiration: Colleen, Stephanie and Jessica. And thank you to Christopher for all the support and great ideas.

Thank you to all my author friends, who without you I’d be very lost in this gigantic world of publishing. Thank you to Casey, Casey, Caroline, Jeff, Sarah, Derek, Christine, John and so many others who I learn from and relate to.

Thank you to Katy, Cheer, Jennifer and BOD. Love that group and the support.

Thank you to my betas Melinda, Heidi, Kelly, Stephanie, Jessica, Anne, Christopher, Katie and of course first chair, Colleen. What would I do without you all making me look good?

Thank you to my readers and fans and all the bloggers who make this so much easier.

Thank you to my cover designer, Andrei Bat. You should have run away long ago and changed your name, but I’d probably still find you and make you design my covers. Another fabo cover. Can you believe this is our 13th together? And I only have like 20 more in line for you to do before the year is out.

Thank you to Christine LePorte, my editor. I really relied on you to tell me if this was a good idea or not. The last thing I want is Ren jumping the shark. Thanks for the counseling and more.

Thank you to spirit who keeps granting me with wonderful ideas. That’s the only explanation that I have for the voices in my head.

Thank you to my friends and family. You all put up with my constant chatter about books and my current work in progress. You even deal with me when I talk incessantly in a British accent.

Thank you to Lydia. I remember driving through the country and detailing this entire book to you. When you listened without interrupting and when I was done said, I want to read that, I knew I had a good idea. And talking out my books to you has always been my best device. I hope you realize right now that without you I can’t write. You are forever my muse. Forever the love of my life.

One-Twenty-Six Press.

Ren: The Monster’s Death

Sarah Noffke

Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Noffke

All rights reserved

Copyeditor: Christine LePorte

Cover Design: Andrei Bat

All rights reserved. This was self-published by Sarah Noffke under One-Twenty-Six Press. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are seeking permission send inquiry at http: www.sarahnoffke.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary: When the greatest tragedy Ren Lewis has ever encountered besets him, he takes an unfathomable path to stop God from destroying his life.

Published in the United States by One-Twenty-Six Press

ASIN: B01N805317

To Jessica, aka Sica, because I am you and you are me and we are both Ren Lewis.

REN: THE MONSTER’S DEATH

Author Note

Where do you start when you’ve just written your heart and soul into a five book series? At the very beginning. I remember the day Ren Lewis came to me. I was writing the Lucidites series and the funny thing is that first scene never made it into the books. But from there that man went on to appear in six of my novels. And it was a reader named Kelly, you know who you are, who said I should write Ren’s story. I like challenges and so I accepted it. And I thought it would be a short story. I thought I didn’t have much to say on the subject of this man who was mostly hated and somewhat loved in my other books. And two weeks later I completed a sixty thousand word novel. That was supposed to be the end of it. Honestly. But then the redhead wouldn’t shut up. He had more to say and it kept me up at night. And so I decided to give him a three book series. That should suffice, right? Oh no, Ren Lewis isn’t happy unless ALL of his story is told. And so I kept writing. At first it was because of the readers. They loved the idea of sending Ren on a bad vacation where everything went wrong. Again, I love a challenge and so Ren 3.5 was born. That was going to be the end, right? Where else do you go after a wacky vacation? But it wasn’t the end. Ren had one last story to tell. One that I’m certain he was planning on telling all along. He’s used me as his vessel to tell his tale and I don’t know what to say except for, “thank you”.

Many people ask me where Ren came from. Well, he was probably born from my own fascination with British culture and my upbringing watching BBC programming. But honestly, at the end of the day, Ren Lewis is me. He’s the things I think and never say. He’s the uncensored part of me. Don’t get me wrong. Ren is smarter, wiser, more powerful and cunning than I’ll ever be. Even I have to draw the line at some of the things he says and does. However, he’s my alter ego. So now you know. Honestly, Ren is the part of all of us that we’ve caged because society says we should. And that’s probably for the best because few can pull off the snark like this man. The world would be an awful place if everyone was Ren. There can be only one and here I leave you with his final tale.

Note

Between Ren: The Monster’s Adventure (#3.5) and this book there is another story. It hasn’t been chronicled yet in its entirety, however events related to that story will be mentioned in this one. Readers of the Dream Traveler tales and of Ren’s stories should be on the lookout for The Dream Traveler Apocalypse novel, due out early 2018.

Prologue

Death. It’s the one thing we can’t avoid and yet we spend our entire lives trying to circumnavigate away from the experience. We fear death more than change, I’ve found. It’s the greatest change. Our very undoing. Our existence being blotted out. Our consciousness being extinguished from this earth, never to be known in the physical realm again.

Everyone dies. Everyone. No account of immortality has ever been documented and yet we continue to fear this certain fate. Humans take every precaution to secure their life but there is no home safe enough. No healthcare plan that can prevent disease. There is no escape. Death is the shadow that follows all of us. And its promise is a real one that it has never failed to deliver.

For centuries explorers, scientists, and religious followers have sought a way to make the hooded figure of death fail in his quest. And none have persevered. But they didn’t know what I know. They sought fountains of youth and treasures and other sacrificial regimens that would secure their immortality. But it’s not about the blood that runs through our veins. It’s about the approach. Death can’t be thwarted with a miracle cure. It has to be outmaneuvered. People who seek immortality fail to see that they are trying to live forever by never dying. They are idiots. They are wrong. They will always fail. And they aren’t me, the most strategic man on this planet.

I’m Ren Lewis and I’m going to live forever.

Chapter One

“Jesus Christ! Just give me five minutes to myself,” the man with too much gel in his hair plugs says, slamming the door. He pushes his back against the paneled surface, as though trying to bar it against a zombie invasion on the other side. “Damn it,” he says, ramming his fist into his thigh and then immediately grimacing from the self-inflicted pain.

This guy is a real fucking idiot. And he’s absolutely perfect for the job I’m about to give him. He hasn’t sensed me sitting on the leather sofa against the north wall of his office. This isn’t a man who observes his environment. He coasts through life, taking advantage of the things that do grab his attention. He’s not a loser or a winner, just a greedy politician who has experienced a series of undeserved successes due to my actions.

Another distressed sigh falls out of his mouth.

“You fear you’re about to lose the election,” I state, grabbing his attention.

His round eyes jerk in my direction on the far side of the gigantic office. Then they narrow with menace as he pops off the wall.

“How did you get in here?” he says.

Yes, the fucker is more concerned with how I got around Secret Service than the more important question. Bloody git.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with who I am?” I say, casually propping my legs on the glass coffee table in front of me. “I’ve gotten past a few hundred guards and you would rather know how than the important question of why.” I click my tongue and shake my head. “You really are a fucking moron.”

“How dare you! Who do you think you are?” Douglas says, stomping forward, leaning over the table, trying at intimidation. I knew that insulting the dumbass right off the bat would keep him from calling security. People like him are easily distracted and more intent on defending their egos than preserving their safety. People are so incredibly easy to manipulate.

I ignore his idiot question. Again he’s asking the wrong thing. “Who I am and how I got here are actually useless pieces of data for you. They may be curious bits of information but still they are inconsequential,” I say, casually drumming my fingertips on my knee, and he catches the hypnotic gesture immediately. I pause, realizing this job is going to be incredibly easy. This guy has the brain capacity of a jar of mayonnaise.

“What do you want?” he says, standing tall, tying his thick arms across his chest.

“Now you’re asking the right question. Sit down, Doug,” I say, knowing all through the election that he grimaced every time his opponent shortened his name. This is a man who wants to inconvenience people by making them say his full name. People like Christophers and Matthews and Jeffreys really need to get over themselves and go by the shortened versions of their names.

His beady eyes bulge. I tap my fingers on my knee again and it’s immediately caught by his peripheral vision. I’m not going to hypnotize him yet, just trying to keep him calm, a result of watching a single one of my hypnotic movements.

“Without a real effort, I broke into your office, one of the most heavily guarded places in America on this night. Take a fucking seat so we can get this meeting over with,” I say.

The man, who could skip a meal or three and be better off for it, studies me as his gerbil brain considers my words. Again I drum my fingertips and pretty much on cue he slides down and takes a seat in the armchair on my right. I knew he would take that seat instead of the one on the left. It’s why I positioned myself on this side of the sofa.

“Now,” I say, pulling my feet off the table and sitting forward. “I’m the man who is going to help you win this election, but you have to do everything I say from this point forward.”

He explodes at once, tossing his hands over his head. “I’m so far behind in the polls! There’s no way I’m going to win. They are asking for my concession speech. Jill has this election won,” he says, his words coated in defeat.

“It doesn’t matter what the polls say. Who the people voted for. What the Electoral College does. The person I decide will be the next president of this country,” I say.

His mouth pops open wide and a loud laugh storms out. “You? Yeah, right. There’s no one with that much power.”

I arch an eyebrow at him and then create an almost exact replica illusion of a woman. It’s of the candidate who is currently winning the election. I place her in the seat opposite of Douglas. The one with the phony contract and pen sitting in front of it. The seat Douglas didn’t take. “Jill, it appears that Dougy here doesn’t want to be President. I guess the job is yours,” I say and push the contract toward the illusion, who is regarding her opponent with a calm expression, her blonde hair pushed away from her face in the manner that she normally wears it. “Go ahead and sign the deal and you’ll be the next President of the United States.”

From my side vision I watch the fucker beside me shift in his understanding of what is transpiring. It has taken longer than necessary for his reaction to burst out of him, probably due to his low IQ.

“What?” he says, rocketing to a standing position, his hands finding his helmet of hair. “How did you do that? Where did she come from?”

I snap my fingers, but only for effect, and the illusion of the politician disappears. “I’m the man who can make anything happen,” I say and lower my chin and regard him with a cunning stare. “I’m the man who can make you President of this bloody country, but you have to sit the fuck down and agree to everything I say.”

His aged spotted hands are shaking now.

“Sit,” I repeat, as he stares at the chair like he’s thinking Jill will reappear.

The buffoon nods absentmindedly and nearly misses the chair, taking a seat without paying attention.

“So-so-so,” he stutters, peeling his eyes off the empty chair and looking at me. “What do I have to do to be President?”

“Everything I say. And after you’re President you only do what you’re told. You report to my organization every night. You pass the legislation we tell you to. And you don’t do a fucking thing unless we approve,” I say.

“Who is your organization?” he says.

I pull the contract from the other side of the table, positioning it in front of him before handing him the silver ballpoint pen. “The Lucidites,” I say.

The Ivy League–educated idiot regards the contract and then me.

“What is this?” he says.

“Fucking sign it,” I say simply.

He begins reading it, which will take the airhead over an hour.

“It says exactly what I’ve just told you. If we make you President then you do everything we tell you to and nothing else. If you do anything that violates the contract then you will be impeached and imprisoned for heinous crimes,” I say.

“What crimes?” he says.

I dismiss the question with a wave. “We will figure something out. Do we have a deal?” I say.

“Absolutely,” he says now with no stress in his voice, just a giddy laugh.

Yes, I could have used mind control on this fucking jerk but it would wear off and need to be reapplied. This was the better strategy. And the contract is bogus but this ape doesn’t know that. Doug just knows that a man more powerful than him is going to ruin him unless he answers to the Lucidites. And we absolutely would tear him down for insubordination, I’d see to it personally.

I withdraw a card from my inside pocket. “You will tell no one about this deal, is that clear?” I say, now putting intention behind the message. I do need to use mind control to ensure he doesn’t fucking blab at the victory party tonight.

“Yes,” he says, staring at me with a blank expression.

“Good. Sign,” I say, again using intention but now because staring at his wrinkled face is making me sick. This meeting needs to be over.

“Call this number every night of your presidency. Report all important details and follow all instructions given to you. And never act of your own accord. If you have questions about decisions then you call this number. Is that clear?” I say, folding the contract and placing it in my breast pocket.

He nods and then shakes his head. “Can I still pass the retina scanner security bill?”

I regard him blankly. “Why?” I say.

“Because I think it will be cool to have to have eye scans to enter all government facilities,” he says, and sounds slightly high now. He probably is.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I say, ready to be out of the warm office.

“Yes!” he says, throwing a victorious punch in the air.

“Don’t fuck up because we will be watching you,” I say and teleport away, leaving the soon-to-be President alone and probably baffled about my sudden disappearance. He’s definitely not violating the contract after witnessing my party tricks. He probably won’t take a piss without our permission.

Chapter Two

I teleport straight into the conference room of the strategic department as I intended. Three of the closest agents startle, one grabbing her chest like my sudden appearance gave her a mini heart attack. One nearly busts out of his seat but after realizing it’s me he just tenses and presses his fingertips into the arm rest.

“Do you have to do that?” Trent says from the front of the room. He’s got his dumb dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail like he’s a fucking horse.

“I do,” I say, calmly taking a seat at the table.

“It’s just that after the Dream Traveler apocalypse everyone is still on edge. It was a colossal fight and has put a lot of Lucidites into PTSD,” Trent says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Taking the Head Strategist position has really aged him. Maybe I should tell him that.

“Oh, stop exaggerating. It was a little tiff and now it’s over. Let’s move on,” I say, seeing that fear surface in the agents’ eyes in front of me. This last year a new evil decided to rear its head and tried to destroy the Lucidite Institute in an attempt to destroy the world at large. It all seemed very comic book to me, but even I admit the danger was real. Several societies of Dream Travelers banded together to protect the Institute, which is fully responsible for repeatedly keeping the earth out of an apocalyptic age. People died. The Institute was destroyed. I stepped in and saved the fucking day. It was all very boring. However, that’s the past and if the last year has taught me anything it’s that I deal with the past and move on. It shouldn’t be buried or painted on the walls. The past just needs to be let go of. Simple. Easy. Effortless. And it is this philosophy that has changed me in the last twelve months, since Adelaide and Lucien have come into my life. Since all the other changes, I’m almost nice now. And since I have taken this new approach to life and decided it unwise to dwell in the past then I’m not going to be divulging the avenger’s adventure that almost killed us all. That story will be chronicled elsewhere though. It’s a history the Lucidites want remembered. There were lessons learned in those battles that we shouldn’t easily forget.

“Well, maybe you’ll consider teleporting into the corridor next time,” Trent says. He’s lost his usual spark since the war. But I’m certain it will return. He’s resilient, which is why I chose him to replace me as Head Strategist. He just needs time to evolve through the pain.

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “But you know I have a horrid memory and will probably forget. I’m such a fucking airhead and can’t be helped.”

I turn and face the three agents sitting closest to me. “All right, you stooges, the election is set. Go rig it so that billionaire clown Doug wins,” I say.

They just stare at me. God, Trent really has lost the strict management I had in place. I slam my palm down on the table, making the three agents jump. “Now!” I boom and they all three scramble out of their seats, leaving the conference room mostly empty.

Trent clears his throat. “You know, that really should have been my order to give. I realize that you took over during Dream Traveler Apocalypse but this is still my department,” he says.

There he goes with the exaggerated talk. “Well, I think you should fire me for my insubordination,” I say.

“I’m considering writing you up,” he says, and a smile breaks the solemn expression he’d been wearing. I know he feels the weight of his agents’ pains, but that’s a mistake. That’s a burden that will only make his thinking flawed. I know that from personal experience. It’s how I’m able to operate presently. I don’t allow myself to feel others’ pain. My own is enough. And I know how to compartmentalize so I can get shit done. I don’t shove away my pains anymore but I do block them until I have the right capacity to deal with my hurts. I’m like a fucking monk these days with my sage perspective.

“If you keep making a big deal of the past events in front of your agents then they will never progress,” I say to Trent. “They are looking to you to decide how to process. You need to put up a wall and don’t let them see the stress.”

He presses the back of his hand to his long forehead. “I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve tried,” he says, his voice heavy.

“I didn’t say not to feel the pain or not to process it. However, when you are in front of those agents or anyone at the Institute then you need to put on an arranged face and persona. Leaders don’t get the privilege to be human. You need to be stronger than that,” I say.

He nods; the solemn expression is back.

“Dougy will be calling you like a good boy every night. He has been given his reporting instructions,” I say.

“And he agreed?” Trent says.

I lower my chin and regard Trent with a look of disdain that he fully deserves. “Of course he fucking agreed. You might have lost your mojo, but I still have mine.”

“This is fucking atrocious,” I hear from the back of the room.

I wheel around to spy my daughter, Adelaide, slumped in a chair, her arms crossed and a look of offense on her freckled face.

“Oh, I thought I smelled something foul,” I say. However, I actually knew she was lurking in the back of the room the whole time. I had spied her upon first arrival. “Should have realized the smell was you.” I turn back to Trent. “I do apologize for my offspring’s unprofessional nature. I have no idea where she gets her vulgar language from. Probably from growing up penniless on the streets of London,” I say.

“You know damn well that Jill Rodgers should be President,” Adelaide says.

“No, actually I know that the best future for the United States rests in having a President that we can control and monitor. Jill’s personality was thoroughly studied by people who know way more about human behavior than you and she didn’t qualify. She’s not moldable and would potentially resist or rebel against our efforts to control her as President,” I say.

“By ‘people’ you mean ‘you.’ You’re the one who studied the candidates and you picked him. You picked that jerk over Jill Rodgers,” she says, her words full of anger.

I turn back to Trent. “Speaking of firing people. I’ll totally understand if you want to give Addy the boot. She’s probably best suited for cleaning toilets.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up with a half-smile.

“We were about to make history,” Adelaide groans. “And you fucking ruined it. America was about to have its first female President.”

“When the hell did you give a damn about the United States?” I say.

“I don’t, but I care about women and us making progress, since you men like to repress us with your chauvinistic ways,” she says.

“Adelaide,” I say, drawing out the last part of her name. “History doesn’t matter. The books don’t tell the real story anyway. Everything you see is an illusion that people, like the Lucidites, created. I thought I’d taught you that nothing was what it seemed on this earth. And you are supremely misguided if you think a woman becoming President was going to change how women are treated. The flaw is you thinking that you’re repressed. Those with that mentality will always find an oppressor. Power comes from your perspective. So if you see men as the enemy then that’s what we will be,” I finish, giving her a grueling stare.

“Why does it sound like you’re going into motivational speaking?” she says, but now there’s a laugh to her tone.

I ignore her quip, although I do sound more informational lately and less snarky. I’ll have to work on that. “And the Lucidites have picked the presidents of this country for fifty years. We know how to choose the one we can control the easiest or one who is a Dream Traveler with an actual brain and can make informed decisions,” I say.

“Wait, there was a Dream Traveler prez? Who?” Adelaide says.

“There were two actually, but I’m not telling you until you start speaking English correctly,” I say.

At this, she sticks her tongue out at me. “I ain’t gonna figure it out then,” she says, her cockney accent heavy.

I ignore her attempt at being clever. “And you should know that Jill, according to Roya’s report, will go on to create real change in a position that has actual power,” I say.

“You’re trying to make me feel better,” she says with a sly smile.

“I’d rather die than do such a thing,” I say, quietly realizing that she’s right.

“Well, what you said does make sense about history and perspective and the president. And you put it so thoughtfully that I feel all fuzzy and warm inside now,” she says.

“Get the fuck out of here, Addy,” I say. “Adults need to converse.”

“I will take my leave, but just so you know, I’ll miss you every second I’m away from you, Daddy Ren,” she says.

“You really don’t value your life, do you?” I say.

She looks down the table to Trent. “You’re witness to this hostile work environment. I expect you as my boss to put a stop to the harassment and threats,” Adelaide says.

Trent nods slowly, only slightly amused by witnessing this exchange. He’s like a shell of a person now. “It’s been noted,” he says.

“Coolio,” she says, and pops out of her seat, almost bouncing on her toes as she skips from the room.

I turn and face Trent directly. “She really is an awful human being,” I say.

“Adelaide is a great agent. She’s got the potential to be one of my best, second to you,” he says.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me. I’m not shagging you no matter how many times you try,” I say.

“As your superior, I’m merely offering you positive feedback. You could have tried that when in my position,” Trent says, not impressed.

“Oh, fuck. Are you being nice to the agents? That’s your bloody problem. You don’t build employees up. You beat them down so they are constantly working harder to earn your praise, which should never come,” I say.

“I think it’s safe to say we have different administration styles,” he says.

“I like how you call yourself my superior. Doesn’t matter what your position. We know who is in charge here,” I say.

“So Adelaide,” he begins.

“Yeah, I’m fucking shocked to hear your assessment. Are you sure we are talking about the same person? Red-headed girl, with a bad attitude and awful vocabulary? Right?” I say.

“Yes, and she has great instincts when in the field. But my fear is she’s already growing bored with level one cases. I think—”

“No,” I say clear and loud, cutting him off.

“Ren, just hear me out on this.”

“She just passed training,” I say.

“With top marks,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter. I never promote agents to level two cases until they’ve had sufficient experience,” I say.

“And need I remind you that this isn’t your department and she isn’t your agent,” Trent says.

“Doesn’t matter. As the person here with superior experience, she isn’t ready for level two cases,” I say.

“I actually feel she’s past level two cases and could easily handle a three or a four,” he says.

“And that’s your fucking problem. You are feeling your way around with this position. A Head Strategist doesn’t feel and the sooner you realize that the sooner this department will stop sinking into the ground,” I say.

“It’s not sinking—”

“This discussion is over,” I say, rising to a standing position. “Adelaide will keep working level one cases as protocol dictates.”

“I realize that since she’s your daughter you’re worried about her getting hurt in the field, but she’s smart and doesn’t take thoughtless risks,” Trent says.

“Trent, as you know from no doubt lurking around the urinals here, I’m a man. I don’t worry or fret or spend any energy stressed about Adelaide or anything else on this God damn planet. I’m an agent who knows better than you. We don’t promote agents because we have warm feelings about their ability to perform. We follow the rules for agent promotion,” I say.

“But you wrote those rules,” he says.

“Exactly,” I say and teleport away.

Chapter Three

A slew of toys litter the floor of my study when I teleport into the room.

“For fuck sake,” I say, kicking a stuffed dinosaur out of my path. We live in a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion and that little terror has to trespass on my only personal space. I slide into my plaid armchair, running my fingers over the fabric as I usually do upon first taking a seat after a long day. Then a pinch assaults my lower back. My hand feels behind me until my fingers find a slick piece of plastic. A fucking Lego.

I throw the object so it flies through the space and out the open double doors. A lock. I need a fucking lock on that door. I’ve been meaning to have one installed but haven’t had time. Never have I been so incredibly busy that I can’t take the minute it would cost me to tell the butler that I need a bloody lock installed. That’s because every second of my day is full. This minute I’m affording myself to sit is a rare luxury.

“Blah! Blah! Nah! No! Neh!” the little monster yells from the corridor.

I throw my chin up to the ceiling. “You can’t grant me one fucking moment of peace, can you, God?”

“Yip! Yip!” The incoherent babbling grows louder. Then the red-headed demon child runs past my study. And of course, he’s bloody naked, his pale butt assaulting my vision as he sprints by.

“Yerip! Yerip! Ziggy! Zoo! Zot!” he screams.

I look at the ceiling again. “If you’re trying to get me to kill myself then you can stop now. Consider it already done,” I say to God, who isn’t fucking listening.

And because no one is watching the two-year-old heathen, Lucien runs by the study yet again, this time carrying one of Dahlia’s crystal figurines over his head.

“Pops!” I yell at top volume. I push up to stand and actually fail. I lack the energy to successfully complete the task the first time. But I can’t be deterred. So with a giant inhale, I push myself out of the armchair, which feels especially low today, for some reason. “Pops,” I yell again.

“Come here, you little tyke,” I hear my pops say in the corridor.

I stomp across my study and round the corner to find my pops reaching down to pick up the child. He then holds him sideways at his waist. As soon as he spies me he smiles and then whips around, holding Lucien to him.

“Have you seen Lucien?” he says.

Giggles make the boy’s face turn pink. Pops wheels around the opposite way and the monster’s hands and legs flay around as he rides on Pops’s side like a bag. “Lucien, where are you?”

“He’s on your hip,” I say dryly.

Pops flicks his head down. “Oh, there you are, my boy,” he says. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Maw! Maw! Dogga dogga,” the heathen says in response. Pops sets the child on his feet and he immediately runs for the other end of the house, his white ass jiggling as he does.

My pops doesn’t run after the house-destroyer, he simply chuckles with delight.

“You are the worst bloody nanny in the history of the world,” I say.

“Oh, Ren,” he says, dismissing my insult with another laugh. “Kids are going to be kids. You’ve got to allow them to express their wild side.”

“And therein explains why I’m such a monster. It wouldn’t have killed you to knock me around a little. Maybe punish me for being wild,” I say.

And the man with too much heart and patience smiles broadly, his brown eyes sparkling with true happiness. “You know punishing you wouldn’t have done any good,” he says.

Pops has been happier than I’ve seen him in a long time since he took the position as Lucien’s full-time caregiver. We could never keep a nanny because Lucien is soulless and untrainable and Adelaide wanted to finally take my offer to train as a Lucidites agent.

Again Lucien runs past us, hopefully headed for the street. “Nib nob! Arg!” he says, as he sprints by in his birthday suit.

“English,” I say to my pops. “Can you teach him some bloody English words?”

Pops peers around me, keeping his eyes on Lucien. “Oh, he’ll learn when he’s ready,” he says.

“Pops, he can’t communicate with anyone in the house.”

Pops now looks me over, as though seeing me for the first time. “You look tired, son. When was the last time you got some rest?”

“Nineteen eighty-one,” I say, mostly meaning it.

“It’s that job of yours. You should think about quitting. Spending this time with Dahlia. You know, before—”

“I need to work right now,” I say, cutting him off. He hasn’t let up on this campaign to get me to quit for months.

“Working isn’t as important as being with someone—”

“Dahlia and I have plenty of time together. Now and in the future,” I say, again interrupting him.

“Ren, I can’t help but feel you’re in denial.”

“No, Pops, you don’t get it and I can’t fully explain it to you because it’s complicated and I’m not ready to divulge details to you,” I say.

“Ren—”

“Just let up on me and do your bloody job,” I say, throwing my arm behind me where Lucien is climbing up a marble statue of a Trojan horse, trying to mount it. He twists around and looks at me. Then like a puppy finding a new toy he jumps off the large statue and runs in my direction.

“Poppy!” he yells clear and loud. Lucien stops at my feet, looking up at me with that inquisitive expression he always gives me.

“Ren,” I correct him.

“Poppy!” he repeats.

“Did you teach him that?” I say to Pops.

“As we previously discussed, I’m not teaching him anything. Remember?” Pops says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a proud smile focused on the boy at my feet.

I turn back on Lucien. “Ren. Call me Ren. Or better yet, don’t call me at all.” Then I say to Pops, “Put some clothes on the little monster, would you?” And I turn at once and head for the stairs.

***

I take the stairs one at a time, my leg only lifting my foot enough to drag it across the steps. The railing I actually use, knowing that if my balance wavers then I’ll tumble backwards. I’m too tired for what I have to do next but every part of my plan has to be done right. I cast a glance back down the stairs when I’m at the top. I had felt my pops’s eyes on my back during my long trek. He’s staring at me with a heavy look. One that says how I should feel but I don’t because it’s not the time for that. There will be an opportunity for grief and it will be short-lived.

A chill that prickles my fingers meets my skin when I push our bedroom door back. Dahlia has preferred the space cold. She says it makes her want to actually stay in bed, as she’s been ordered to do. I admit that the cold makes me want to crawl under the blankets and spend eternity cuddled against her.

“Hi there,” she says, pushing up away from her pillow and sleep. Her brown hair has lost its normal shine, but she’s still beautiful. Bone thin and pale as the moon, she’s as radiant as ever. Nothing could steal that from her because her beauty is within her. It’s a part of her soul.

“Hi,” I say, that one word making my throat ache. Does she look skinnier than she was this morning? Maybe it’s just the long day of treatments and pain, which is sketched across her sunken eyes. The cancer slipped quietly into her body years ago and by the time it made its presence known it had taken a lease on every part of her. She never had a chance and we knew it from the beginning. Her work, this career as the most famous vocalist in history, was both her greatest success and her very undoing. It was her commitment to the stage that kept her out of the doctor’s office. It’s the reason she’s dying now. That she won’t beat this. It’s the reason we didn’t catch it earlier. And it’s totally fine. I don’t look at her dying in each of these moments like I did with my mum. I know better now. If the last year taught me anything it’s that the greatest traumas can lead to the greatest opportunities. And a strategic man such as myself isn’t going to let God win this time. He thinks he can take people from my life and I’ll accept it. However, I’ve got secrets that even he doesn’t know. He left his blueprints to this world out and that was a big mistake.

“Did you eat today?” I say, nearing our bed.

She nods slowly, as though answering the question while still trying to remember the truth.

“Did you?” she says, pulling the comforter closer to her chin to warm her from the chill in the room.

“Sure,” I say. The bed sags gently from my weight when I sit.

“You look like hell,” she says, reaching out and touching my stubbled cheek.

I smile against her fingers.

“You do too.”

“What did you do today?” she says and I know she’s craving the information. This isn’t a woman who would watch television even if she’s imprisoned in a bed. But her eyes have worsened to the point that reading is too difficult. Not working is harder for Dahlia to accept than that soon she’ll be gone from this earth. I know she’d rather work until the end, but her voice is damaged. It would be worse if she’d elected to do chemotherapy but she’s vain and didn’t want to lose her hair.

“Let’s see,” I say, actually having to think to recall the last twelve hours. “Oh, I picked the President of the United States, rigged the election, and got the ass of a tiny monster’s bare butt burned into my visual cortex due to seeing it too often.”

“Is the President a nice man?” she says.

“He’s the worst,” I say.

Dahlia shrugs and the effort it takes her looks like enough to take her out.

“I’m working on something,” I say, having kept all my plans to myself all this time, although I know she could sense I was figuring something out.

“Like a model airplane or fixing up an old car?” she says, her voice always light.

“Yes, but in my spare time I’ve been working on another side project,” I say.

“Do tell,” she says, not at all curious, actually looking close to falling back asleep.

“Not yet. It’s going to be a surprise. But I have an order for you until its reveal,” I say.

“Eat my vegetables and respond to that mountain of fan mail that keeps pouring in,” she says.

I shake my head. “Don’t die.”

And now the faint smile drops from her face. “Well, I’ve been trying. Since the moment God put me on this earth, I’ve been trying not to die. But I’m thinking of cutting back on the effort soon.”

I reach out and cup her hands in mine. They’re cold and sharp in places. “I feared that, which is why I’m telling you not to give up. Not yet,” I say.

Her eyes take on the color of the blue pillow behind her like a chameleon.

“Dahlia, if you die then you’re going to fuck up everything. I’ve been working too hard to have you spoil all my plans by dying.”

“Okay. I’ll try,” she says and I know if anyone can give the reaper a chase it’s the woman beside me. She has a tenacious spirit that is unmatched. She is and will always be the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met.

“Now move your fat ass over,” I say, turning on my side as I slide under the covers. I pull my body snug against hers as she makes a space for me on the bed and rolls over on her side. Then with my last remaining bit of energy I secure Dahlia snug into me, my arms wrapped tight around her tiny frame. And then with my suit and my loafers still on I drop into a blackness of sleep.

Chapter Four

A child with a head of black hair fiddles with a bundle of wires when I cruise into Aiden’s lab.

He looks up at me when I pass him. “You the mean man,” he says, pointing up at me.

I pause and regard the little jerk with a half-smile. “I am,” I say as he throws his hand into a bowl of nuts and bolts. Aiden refuses to give his kid real toys. He thinks he’s making him smarter but refuses to realize that bad genetics can’t be undone.

“That’s what Mommy says,” he says. The boy is about the age of Lucien but appears to be able to actually construct sentences. Must be a fluke.

“I’m sure your mommy says all sorts of things about me. They are all true. I’m your worst nightmare,” I say.

Like I’ve said nothing at all, the little mistake thrusts his hand back into the bowl of metal.

“You are supposed to be sorting those, Max,” Aiden says, strolling over, an iPad in his hands.

“No!” the little shit says adamantly.

“Really got a control on your mini idiot, don’t you,” I say to Aiden.

He shakes his head and runs his hand through his disorganized black hair. “No, this guy doesn’t do a thing I say,” he admits.

“Sounds like he’s smarter than I thought,” I say.

“How’s your grandson?” Aiden says, ignoring my quip.

“Who cares,” I say, walking forward, away from the mutant making a racket. Aiden follows like the good chimp that he is.

“What brings you into my lair?” he says.

I stare around at the lab littered with disgusting technology. I can’t believe I’m here willingly about to ask for Aiden’s help.

“I need you to create some technology for me,” I say in a rush.

His mouth springs up into a repulsive grin. “Well, I didn’t realize it was my birthday!”

“That’s because you’re a git who can’t remember to take your pants down to piss,” I say.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I meant that this sounds like a real treat. Creating technology at your request.”

I lower my chin and regard him with a long cold stare. “You are possibly the lamest human being to ever exist.”

Because his parents instilled a lack of social skills in him, he waves me off with his hand. “So what can I do for you?” he says.

“I need you to create the drug or device or process for turning a Middling into a Dream Traveler. And I need it in the next few days. Pronto,” I say.

He laughs. It’s loud and makes me want to kill him on the spot. I’ll have to wait until he’s done a few jobs for me first. Then I can finally reward this world by taking him out. It will be my last bit of charity.

“From my research I think it will be a combination of process and drugs, but that’s what I need you for,” I say, dismissing his constant laughter.

He sticks the iPad on the nearby counter. “I do believe Ren Lewis just said he needs me.”

“Aiden, I need you to make a life decision right now.” I point at his son, still playing at the front of the lab. “Do you want that mistake over there to grow up without a father?”

He looks to actually reflect on the question, like a dumbass. “Well, no,” he finally says.

“Then do what I say and stop saying things that make me want to murder you. Got it?” I say.

His lips purse casually and he nods. “I can try.”

“You try and we will see how long you last,” I say.

“But to be honest, what you’re asking for is impossible. Middlings and Dream Travelers are two different races. You can’t make a Caucasian into a Native American,” he says.

“See, this is your problem. You’re so limited in your thinking. You’re always spouting the word ‘can’t.’ No wonder you’re such a bloody loser,” I say.

“Ren, I’m a scientist. If I say something can’t be done it’s simply because I’m fully aware of the capabilities and limitations available to us,” he says.

“You have read textbooks and your thinking is extremely one-dimensional. In order for you to be able to accomplish what I’m asking I’m going to need you to take on a more holistic perspective. You’ll need to pull your view of this world up to an aerial view and see things from the fifth dimension,” I say.

A smile quirks up his lips. “You just used a physics term.”

“Shut the fuck up. I want you to clear your schedule because I have a series of important projects that I want to be your priority. This is the first one,” I say.

“Well, not only can I not do that, but again what you’re asking for is impossible,” he says.

“Aiden”—I say his name stressing the first letter—“don’t make me use mind control on you to do this because I will. I’m asking as a personal request that you do a few projects.”

The lab rat shows his surprise easily. “Wow. You’ve never asked for a favor. I guess I could farm some of my projects out to my staff,” he says.

“Now, let’s start with you not thinking of this as a favor. I’m going to push you to create technology that will revolutionize this world but it must remain classified. Is that clear?” I say.

“Sure,” he squeaks.

“Now, we know that it’s the parietal lobe that differentiates us from Middlings,” I say.

“Yes, it increases the frequency of our beta waves, which is partly responsible for our ability to dream travel, but creating the psychic ability that goes along with it, that’s the largest complication,” he says.

“That would be stimulated by the repetitive experiences of dream traveling and it’s not my concern actually,” I say.

“Well, but still, altering a Middling’s brain chemistry isn’t something I think science can do in the regard you’re asking. This is a matter of DNA,” he says.

“Which is why I’m asking you to figure out how to patch or rework or whatever it takes. My research shows that theoretically speaking, a drug could be synthesized that makes a Middling’s brain mimic the way ours acts in order to create the dream travel experience,” I say.

He strokes his chin. Takes a cursory glance at the beast still playing in the corner and then looks at me. “You know, I think you’re actually right. Through a compilation of neurofeedback, drugs, and possibly some devices that change the frequency of alpha, beta, gamma, delta, and theta waves, it might be possible. It could help a Middling access the dreamscape but I’m not sure what else it could do or if the effects would be long lasting,” he says.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you all along, Negative Nancy. I want you to get to work on this straightaway and work on nothing else until it’s done. Time is a matter of fatal importance. Got it?” I say, taking a half turn to leave.

“Yeah. Sure,” he says, already off in thought, his brain trying to figure out the various strategies that will have to be employed to accomplish this. “However, there is one possible problem to this all,” he says under his breath.

“What is it?” I say tersely.

“It could potentially kill the Middling that we do this to,” he says.

“That’s not a problem,” I say and turn and leave.

Chapter Five

The Lucidite Institute is a five-story metal building with stainless steel walls and fully motorized doors and advanced technology loaded into every single space. That isn’t the impressive part of this place. It isn’t even that the building resides at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean and is only accessible by submarine or advanced dream travel practices.

The button for the door before me shines blue, meaning the room is unlocked. It clicks with a gentle chirp when I press it with my thumb. The smell of polished wood and ancient papers greets me first. The five-story library buried at the back of the Institute is the most impressive part of this compound. It was a later addition to the building, which was originally created by the United States government. But Flynn, the founder of the Lucidites and also Trey Underwood’s father, stole the building from the greedy government and sent them away after wiping their memories clean. He then renovated the Institute with technology that most still don’t know exists, since science was his passion. But he wanted the Institute to have a warm place within it, one where Lucidites could escape the cold of the steel and the stupefying technology. So he created this library, but as was typical of Flynn Underwood, he went over the top with his plans when constructing this space.

I ignore the librarian, who greets me from the counter with an unnecessary smile. I don’t even grace her with a single glance when I walk forward, my loafers making a soft clapping sound on the black and white marble floor. From the base of the staircase I can see all the way to the fifth level; the library is open and lofty. And at the tip top the glass dome ceiling of the library shines bright with the radiant blue of the Pacific Ocean. I pass a giant fireplace as tall as me on my way to the third level. This library isn’t like any place on earth that I’ve ever been to. It feels utterly perfect because no details were overlooked in its creation. And this library, I’m certain, will offer me the next set of answers I’m looking for.

Too often when people are searching for answers they keep thinking about the bloody how. How will they accomplish their goal? How will they get from point A to point B? And real idiots wonder how it will make them feel. These fuckers get scared of things before they happen because the problem is daunting and failure is something they are all too well acquainted with. I’m not a man of faith. I’m a man who knows that this bloody universe was built on laws. And I need to know more about these laws, so that I can break them. I know to accomplish that I can’t go looking for these laws, which have no doubt been documented in various textbooks. That’s what a fucking loser would do. I know that the most efficient approach is to focus on the end results. The “how” will appear if my attention is only on the goal. That’s a law of the universe and it does involve a bit of faith, but as a man of strategy I know that working backwards from a solution is how most are successful.

With my mind visualizing my intention I stroll through the darkened rows lit only when an interested reader turns toward a shelf. Books prefer the dark, according to Flynn. I halt randomly, my attention still wrapped around what I intend to accomplish. A soft gold light beams on overhead as I step into the row of shelves. My fingertips find the spine of the first book and I lean forward, my fingers running over the cloth and leather spines, one after the other.

“Can I help you find something?” a voice says at my back. I pause, my finger resting on a volume. I slip the book out from its place on the wood shelf as I turn to the person who is interrupting me. It’s the librarian. She wears her hair short and an amused look on her face. Shouldn’t she have a high bun, glasses, and a pinched expression like most librarians?

“No,” I say, and flip the book in my hand up so I can read the spine. Socrates and Philosophy in the Dialogue of Plato.

Most would wonder what the odds were of me seemingly randomly finding a book that nearly promises to hold the “how” to my goal. Most people are fucking idiots who don’t know how to find what they’re looking for.

I slip the book onto a table at the end of the shelf and continue the same process as before. The spines of the books gently tickle my fingers as they pass under them.

“What are you looking for?” I hear the stalker librarian say at my back. I have the feeling she was tracking me through the library like a hyena watching a cheetah.

I pull the book resting under my fingertips from the shelf as I turn my head over my shoulder and eye the woman with a sneer. “None of your bloody business. Fuck off,” I say, as politely as I can manage.

I hear her approach and to my revulsion she doesn’t stop until she’s taken the position in front of me. “Well, you appear lost. I am a librarian and can help shorten your search,” she says.

This is the problem with people. They automatically think that being lost is a bad thing. They fail to see that only things that are lost can be found.

“You can’t help me,” I say, my voice a terse whisper.

“But I know this place inside and out, and it is my job to help readers find what they’re searching for,” she says in a loud and proud voice like she doesn’t understand the rules of a library.

“And you obviously need more to do if you can’t stop bugging me. Sod off,” I say and then spy the book in my hand. Physics of the Impossible by Michio Kaku. Another hopeful text that will no doubt lead to the how. I pull out the book next to it, sensing I should. Instinct is something that needs to be followed. A victorious smile crosses my mouth when I read the title. Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps, and the 10th Dimension by the same author. I could have gone straight to a database and searched for hours to find these books, which will no doubt be of use for my goal. However, I’m not a man who wastes my own time when I know the universe is always willing to offer fast answers to those who know how to look.

Because the insufferable librarian doesn’t know how to mind her own fucking business she glances at the books in my hand. “Interested in quantum physics, are you?” she says.

“Go the fuck away,” I say and turn for a new row, stalking off.

And because she’s the worst librarian to ever exist, she hurries until she’s beside me in the next aisle. “I let it go the first time because I’m extremely forgiving. However, while in my library you will refrain from using profanity,” she says, again too loudly.

I turn and regard her with one of my trademark punishing stares. “Do you know who I am?” I say, realizing she must be new if she thinks she can kick me out of here.

The mistake-of-a-woman extends a hand. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Patricia,” she says.

I don’t take her hand. “Well, Peggy, since it’s your first day on the job I’ll forgive your obvious poor manners and also inform you that I’m Ren Lewis. And if you’d like to keep any of your brain cells then you’ll leave me the fuck alone.”

She shakes a finger at me. “I warned you about that foul language. You get one more chance and then you’re out,” she says, and then proudly holds a hand to her chest. “And I’ve actually worked here for twenty years.”

My chin tilts to the side. How hasn’t she heard of me? I’m a legend to the Lucidites.

“Well, you should get out more. Maybe take a day off from reading your penny dreadfuls and socialize, because you should have heard of me by now. I’m kind of a big deal,” I say.

She smiles at this and then turns for the shelf at her back. “Actually I just read a book that might interest you,” Book-face says. And like she has the shelves memorized she goes straight for a book almost too high for her to reach.

“Here, this might help you on your search for answers. Then she hands me the thick volume that smells of old dust. Impact Parameter and Other Quantum Realities by a bloke named Geoffrey A. Landis.

“The author also wrote a really fascinating article with his cohorts on wormholes, if you’re interested,” she says.

A chill travels down my spine. And even though I know the process for discovering the “how,” it still mesmerizes me when it all comes together.

Chapter Six

Stomping feet interrupt the silence. I’ve been resting in my plaid armchair for approximately three and three quarter minutes. God must have learned about this moment of mine of respite and summoned some commotion into my life.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” I hear Adelaide’s voice say. By the sound of it she’s directly in front of me, probably framed in the doorway to my study, but my eyes are still closed so this is only a guess. I peel open one eye. Yes, the little monster is standing with her hands on her hips, menace written on her freckled face.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?” the girl with an anger management problem says.

“Since the very beginning,” I say, yawning as I open my eyes to find blurry vision.

“You’re just not happy unless you are making me miserable,” Adelaide says.

“It’s true, but if you have a problem with it, then lodge a complaint with management,” I say and close my eyes, not caring what has her pants in a wad and knowing rest is of utmost importance anyway.

“I can’t believe you told him not to promote me,” she says, breaking into my reverie yet again.

My eyes spring open. Oh God, that’s what this is about. Trent is more incompetent than I thought.

I look at Adelaide, realizing I have to defuse this or she’ll be intolerable and still a resident of my home.

“I told Trent to follow protocol,” I say through another yawn. Apparently the dumbass thought that meant confiding in a bull-headed agent. Or he was taken advantage of, which is the most likely possibility.

“That’s what you said, but you meant that I wasn’t ready,” she bursts out, almost crying.

“Addy,” I say like I mean it with affection. “If you wouldn’t touch people and get into their heads then you wouldn’t be cursed with information that isn’t supposed to hurt you.”

“I was only taking a report from him. Can I be blamed for grazing his hand and his thoughts about me pouring into my head?” she says.

It’s happened to me loads of times. She can’t be blamed but hell if I’ll say that. “It doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re bloody related to. No fast promotions through the Lucidite’s system,” I say.

“You know damn well that it’s not like that. He wants to promote me because I’m great, but you won’t allow him, even though it’s not your fucking department anymore,” she says, spit flying from her mouth.

I rise from my chair now, because God and his minions will always ensure I get zero rest. From ten feet in front of Adelaide I try my best to bear down on her, to make her see I’m an intimidating presence. “You aren’t great until you’ve proven it and right now you have too few cases under your belt. The mistake now would be to assume that with your abilities and your association with me, you’ll be great. Let’s make you prove it. That’s what I’m encouraging right now, but if you want to see that I’m ruining your life rather than preserving it then go right fucking ahead,” I say.

Her stare softens a tad as her shoulders lower. Her eyes skirt to the side. Her cheeks blush. Her hands fist. “Yeah, well, you better be telling the bloody truth. Because I’m tired of working shit cases,” she says.

“What in tarnation is going on in here?” my pops says, rounding the corner, the demon in tow.

“Adelaide is having another meltdown. We should see about putting her on meds to stabilize the outbursts,” I say, sinking back down into my chair. It feels like I’ve sunk down to the bottom of the earth.

Sleep almost wipes me out at once, but then my spawn says, “He’s trying to ruin my life and cover it up with good intentions.”

My pops smiles widely. “It’s so neat to see you two working together like this. Like a detective father and daughter duo,” he says.

“That’s not what this is,” Adelaide says too loud as Lucien makes to crawl for my pops’s head like he’s taking the high road before the avalanche.

“He won’t let me live my life. And because he’s in charge of the fucking universe, Ren gets to tell everyone what to do,” she says, casting a finger at me.

“It’s really awful for her,” I say and now my mouth rests half on my hand, my words obstructed from my palm’s interference.

“See, and he doesn’t even care. He’s fucking sleeping while I’m trying to save the bloody world,” she says.

I do wake now. I don’t rouse completely but I do uncross my legs and look at Adelaide straight on. “Why the fuck do you think I’m so tired?” I say to her.

“Because you play too much online poker?” she says.

“No, dimwit. Because saving the world and managing a family is exhausting. Go take care of your child and thank me later for keeping your life manageable. If you stay in this line of work then you’ll hardly see Lucien. So go ahead and thank me for keeping your workload to something you can bear for now,” I say.

I can tell immediately that she wants to apologize. She realizes I had good intentions. Strategic ones too, although she may not know the specifics yet.

“Well, let’s just forget about this for now,” Pops says, always the calming voice in the family.

“Yeah, let’s,” I say, turning on my side in my armchair, almost cuddling up like I’m going to fall asleep here.

“What’s going on down here?” Dahlia says from the stairs. She’s in her white silk pajamas. As beautiful as ever.

“Look, you’re loud enough to rouse the dead and the almost dead,” I say.

“Ren!” my pops admonishes at once. He sets down the monster, who rushes at me immediately, like my crotch is a magnet.

“What are you doing up, Dahlia dear?” Pops says, walking over and taking the weak woman’s hand.

“Just heard noise, is all,” she says.

Adelaide, who senses the tension, swoops in and pries Lucien off my leg. “We will be going,” she says.

“Yes, why don’t you,” I say and then turn my attention to the woman still looking down at me from the stairs. She looks as I’ve always seen her, more powerful than all the world’s forces. And yet she’s weak. Just a body subjected to life’s forces. I want to tell her I love her. That she should go rest and that I’ll join her soon. But instead I remain silent.

“Ren didn’t mean that thing about you almost being dead. I’m praying for you, sweet Dahlia,” my pops says, and then adds, “Every day.”

“He’s only saying that because he knows you’re dying and there is not much else to say to you,” I say.

“Reynold Lewis, you take that back,” he says in the voice of my mum. There must be a ghost in the room. Feels like it.

“I won’t,” I say, actually rising from the chair. “The love of my life is dying and I’m dealing with it in my own way,” I say as I walk to the stairs and take Dahlia’s hand. “I’m making every moment a fresh, honest one so that one day I can move on.”

Dahlia smiles at me but I hear my pops’s disgruntled sigh at my back.

“How can you think of moving on when she’s still alive?” he says.

“Because,” I say, Dahlia’s eyes unwavering on me, “I know where I’ll be after she’s gone.”

Chapter Seven

“Why are you dragging me out here?” Adelaide says.

“Because I’m a mean and intolerable man,” I say to Adelaide as the driver turns a corner. The streets here in Alaska aren’t paved. Actually they hardly classify as streets.

“Is this bring your daughter to work day?” she says from the other side of the backseat, her eyes trained out the window, taking in the landscape littered with overgrown brush and out of control trees.

I turn to my own window and the doubt settles in just then. What am I doing this for? Is it to prove something to me or to Adelaide or to prepare her for the future? It’s a rare moment when I’m not sure of my reasons. My instinct just told me to bring her along today. And I’m uncertain why it had to be on this case, one cloaked in mystery.

“You want to work higher level cases, right?” I say.

“When did you start asking obvious questions? Don’t you always say you don’t waste your own time?” she says with her usual sneer.

I roll my eyes but silently punish myself. The work and constant researching is taking a toll on my usually incredible competence.

“You might think that working higher level cases will be fun and cool and make you feel like one of those fucking leather jacket–wearing detectives popular on the telly. The type that smack their gum and look like they just graduated from high school but they know how to crack the toughest cases although they can hardly wipe their own ass. And they do it all with perfect hair before winking with a sparkle in their teeth which have suffered too much orthodontics. Is that right?” I say.

Adelaide blinks at me rapidly, a confused expression on her face. “Right now I can’t believe you said half of those words.”

“My point is that I’m fairly certain you’ve constructed this idea that being an agent is hip. And you’ve deluded yourself into thinking working higher level cases will be like how they portray it on crap television,” I say.

“And you brought me here to show me that it’s not glamorous and takes a lot of work and is a thankless job,” she says in a low, disinterested monotone.

“No. I brought you out here to show you that it’s a highly satisfying job but it takes a ton of experience that you don’t earn overnight. Just because you’re successful at level one cases it doesn’t mean you should be promoted immediately. The Peter Principle is a very real concept and I’m not about to have Trent promote you to a level of incompetence,” I say.

“Yeah, that all makes sense, but I’m tired of stopping kids from stealing video games and helping single dads when they lose their wallets,” she says, referring to her last two cases.

I nod. I remember all too well working shit level one cases and wanting something that challenged me. However, Adelaide takes her intelligence for granted sometimes. She needs to see that it’s not just having mind control and superior reasoning that makes us great. Strategy is the key and it’s not bought or inherited. It’s engrained through discipline and experience.

“Just try and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. This is a level five case and I only want you observing. No input or sniveling remarks that will no doubt diminish my unyielding patience,” I say.

“Right-O. I’m just going to sit back and watch how the salty old-timer gets it done,” she says and pulls down on her invisible cap.

“If you want me to make you throw yourself from this vehicle then just say it next time,” I say and then direct my attention to the driver, who is wearing overalls and a cowboy hat. He obviously cares extremely little about his life or other people’s impression of him. “We are up here on the right,” I say to him.

“Yes sir, I’m well aware based on the coordinates you gave me. I know these parts better than I know my belly button,” he says with a thick hick accent.

I grimace that he actually said that out loud.

“And I happen to think you took me on this case because it’s in the backwoods of nowhere and you thought it would be entertaining to watch me slog through the wild frontier of Alaska,” Adelaide says.

This case has taken us to northern Alaska where the closest GAD-C is hours away. We had to fucking fly and we’ve been in this car for what feels like a fortnight. I would have driven myself but I knew I was too exhausted.

“It pleases me that you realize that everything I do revolves around making your life hell. It is truly all about you and not about investigating a case that has stumped the news reporting department and left us with more questions than answers,” I say.

“Yeah, I knew all along this trip was just an attempt to torture me,” she says as the car veers to the right, pulling onto the grassy side of the road.

“So what is all this about? What tragic event are we stopping?” Adelaide says, her eyes searching the pasture beside the car.

“We aren’t,” I say, noticing the old farmer tense after eavesdropping and hearing Adelaide’s question. “We are too late.”

“What? How can that be? You got this event from the news reporting department, right?” she says.

“Yes, one of the clairvoyants saw it but we knew from the time stamp that by the time we flew and drove out here the event would have already come to pass,” I say, jerking up my arm so that the sleeve of my suit jacket slips back enough to reveal my watch. “The event happened an hour ago.”

“Well, maybe Aiden should have gone back in time and installed a GAD-C in this location so we could have been here in time,” she says.

That’s not a horrible idea but of course I won’t tell Adelaide that. And besides, GAD-Cs take an incredibly long time to build and must undergo a significant amount of testing before deemed safe. That’s why there are still only a dozen of them worldwide. And many of those were destroyed in the recent battle.

“So if this event has already happened then why are we here?” Adelaide says, twirling her long red hair around her pale finger.

“To investigate,” I say simply as I open the car door. The sun is high in the Alaskan sky although it’s not even morning. This is that revolting part of the northern hemisphere where the sun shines all day in the summer months. Obviously redheads aren’t welcomed here. Worse than the bloody sun seeking to mess with everyone’s circadian rhythm is the fact that the land out here is thick with high grass. My first step into the open prairie and I find a puddle of mud. Hopefully it’s only mud. I turn back to the car where Joe Bob or whatever the fuck his name is stands with his thumbs tucked into his armpits and is whistling loudly. “Come with us,” I say to him.

He blinks with surprise. “But it sounds like you two are detectives and I’m just a local,” he says.

“Exactly. I need to ask you questions about what we’re about to find,” I say.

At this he gives me a cautionary look.

“Come on already,” Adelaide says to the tentative redneck. “We haven’t got all bloody day.”

The hick is immediately offended based on the look on his prematurely wrinkled face but he trudges forward anyway.

“I didn’t understand half of what you two were talkin’ about in the car,” he says.

“And after this you won’t remember it,” I say to the guy.

Apparently that doesn’t scare him or he thinks I’m bluffing because he simply nods as he tears a piece of long grass from the earth and sets it between his teeth and starts to chew.

“Where we headed?” he says, squinting from the sun.

Using my photographic memory, I recall the path we need to take and set off to the right, pushing the grass away as I move forward. It’s about waist high here.

“Are there snakes in this area?” Adelaide says.

“No, ma’am. It’s too cold for ‘em,” the farmer replies. “But even if there were, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. They’d have heard us coming and slithered away.”

“You going to give us any hint as to what we are looking for or should we start by playing twenty questions?” Adelaide says, a few feet behind me, the driver behind her.

“Yes, here’s your hint,” I say, stopping just before the clearing. The grass lies flat here. “If you open your bloody eyes and look around then you’ll see it.”

“Oh, fuck!” Adelaide says, having come around from behind me and stopped. Her hand claps to her mouth immediately.

“Jesus Christ,” the man says on my other side. He grabs his cowboy hat off his head and presses it to his chest as he takes in the scene in front of us. The bodies of thirteen dead wolves lie in the grass, lined up one after the other in the open field. They are arranged almost thoughtfully, with their front paws touching the head of the wolf in front of them. And they’ve all had their throats slit exactly the same way, I notice as I near, careful to avoid destroying the crime scene.

“Watch where you step,” I say.

“Because of footprints?” Adelaide says.

“Yes, however, that’s unlikely going to help us much although I never discount a clue. But also traps. We don’t know who we are messing with,” I say.

The dumb farmer counts the wolves because he can’t do it at a glance like me. “I do believe this is the Lompoc pack,” he says. “This is their territory.”

I nod. I knew the local could be helpful.

“Who would do such a thing?” he says. He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. Jerald or Arnold or whatever his name is doesn’t know that evil is normal in this world. People kill and sabotage this planet for the sheer joy of it. Well, and also because they are greedy fuckers who never think they’ll have enough unless they destroy.

I kneel down closest to the nearest wolf. At first glance something seems off about the canines and then the answer is obvious.

“They’ve had all their blood withdrawn,” Adelaide says. She noticed it too based on the animals’ appearance.

“Yes,” I say, standing. Then I turn to the local. “Have you seen anyone unfamiliar in town or around here?”

He tugs the grass he’s still chewing on out of his mouth. “Not that I can recall,” he says.

“Are you familiar with the other packs in this area?” I ask him.

“Well, sure. There’s a few,” he says.

“I’m going to allow you to retain your memory of this but I want you to help us keep an eye on these packs. I’m sending three agents out here and you’re going to show them the pack’s territory and share any of their habits. Then you need to be observant and inform the agents if you notice anyone strange lurking around here,” I say.

“Well, detective, I’d like to help but I’ve got my own responsibilities,” he says.

“You will help the agents to track the packs,” I say with an intention in the words.

“Yes sir,” he says at once, easily being influenced by my mind control.

Then I turn to Adelaide, who is still studying the dead bodies. “We need to go. Let’s dream travel from the car. It’s imperative I get back to the Institute,” I say, and the reason is mostly that I’m exhausted. That’s why I was unable to teleport out here. I’ve momentarily lost the power to use that skill since I have to be in perfect health to do it successfully. Trey also isn’t able to teleport due to his condition. He suffered too much trauma during the battle.

“Wait, am I one of the agents who gets to work this case?” Adelaide says.

“Of course not. This is a level five case. Remember you’re observing,” I say.

“But I can do this,” she argues. “I can help you figure out why this happened.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You lack experience. I already know why this happened. Now I’ve got to figure out how to stop it,” I say.

“What? You know? Why would someone do this? What do you have to stop?” she says.

“It’s probably too late to intervene before this project gets off the ground, but I think my suspicions are correct,” I say.

“What suspicions?” she says.

“That someone is trying to make werewolves,” I say and turn for the car.

Chapter Eight

“I have incredibly fantastic, even, I would dare to say, mind-blowing news for you,” Aiden says when I finally acknowledge his presence. I’ve been standing in his lab for the better part of fifteen minutes, reading through some new research that just pinged my bloody phone.

“You’re going to stop using ridiculous phrases like ‘mind-blowing’ and adding superfluous adverbs to your dumb announcements?” I ask, mock curiosity written on my face.

He shakes his head, his lip tucked between his teeth and a foolish grin on his face.

“You’ve decided to off yourself so that humanity has a chance of not getting sucked into a fucking black hole, somehow driven by your awful technological experiments?” I say.

“You’re not even close,” Aiden says, seeming to enjoy this exchange. He really needs to get out of the Institute more, well, at all. “And need I remind you that you’re requiring me to conduct one of these technological experiments.”

“Reminding me of anything is a surefire way to earn brain damage,” I say.

“Keep guessing. This is fun,” Aiden says and I almost break his neck right then using the pressure point technique Clint taught me, but I’m a man of great will and so I resist.

“Well, my greatest hope was you were going to take yourself out after helping me with these projects, but it sounds like alas my dreams won’t come to fruition.” Then a rehearsed spark lights up my eyes and I connect with Aiden. “You’ve figured out how to make women more tolerable and are giving me the technology to test on Adelaide? Is that right? And this technology definitely still has bugs in it and could fry her brain, but this is a chance we are all willing to take for a better tomorrow?” I say in one rushed string of words.

He laughs. “Adelaide is hilarious to have around. Most people don’t warm to her immediately, but she reminds me of one of my favorite people and I find her humor to be extremely awesome.”

I narrow my eyes at the dimwit. “Extremely and awesome should never be paired. Putting them together is like calling something very unique. It is simply a waste of words.” I look up to the heavens. “God, am I the only human you created who is practiced in my use of words?”

“He probably won’t answer that question,” Aiden says with a chuckle. “I ask God all sorts of questions, but only science ever answers back.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say, lowering my chin. “So no technology that will make Adelaide more tolerable, then? What’s the good news? And if it’s that you got a new pair of sneakers then consider yourself about to be buried in them.”

“Well, remember the unbelievably impossible task you asked me to look into?” he says.

I ground my teeth together at the “remember” question. Aiden positions all questions that way knowing full well that I remember everything and loathe being spoken to like I’m one of his scientists. “So you’ve made progress with converting a Middling to a Dream Traveler?” I say, hoping the excitement doesn’t show in my voice.

“If by progress, you mean that I’m pretty sure I’ve nailed a process we can try, then totally,” he says.

“Are you sure it will work? You haven’t been working on it that long,” I say, now realizing that I have nothing to lose and yet I could definitely fuck up everything if this doesn’t go right.

“No. Each part of the protocol will need extensive testing. I created simulations, and they work, but that’s all theoretical. To really have a conversion method we’re confident will work will take years of testing. Actually, I’m entirely surprised that I found a series of methods that make any of this possible. I really went into the experiment with a great deal of skepticism,” Aiden says, his voice squeaking with excitement.

“That’s because you’re small-minded and a loser,” I say. “And we don’t have years to do testing. I want to try this on a Middling as soon as possible.”

“I really can’t allow that,” Aiden says, his voice turning unusually serious. “Testing on a Middling at this stage is premature and completely dangerous. What we have to do is isolate each of the components of the process and test them individually. Take samples which—”

“NO!” I say, my voice louder than I’ve ever heard it. I’m typically an even-toned person.

Aiden, who knows this about me, straightens reflexively. His eyes widen behind his black-rimmed glasses.

“I don’t have the time to waste experimenting. If you have something that you think could work to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler, then I want to try it now,” I say. No one knows Dahlia is sick. We’ve kept it from everyone because it’s none of their bloody business. And of course Aiden, not understanding anything about my current affairs, is shocked that I’d take such a risk, when that’s never been my style. I’m calculated. Strategic. But I’ve had to abandon some of those practices lately and this is one of those times.

“Well, I guess if your subject signs off on the potential dangers then—”

“That’s not a problem,” I say, cutting him off again.

“But this person may only achieve dream travel briefly. And a psychic ability is unlikely to surface with only limited dream travel experience. And still the possibility of survival is a factor,” he says.

“None of that is an issue,” I say, coldly, earning another look of surprise. Dream Travelers earn their gift when the parietal lobe is strengthened by multiple occurrences of dream traveling. I know that and that’s not the goal here.

“Can I ask why you want to do this?” Aiden says, and he doesn’t sound as sheepish as he should. “If I’m conducting this conversion, I’m going to need to know more information about your purpose and your subject.”

I don’t hesitate with my answer, having expected this question. “You will get all your pretty little questions answered when the time comes. I’ll give you a full profile on my subject so that you know exactly who you’re working with.”

“That’s good because it’s going to take a round of injections using an untested drug, neural feedback, and some other more unorthodox methods,” Aiden says, and now there’s a weight to his voice, like he’s finally realized I’ve made him an accomplice to something extremely wrong.

“I’ll send over the subject’s files that have a complete work-up of their current condition and history tomorrow. Then we’ll schedule the treatments and plan out the rest,” I say, sounding cold, like I’m talking about a person I don’t know. One I don’t love.

Aiden eyes me suspiciously. “Before that. Just tell me why. Why do you want to convert a Middling to a Dream Traveler when from everything I’ve seen of your work, it goes against your moral code? You have never liked it when I meddled with memories or emotions using technology and now you’re asking me to do something far more extreme than my other experiments.”

I sigh. The truth is that eventually Aiden will know everything. I’m decompartmentalizing some of this work, but in the end he’ll have the whole picture. I might as well sketch out a small bit for now to shut him up. Anything to get him back to work. “Who can access the dreamscape?”

His eyebrows rise like he’s surprised that I’ve asked such a simple question.

“Well, Dream Travelers. Never a Middling.” He scratches his chin. “But why would you want a Middling to have access to the dreamscape? It’s just a level of consciousness. A different way to dream.”

“Exactly. The consciousness of a Dream Traveler can access the dreamscape, and what makes it unique from the physical world?” I say.

“I dunno,” he says, like I’ve stumped him, but then he recovers. “It’s much vaster than the physical world. It’s limitless. There is more one can do. More potential.”

“And with that being said, there’s a potential that a consciousness, if it goes through a certain reverse process, can survive in the dreamscape forever,” I say.

“Wait, reverse process. What does that mean?” he says.

“We aren’t to that part yet. It will be the next thing we work on, but first we focus on this conversion,” I say.

He’s silent for a moment. His eyes heavy as they stare at the ground for a long bit. “You’re right though. Under the right circumstances, I believe a consciousness could live in the dreamscape for eternity. I’ve thought about it before. But it would take a unique separation from the body. They aren’t meant to survive without each other.”

I nod, relieved that he sees the possibility too. “Yes, it would take coming back from the dead, and I’m positive there’s at least two ways of doing that.”

Chapter Nine

The squeaking noise and grinding of metal that I’ve come to associate with Trey Underwood tells me that he’s in his office as I near from the empty corridor. Pulling in a deep breath, I stop when I’m framed in the doorway. There are many hardships I’ve endured in my life. I’ve seen tragedies that would dramatically scar another human being. And yet, most of what I’ve experienced doesn’t give me nightmares or color me with fears. However, every time I look at Trey, the Head Official of the Lucidite Institute, the ache of his suffering hits me and that does keep me up at night. It’s a weight I haven’t carried for many people throughout my life, but no one else is like Trey Underwood and deserving of my empathy.

My eyes prickle when I rest them on Trey. He’s attempting to make a three-point turn, but the wheelchair is stuck in an awkward place between his gigantic desk and the shelves behind it.

“Honestly, you should just bite the bullet and opt for a smaller desk,” I say, coming around behind him and evening out the chair. It’s such an odd thing to have to do for the man who sits paralyzed, imprisoned in the wheelchair before me.

Trey looks up at me, his eyes brimming with the pain he refuses to fully accept, but smiles weakly. “Thanks,” he says, taking the wheels and positioning himself into the opening of the desk. His legs rest on the feet of the chair, frail, having lost their muscle mass. Trey was at the center of one of the more bloody battles that happened months ago. The one I refuse to dwell on. The one they are calling the Dream Traveler apocalypse. He survived, which is all that should matter, but when his mobility was stolen it created a trauma so deep inside him. Trey, the most powerful Dream Traveler I’ve ever known, is powerless now. The shock of the events and the tragedy he endured has caused him not to be able to dream travel or use any of his other powers. He is a skeleton of a man, but if anyone will rally then it will be the man sitting behind this desk.

“You know I’m never getting rid of the desk,” Trey says, sliding his hand across the top of the giant oak desk, like there’s a speck of dust needing to be cleaned.

He won’t get rid of the intricately carved desk that’s half the size of the room because it belonged to Flynn, his father. This is the same man who created the library which steals the breath of even those who don’t read. Flynn didn’t do anything small; hence, the Lucidite Institute, which is five stories and probably holds more power than the sun.

“No, it would be practical to opt for a smaller desk. It would be pragmatic. And you would rather hold on to sentimentality at the cost of convenience,” I say, taking the seat on the other side of the desk.

“There is great power in sentiment,” he says simply, and I have to look away because the warm pain in his green eyes isn’t something I want to witness.

“Well, the news reporting department might have cost us an advantage on a deadly case that I suspect will be massive and complicated,” I say, casually picking a piece of lint off my trousers.

From my peripheral I notice Trey drop his chin, a bit of shame starting to lace his face at the edges. In the Dream Traveler apocalypse, the Institute lost most of the news reporters. That was one of the main ways we were put at a disadvantage, because when we couldn’t see the future, then we couldn’t stop it. With only a few reporters, we are seeing fewer events worldwide and what we do see is usually too late to stop, like the massacre of the wolves.

“Yes, but soon, Roya will be back to reporting and that will help,” Trey says, and the hope he’s injecting into his tone impresses me. This is a man who won’t quit. He’s had more hardships in his life than anyone I know and yet, he never backs down from the dawning day and all the shit it is sure to throw at him.

“Oh, yeah, in about six fucking months, which does me zero good,” I say, as cranky as ever that we’re at such a disadvantage. “Really, did she have to get herself knocked up right now? Her timing is simply horrid.” Women can’t dream travel after the first trimester of pregnancy usually. And their powers diminish due to this. For the next six months, we’ve lost our best news reporter, which means we’re screwed. All because Aiden and Roya can’t keep their hands off each other.

Trey almost smiles. I see it in his eyes, but then his stone expression reappears. “You know as well as anyone that pregnancies just happen.”

And he’s referring to Adelaide, aka my major life mistake.

“So I haven’t read the report on the case you’re working,” Trey says, indicating the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. The cases just keep coming in and the strategic department keeps failing to successfully complete them. There’s little we can do when we are missing the eyes and ears of our operation.

“Werewolves,” I say.

Trey’s forehead lines with deep wrinkles. His eyes turn skinny. And a new stress writes itself on his face. “No,” he says with a hush.

“It’s only a guess, but you know how reliable my guesses are. I have little information and only the clues from the one case. However, I’m betting that a slew of more evidence will start pouring in and we will be ten steps behind. Hell, by next month we will probably all have our throats ripped out by these beasts,” I say, a hint of a laugh in my voice.

By Trey’s expression, I know he doesn’t appreciate my attempt at lightness in the face of what is certainly mortal danger.

“What are you doing to prevent this?” Trey says, sliding his hand into his silver hair and resting it there.

I push out a giant breath. “Not a bloody thing,” I say.

He grips his hair now, which pulls his forehead back a bit. “What?”

“I mean, I have eyes on a few of the packs in the area, but that’s a fairly insignificant attempt at stopping whoever is behind this. I’m keeping my eyes open for clues, but right now I have little to work with. I guess I could put reconnaissance on every single genetic lab in the world, but there’s that whole understaffing problem. So hey, we might have some rabid dog people on our hands soon. I think we should embrace this possible future,” I say, pushing what feels like a weight away from underneath my eyes.

Trey tilts his head and regards me with a studious expression. “You look tired,” he states.

“You look old, but you don’t see me pointing it out,” I fire back.

“How is Dahlia?” he says, that trademark thoughtfulness in his voice. He’s the only person at the Institute who knows about Dahlia’s condition.

“She’s nearly dead,” I say, my voice cold.

He blows out a heavy breath. “I’m sor—”

“Save it. I don’t want your apologies and you know that better than anyone,” I say, cutting him off.

“Ren, you should realize that allowing sympathy is as much for the people who care about you as it is for you. Not allowing people to be there for you is depriving them of the opportunity to—”

“I’m not in the fucking mood to care about your feelings on Dahlia’s death. I don’t want your empathy and I don’t give a fuck if that makes you feel left out,” I say, my voice higher all of a sudden.

Trey pushes back in his chair and regards me with an impassive expression. “I’ve gotten word that you’ve ordered Aiden to exclusively work on projects for you. Do you want to tell me what that’s about?”

“No, I don’t, but thanks for the opportunity to share,” I say.

“Is it related to the werewolf case?”

“No,” I say, now regarding my fingernails, my hand shaking a bit.

Trey must notice, which pisses me off. “You’re working nonstop, but from what I’ve observed, very little of it is Institute business,” he says.

“I’ve decided to go into baking. Thinking of opening up a cupcake shop when this bloody Institute explodes or is ravaged by werewolves,” I say.

“Aiden said you wanted the projects to remain classified,” Trey says.

“It’s better that way,” I return.

“I’m not going to push you on this subject right now, but I hope the next time I ask about this project you will divulge real details.”

I stand and look down at my longtime friend. “Hope is for losers. I want you to have a more determined approach,” I say. “With everything in your life,” I add a beat later.

Chapter Ten

“She’s been taking the formula I gave you six times a day?” Aiden says, tapping a pen on the file in his hands.

“Yes,” I say, because any snarky retort is beyond my efforts presently.

“And the daily meditations?” he asks, his hands vibrating with nerves. Behind the scientist’s glasses his eyes are bouncing around, from the chart in his hands to fifteen other places in the lab, which is crammed with more equipment than usual.

“Twice a day, just as you prescribed,” I say, my focus on the room on the other end of the lab.

Aiden flips erratically through the chart. “Yes, Dahlia shows she’s been successful in self-regulating her brain function. See here,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. There are two figures of her brain. The first is a rainbow of color, meaning brainwaves were fluctuating. The second scan is mostly yellow, which indicates that the numerous neurofeedback sessions were a success.

“Good,” I say simply, my eyelids feeling close to falling shut. Exhaustion tunnels from my brain down to my core, but I shake it away with a toss of my head.

Aiden notices the movement and blinks at me dully for a second. His mouth falls open, but I cut him off.

“Now what is the next step in this sorcery?” I ask.

He shrugs. The fucker with more education than ninety-nine percent of the population in the history of the world just shrugs. “We have to hope that the drugs have assisted in increasing the function of Dahlia’s parietal lobe.”

Hope. There’s that bloody word again. People love to hope. They pray and wish and bank on superstition traditions. God-fucking-forbid we actually use reason to decide how the future will turn out.

“And the isolation tank? What’s that for?” I say, throwing a hand at the giant bathtub-looking thing in the corner. It has a lid, like it’s a pod for hatching humans.

“My findings indicate that it’s the utmost way to enhance a meditative state, which is our best bet for being successful at this point. I’m certain it will cause Dahlia’s brainwaves to transition until she reaches the right frequency of beta. However, whether she can achieve dream travel is entirely unknown at this point,” Aiden says.

“Keep your clinical cynicism to yourself,” I say, just as Dahlia exits from the back room. She’s wearing a plush robe and a look that communicates exactly how I feel. Anxious.

Aiden notices Dahlia from the corner of his vision and then takes a double glance at her. It’s hard for him to look at her. I feel that in the way his eyes pause on her face, which has hollowed out more in the last few weeks. Pale isn’t the right word for her complexion. She’s almost grayish, like the color of an over-boiled egg yolk.

I extend my hand to her as she nears; her bare feet are probably cold on the tile floor. Dahlia’s hand barely registers in mine, it’s so light and frail. Her wrists are what I notice most about her lately. The bones protrude more there, showing the veins in her arms, which still beat with blood… but not for long.

Aiden has been threatened not to show sympathy for Dahlia. That was the order when I handed him her file a few weeks ago. First his eyes grew large, his mouth popped open wide. “I didn’t know,” were the first three words out of his mouth.

“And you will tell no one,” I said. Then I snuck Dahlia into the Institute and every night the three of us have met in the lab, working through the various processes that are supposed to change Dahlia’s brain. It’s strange for her to live here in the Institute, but it’s even stranger that this is where she’ll die. The place where I imprisoned myself away from her for so long. Life isn’t funny with how it connects things. It’s methodical, and has purpose that most don’t see.

“Are you ready?” I say to Dahlia, who still has bright eyes and that pirate smile, most of the time. People like her don’t lose their spark to cancer. It’s inborn in them and can’t be stolen away.

“Yes, I think so,” she says, looking at the isolation tank with curiosity. “Is the water cold?” she says to Aiden.

He shakes his head, pulling the lid up to reveal a tank full of bluish water. “It’s your body’s temperature.”

“And I’ll float?” Dahlia says, stepping forward and studying the chamber closer.

“That’s right. The salt creates the perfect level of gravity. All you have to do is meditate and then follow the dream travel protocol that we’ve discussed,” Aiden says.

She nods, now taking her robe off to reveal a bathing suit which shows just how skinny she’s gotten. And she actually looks excited for the next step, like she’s about to dive into an enchanted lake. “Let’s do this,” Dahlia says. With a grace that I first witnessed twenty-two years ago, she steps up and into the tank, taking Aiden’s hand for support. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she says, tucking down low and sitting at once, her arms swimming around her as she glides back.

“This isn’t a soak in a hot tub. You have a job to do,” I say, and I know my voice sounds too stern. Everything rests on what happens next. If Dahlia can’t access the dreamscape then I’m uncertain if my plans will work. And if she doesn’t die a Dream Traveler, then I’m doomed.

“Stop being so grumpy. You’ve got to learn to live a little,” she says, running her hand over the surface of the water.

“Ha-ha,” I say as I step backward, away. “You know the coordinates?”

“Only because you won’t stop repeating them,” she says, and her smile is the only thing that has ever fully disoriented me. It makes my heart speed up in my chest.

“Meet me there in twenty minutes,” I say, trying to make it sound like an inevitable meeting. But it’s not. I might find myself alone in the dreamscape. I might have failed. “Don’t screw anything up, Monkey-Boy. I’m trusting you,” I say to Aiden and turn at once and head to my room to dream travel.

***

The night sky in Nuuk looks like the canvas that a wizard streaked with smoky paint. Plumes of an almost neon green light hover high up in the sky. Effervescent blue has snuck its way into the cascading green, but only in small places. Beside it is a costar of pink, the color of cotton candy. Few things in the world are as mesmerizing as the Aurora Borealis. Scientists believe the phenomenon is a result of protons and hydrogen atoms and electrons and whatnot. These small-minded idiots fail to see that that’s the chemical makeup, but there’s far more to it. I’m comprised of atoms, but that’s not what caused me. That’s not who I am and it definitely doesn’t say anything about my purpose. The Aurora Borealis is proof that other worlds exist. It’s the bleeding over of these other worlds. I know that for certain, but I must admit that I don’t know how many other realms are out there, or if I can get to the right ones.

I pull my chin down and my eyes away from the light display to find a figure standing fifteen feet away. She looks small with the green hills and stony mountains behind her. And then I realize that I’m rushing, my feet nearly running, having moved without my express permission. Dahlia, or maybe my hallucination of her, doesn’t move. Her hands are by her side, her eyes running over the lake at my back, the lights in the sky, the houses tucked too close together on the banks.

I slide to a halt just before her. She’s transparent, just as everyone is in dream travel form.

“Are you real?” I say, looking down at her.

“I’ve been asking myself that question all my life,” she says, and then giggles, her eyes lit up by the green in the sky.

“I’m worried that I’ve lost my mind and this is an actual dream or you’re an illusion I’ve created in the dreamscape,” I say, and it’s all true. I don’t trust my experiences anymore. That’s what exhaustion does to a brain.

She takes a step forward, sliding easily into my arms. “I’m real, Ren Lewis. And I’ve dream traveled for the very first time thanks to you.”

And she’s right, she is real. I can feel her as only those in the dreamscape can do. It’s not as intimate of a sensation as in the physical realm, but still it’s an unmistakable feeling. And illusions can’t be felt. They aren’t real. I press her to me, relishing in the success. What should have been impossible has just been done. I’ve figured out the process to turn Middlings into Dream Travelers. And if I can achieve that impossible reality, then the rest of my plan should work.

“I’m not cold,” Dahlia says, stepping back to reveal her body barely covered in the red bathing suit.

“No, you wouldn’t be,” I say. “We don’t experience the elements in the dreamscape. They pass right through us.” I then extend a hand and summon from the physical realm the robe she’d taken off earlier. Although she can’t be cold, I know that her withered body still makes her self-conscious.

She eyes the robe and then me, a look of quiet pride on her face. “Well, it appears I’ve yet to see all of your tricks.”

“Yes, summoning I can only really do in the dreamscape and it’s illegal by Lucidite laws, but I must break those every now and again,” I say, turning her around so her back is pressed into me. I wrap my arms around her from behind and we both look out at the Aurora Borealis.

“This was the perfect location for my first dream travel experience,” she says.

It’s true, but of course I didn’t just choose it because it’s an incredible display of lights. There’s meaning behind everything I’m doing lately.

“Aurora was the Roman goddess of dawn,” I say, my voice automatically going into lecture mode.

“And Borealis means north wind in Greek,” Dahlia says.

“You’ve been watching the History Channel, haven’t you?” I say.

“You forget that I’m formally educated,” she says.

“I try and forget that you had to settle for that lowly route,” I say.

“Yes, I wasn’t blessed with the brains you have, but watch out because I’m a Dream Traveler now,” Dahlia says.

“Yes, you’re almost unstoppable now,” I say, but the sentence almost closes up my throat. Only if she’d been a Dream Traveler earlier or always then Dahlia wouldn’t be dying from a disease I can’t stop.

“Where are we?” she says, now glancing at the town around us. Little houses painted in various colors sit nestled together on the hills like they are banding together to stay warm.

“Nuuk,” I say.

“The capital of Greenland. I never thought I’d see it,” she says, and there’s such delight in her voice.

“Nuuk means ‘cape’ in Kalaallisut,” I say; this information was actually newly acquired by me.

“Aw, and what better place to witness the dawning of the north wind than behind a cape,” Dahlia says, snuggling in closer to me. She gets me. Gets that I have pulled the element of symbolism into our lives. Dahlia knows that I’ve found a magic of sorts and plan to unleash it.

Chapter Eleven

I nearly step on a crawling, drooling thing when I round into the conference room of the strategic department. It’s a baby I don’t recognize, but I know it belongs to Trent based on its dark skin and wiry black afro. The little brat stops crawling right in front of me, blocking my path to my usual seat at the conference table. With green eyes too large for her tiny face she looks up at me and points.

“Red!” she says with a giant smile.

I’m actually impressed that the little shit can use words, since Lucien is older than her and has the vocabulary of a chimp with special needs.

“Ren,” I correct her. “Learn bloody English. My name is Ren.”

“Red! Red! Red!” the fucker says.

I extend my foot and nudge her leg with my calfskin moccasins. “Move or I will step on you.”

Trent, who had been in a conversation with an agent at the front of the room, looks over. Then he startles, like he just remembered he forgot the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. “Oh, Jaz! Get out of the way!” He rushes over and scoops the thing up into his arms, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he says, as he deposits her into a nearby leather chair, where art supplies had previously been set up for her.

“When the fuck did this place become a nursery?” I say, eyeing the jerk, who immediately grabs a crayon and begins sucking on it.

“Trey wants us to embrace the family feel. Before, things were divided. No children were really raised at the Institute, but after everything…” Trent trails away because he’s a fucking loser who can’t move on and let the past go.

“Well, there were good reasons for not raising heathens here. We do have a fucking job to do and how are we supposed to do it if every bloody day is ‘bring your daughter to work’ day?” I say, tossing a finger in the drooling thing’s direction.

Beside me there’s a cough. I rotate my head slowly and find Adelaide has taken the place next to me.

“Hi, Pops,” she says, because she knows I hate it when she calls me that.

I throw my chin up in the air and stare at where the heavens would be if such a thing existed. “Very funny, God.” Then I point a thumb at Adelaide and say to Trent, “Don’t think this proves your fucking case. Although she doesn’t act like it, Adelaide is an adult and I’m not even certain she’s related to me.”

At this a laugh explodes out of her mouth. “Yeah, whatever you want to tell yourself, Red,” she says, and then takes a seat next to the dumbass who is now coloring on the redwood conference table.

I return my attention to Trent. “I’ve been out of pocket on other business and need updates on the current cases,” I say, as I take my usual spot at the table, two seats down from the little brats.

Trent looks all too displeased when he sits in the seat next to me. He then eyes the other two agents in the room, giving them that look. The one that says, “Get out.”

When they’ve left the area he returns his focus on me. “Other agents don’t get full reports on all the top-level cases, Ren.”

“I’m not other agents,” I say, clasping my hands over my lap and leaning back. It’s been ages since I’ve sat.

“You’re also not the head of this department anymore,” Trent says.

“Can we bypass all this ego bullshit of yours? I don’t have the time and I’m trying to help you save the fucking world from sliding into a canyon of doom,” I say.

“He has control issues,” Adelaide says from her spot a few chairs away. Apparently she decided to stay and make my life even more hellacious. She’s borrowed one of the brat’s crayons and papers and is drawing a picture, like the child that she is.

“I’m definitely close to breaking and going on a rampage, so please remember that,” I say to her.

Trent grabs one of his dreads and pulls at it, but only slightly. It’s a nervous habit he’s recently adopted. “There have been two more wolf massacres,” he says. “That’s your case so I’ll brief you on that, since I know you’ve been busy on other business.”

“And then you’ll brief me on the other level five cases,” I say.

“Ren, I really don’t—”

“Trent, what I think your biggest problem is, besides your hair, is that you fail to see that everything is connected. Usually I could relate level five cases to each other and find a string that connected them. I was able to do that and consolidate my cases. I’ve seen the amount of level five cases that have poured in and I’m betting that they aren’t all unrelated. Why don’t you fill me in and take advantage of my superior knowledge and experience,” I say.

“Modesty is another of Ren’s strong suits,” Adelaide says, like she’s talking to the drooling child.

“Yes, fine,” Trent says with a heavy sigh, obviously overly stressed by all the demands of the position. He really has so many shortcomings, and yet he was the best person for the job. “About the wolf case—”

“Go ahead and call it the werewolf case,” I say.

“With all due respect—”

“Don’t use that phrase. It’s a phony phrase that has no meaning. It’s supposed to make someone not feel offended for something that obviously is contradicting their intelligence,” I say, cutting Trent off. “Really, Trent, have I taught you nothing?”

“I just think it’s a bit early to jump to such a bizarre conclusion,” Trent says.

“Then don’t. But when I’m right then I’m going to shove it in your face,” I say.

“How is that different than any other time?” Adelaide says, interrupting us.

I slowly turn and look at her. “Do you have nothing to do? Isn’t there a level one case that you can go screw up or an underprivileged kid that you can insult or an upper-class college freshman you can give an STD to?” I say to Adelaide.

“I agree that that’s not the way a father should talk to his little princess,” she says in a baby voice to the kid beside her who is scribbling on paper now. “Your daddies would never talk to you that way because Trent and Joseph have souls.”

“That’s yet to be determined,” I reply. “Have you really met Joseph?”

“I have, and I think it’s pretty cool that Jaz has his eyes, but your skin color,” Adelaide says in Trent’s direction. “Pretty cool that you found a donor who looked so much like Joseph.”

“Oh, we didn’t,” Trent says. “It was my sample we used, but we were able to splice in some of Joseph’s DNA. It’s this new CRISPR technology.”

“What? That’s a thing? We can do that?” Adelaide says, sounding stunned.

“Aiden’s lab can. They created the technology. Gene splicing has really come a long way. It’s even rumored that soon they’ll be able to alter existing DNA,” Trent says.

“If you two dimwits would shut the fuck up for a second about family trees then I’d like to get the information on the latest level five cases,” I say, at my wits’ end with these two fuckers.

“Well, the most recent one is incredibly peculiar,” Trent says.

“Stop hanging out with Aiden, who uses superfluous adjectives, and get to the bloody point,” I say.

“Right. Well, there was a string of robberies at optometrist offices all over the country,” Trent says.

“Why is that especially peculiar? Did they steal contact lenses?” I say.

“No, they hacked into the software and stole patient records,” Trent says.

“And this string of robberies. How long is it actually?” I ask.

“Over three thousand,” he says.

“Holy fuck, that’s a lot. This isn’t a common robbery. What’s in those records?” I say.

“What you’d expect,” Trent says, and now he sounds smug, which I don’t approve of. “Nothing that could point to the purpose behind obtaining hundreds of thousands of patient records nationwide.”

“I’ll repeat this because you obviously lost your hearing in the Dream Traveler apocalypse,” I say. “What was in the records?”

“Medical information, vision history, prescriptions, retina scans—”

“What the fuck did you just say?” I say, cutting him off and a peg falling into place in my cognition.

“Retina scans…” Trent says, not getting it. That’s why he sucks at this job in comparison to me.

And then it all connects, like a quilt with patches from different times in history, made by separate people. The new United States President’s words come back to me:

“Can I still pass the retina scanner security bill?” he had asked me on the night of the election.

I regarded him blankly, I remember.

“Why?” I had said.

“Because I think it will be cool to have to have eye scans to enter all government facilities,” he had said, like a fucking idiot. But now I realize he’s either a part of this conspiracy involving werewolves or he’s a pawn. And I know exactly what’s going to happen next and exactly how to stop it.

“We need—” I begin, but then I’m cut off by the mobile ringing in my pocket. I retrieve it to realize that my pops, who is staying in the rooming corridor with the rest of us at the Institute and apparently can’t walk down the hallway, is calling me.

“What?” I growl into the phone.

“Ren, it’s your pops,” he says.

“Caller ID is a thing, you know,” I say.

“It’s Dahlia. Something’s wrong. I mean, more so than usual. She asked for you,” he says.

And I switch off the mobile and leave without another word.

Chapter Twelve

The bedroom I’ve shared with Dahlia now for weeks at the Institute is dark. She always keeps it bright, filled with lights that mimic the sun’s rays. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of that during my imprisonment at the Institute, which is devoid of windows. And flowers always make the space feel inviting, overshadowing the cold stainless steel walls. This woman found a way to make an underground facility feel like a home. She has done what Dream Travelers blessed with special powers and decades more experience have failed to do. Dahlia brought personality to a steel box of a room. She made me forget where I was, if only briefly. She fooled me every morning into thinking I was awakening to sunlight streaming through open windows. That the garden was on the other side of the double doors, like the one at our house in Santa Monica. She did something I thought I was the only one left alive that could do. Dahlia created an illusion.

Our room is dark when I enter, and the black makes the space feel too vast, like it doubled inside to accompany the pain. Each night, every morning, each hour of the day, she wears the pain like a solider does a battle scar. Hidden. Buried under clothes. Away from the eyes of everyone. But I feel her pain. It fills the room in the morning, at that raw hour when she’s awoken to remember. To remember that God has cursed her. Cursed her for being a Middling. Cursed her for tirelessly serving his people, by creating an art that no one can touch or replicate.

Pops doesn’t turn his head as I approach. He only rises from his crouched place close to Dahlia’s side, his hand clasped in hers.

“I didn’t want to leave her. That’s the reason I called,” he says, his back to me, his eyes probably somber and on the woman before him.

“Son, I was afraid if I left her—”

“Leave,” I say, my voice a hush.

This does cause him to turn, and just then I catch Dahlia’s face on the other side of him. Her eyes are closed, like an angel napping, rejuvenating for yet another day of creating miracles.

The expression on Pops’s face feels like a deliberate assault on my resolve in this moment. It says too much. It reeks of an emotion that I should be the only one allowed to feel. And yet, pain connected to the loss of Dahlia isn’t something that I have exclusive rights to. And soon I’ll know that all too well.

“Give us a moment,” I say to Pops, like I’m asking to have a private consult with Dahlia before she freshens up for dinner.

He nods, and the hand he claps on my shoulder almost unbuckles my knees. “I’ll be outside, son.”

When the door clicks shut, I remain standing, staring at the most perfect specimen I’ve ever known. My equal in all the right ways. I’m only superior to Dahlia in my immunity to cancer and still that doesn’t make me better. Cancer probably should have knocked me out years ago, a direct result of my bad attitude and a long list of awful karma. However, I stand, strong enough to face another fifty or sixty years on this earth, and the woman before me lies at the doors of defeat, knocking on the doors, begging to be allowed entry. Just like my mum, but also not like her at all. I don’t forget they will both have died from the same disease. I don’t forget their histories will be so similar. Dying young. Leaving Dream Traveler partners behind. It isn’t coincidence. There is no such thing. It is a game that God plays because he thinks he’s teaching us lessons, making us face demons. But God has no more power over me. This attempt to make me face the pain, experience loss, will be in vain and even he is beginning to know that, I’m certain.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Dahlia says, her eyes still closed but a slight smile on her face.

And the curious grin I release is also accompanied by a sharp brutal pain, which apparently just broke out of the cage where I’d banished it. “You can ask me for almost anything,” I say, taking the seat next to her on the bed, my hand instantly covering hers.

“Would you be nicer to that man?” she says, and cracks an eye now. And then, as if deciding the light in the room is acceptable, she opens both eyes wide, a smile crossing her expression and then disappearing at once.

“Why would I do that?” I say.

“Because your pops is one of the best men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my almost forty-five years on this planet,” she says.

I love that we are here, discussing my abusive behavior. That she’s hiding a smile. That I’m hiding everything. And that she’s the only person I can ever have a tender moment with quite like this. Leaving so much unsaid. Saying the things that matter very little. Dahlia is the only woman alive who understands me. She knows I can’t do emotions. Knows that I’m the most unlovable human to exist and yet she loves me in a way I feel I actually deserve and it makes me better.

“So you summoned me,” I say, pressing a thumb into her palm, which feels like a cold iris petal that’s fallen on the bare ground.

“Dream traveling did give me a gift,” she says.

I nod, no real expression on my face. “Yes, I figured it would. Dream traveling is the power that fuels greater aspects of our brains. Can you do something lame like telekinesis?”

“I think I have a couple of gifts actually,” she says, and now she’s hiding a sneaky expression although it looks strange on her exhausted face, like a cat about to fall asleep.

“A couple? Are you certain? You’ve only dream traveled a couple of times. That’s not quite enough to bring on more than one gift or even make that one strong.”

Dahlia bites down on her lip and nods; well, tries to nod. “I have a hunch on the second gift. But the first one is that I can see the future,” she says.

“Yes, fairly useless gift, as I suspected,” I say.

She pulls her hand away from mine and goes to slap my arm but the movement isn’t strong or deliberate enough. Her arm just falls like it is weighted and her hand ends up back in mine. Where it belongs.

“Ren, I’ve seen the end. My end,” Dahlia says, and I know she’s trying to suppress it, but just then the ache in her words comes out like glue spilling over the edges of two pieces being sealed back together.

“Have you seen anything on a werewolf case though? That’s really what I need details from a clairvoyant on,” I say.

She doesn’t laugh. I’m sure she wants to. I’m sure she wants to send a quip back in my direction but instead, she turns her head away, throwing her eyes at a darkened corner.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she says, and for the first time in all our lives, I feel a pain in her that is too beautiful for words. It’s not the pain of rejection, like I’ve made her feel so many times. It’s not the pain of loss. It’s the pain of having, and realizing this world can gift us in a way that touches our soul. That kind of experience is so perfect that it hurts. It etches itself on our soul like a tattoo. And it hurts so much that it actually feels good.

“It sounds like you’ve lived an incredibly sheltered life,” I say, gripping her hand firmly.

And like we aren’t having a conversation her eyes fall shut and her breaths immediately take on a shallow rhythm. I’m willing to stay here for all of eternity and hold her hand. Watch her sleep. But then her eyes flicker, trying several times to open completely. Without her looking at me, I know she feels me there, but I also feel the disorientation in the way she regards the far wall. “Ren,” Dahlia says, and her voice is too quiet. I lean in to hear her. “I know you have all these plans, but just in case—”

“They will work,” I say, cutting her off. Now I realize what this is about.

“But if they don’t. I want… I need the opportunity to say—”

“No,” I say, my voice suddenly loud. “No goodbyes.”

“But Ren. What you’re trying to do—”

“Have a little faith in me,” I say, a beautiful irony in my voice.

“Oh, Ren Lewis,” she says, and now she brings her eyes back to stare at me. They are brimming with tears, casting the blue of her eyes in pools about to overflow. “There’s no one I’ve ever believed in more than you. That’s why I need the chance to tell you one last time that—”

“Save it, Dahlia,” I say, interrupting the one set of words I can’t hear from her right now. They will jinx everything. “You’ll get another chance. I promise.”

“Ren, this is the end of my story,” she says, her words slow. And I almost think she’s fallen asleep halfway through the sentence. “This morning,” she says, and then licks her split lips. “I was washing my face and I saw a vision of this moment. You don’t allow me to say goodbye and then…” Dahlia pauses and her eyes don’t seem to see my face, but rather a picture show in her mind. She’s reliving the vision.

“Ren, I saw you, you just sit here and watch…me…die,” she says, finally completing a sentence that is almost too emotionally and physically taxing for her to finish.

Her hand feels close to fracturing in mine, but she doesn’t complain about the pressure. I draw in a deep breath and lean close in to her, my nose almost touching hers. “You don’t say goodbye when you know you’re going to see each other again,” I say.

“But if we don’t…” she says in a tortured whisper.

“Shhh,” I say and press my lips to hers. She doesn’t kiss me back. She can’t. It’s too much for her. But it’s enough for me. And then I feel her hand brush the stubble of my cheek. Peeling back, I look down at her. A unique peace is on her face as though all burdens we are born with have been washed away in this moment.

“Ren, you made it all worth it. You made everything better,” she says, her arm shaking to keep her hand up, pressed to my cheek.

“You know what I’ve always seen when I’ve looked at you?” she says, her words sluggish, but somehow strong.

I shake my head against her hand, and it’s enough of a movement that she drops it down to my lap. “Home,” she says simply. “You’re my home,” Dahlia says.

And then she closes her eyes and I instinctively know that Dahlia won’t open them again in this world.

Chapter Thirteen

LA Times

There have been few losses as great as the one announced today. It came as an incredible shock when the family of Dahlia, the famed singer and musician, released a press statement. Last night, the extraordinarily talented pop star died in her sleep, according to her family who were by her side. This is an extreme blow for fans to digest since no one knew that Dahlia was sick and, more specifically, dying of ovarian cancer. The international star had taken a hiatus from touring to work on a new album, according to the most recent communication from her management. When questioned, they stated that they were also unaware that Dahlia was sick. The family said in their recent statement that Dahlia had asked that the information be kept secret and only her closest relatives and staff were made aware of the condition.

Now that the world knows of this information, a long and arduous road to healing will have to be discovered and will surely be threaded by millions. Dahlia spent over thirty years making music that was cherished by people young and old. It was music that brought people together and gave them a common interest. She celebrated more than fifty number one hits, most of those staying on the charts for more than fifteen weeks. Dahlia is not a giant star. She’s the top artist of all time with more recordings and more platinum records than any other. On this day a star has fallen, one that will leave a permanent dark place in the sky.

Vigil service will be held outside of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. The memorial service is closed to the public and the family has asked for the utmost privacy during this time of grieving. Dahlia died at age forty-five and is survived by her parents and her lifelong partner, Ren Lewis.

***

I release Dahlia’s parents with a curt nod after we exit the church. The service wasn’t adequate, but how could it have been? There’s little that can be done to celebrate a life as extraordinary as Dahlia’s. Radio stations all over the country have shut down for the day, taking their own vow of silence, something that’s never been done. People line the streets outside the cathedral, all dressed in black, and most wearing tear-streaked expressions of grief. There has been talk of a memorial statue being erected in the middle of Hollywood. There’s been a lot of talk, but none of it matters. People die. Dahlia has died. There’s nothing that anyone can do to make her life feel as memorable as it should. Well, there is one thing and I’m the only one who can do it.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bobby, Dahlia’s longtime bodyguard, says as he opens the door to the limo for me. He’s known Dahlia longer than I have. He was there the day she barged into my flat, some twenty-two years ago. This man has spent the better part of his life trying to keep the woman I love safe, alive.

I extend a hand to the man with a flat nose and red eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, meaning it. He won’t ever see Dahlia again. He soon will be unemployed. Bobby eyes my hand, taken aback by the gesture. Then he takes my hand and shakes it and by reading his thoughts I confirm what I already knew. He is and has always been in love with Dahlia. I can’t blame him. Everyone loved her and most were in love with her. She was the type that drew in people’s attention and then locked it on her forever. There was no escaping her allure.

I toss a glance at the sea of people at my back. Actually they are everywhere. Thousands of fans have gathered in the street, most of them holding a candle that will burn through the night. Most have flown great distances or traveled from faraway places to be here, close to where Dahlia’s body rests inside the cathedral. I can’t blame these followers for banding together to comfort each other. I climb into the limo and the image of a mother and daughter holding each other while they sob is burned into my vision. The last thing I witnessed on the streets.

Adelaide is the last one to slide into the car, taking the seat beside me. Her stare on my face feels like a burning ray from the sun. She’s worried. I know it. Everyone in this fucking car is worried about me. They want me to cry. To show an emotion. But Pops, on the other side of the car, is showing enough emotion for all of us. He blows his nose loudly into a handkerchief and then slides the snotty rag into the breast pocket of his jacket.

No one knows why I’m not upset. Crying. On edge, at the very least. They want me to grieve. I see in their faces that they need me to grieve. And I’m not because I haven’t lost anything I can’t regain, but they don’t know that. They just think that the monster has taken over. That I’ve shoved the pain away. Buried it again, like before with my mum and Jimmy. But I haven’t. Maybe they think I’m in shock. How could I be though? I lay next to this woman every night, watching her wake with less every morning. Slowly I watched Dahlia die.

“Ren,” Adelaide says, putting her hand on the leather seat between us. “Are you okay?”

I turn and look at her. “How are your cases going?” I say, like we are discussing show times for a matinee.

“Son, this isn’t the time,” Pops says, blowing his nose again.

“Well, I’m fairly busy for the next few weeks, so it’s probably the best time,” I say, watching the monster fiddle with his seat belt. He’s out of the harness in only a few seconds, and my pops, who is now crying again, doesn’t notice.

“Chick-a-wa!” Lucien says, toddling over in my direction, his hands out.

“Lucy,” Adelaide says, scooping up the kid. “Give Ren some space.”

“Can you call him by a proper nickname, like little beast or gigantic mistake?” I say, watching the child reach for me like I’m a chocolate sundae.

Adelaide allows a small smile, but then tucks her chin into Lucien’s shoulder, where she quickly buries it.

“Pops!” Lucien says.

“Ren,” I correct, knowing he’s referring to me.

“Pops! Pops! Pops!” he repeats.

“The only word you can say and it’s the wrong one,” I say, shaking my head at him.

“Pops!” he says, with too much conviction.

“If I find out you’ve been teaching him this as a joke then I’ll have Dahlia come back and haunt you,” I say to my daughter.

And this produces a small gasp from my pops. Adelaide pulls up her head and looks at me with glassy eyes. I’ve never seen her cry, didn’t much think she was capable of it. “I’m going to miss her,” she says, and the pain in her words makes me realize how much loss she feels right now.

“Of course you are,” I say plainly.

“She was kind of like a mum to me,” Adelaide says, tucking one of Lucien’s red curls behind his ear, like it was bothering him and not her.

“I’m sure she thought of you fondly as well,” I say, my voice calm, mechanical.

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” she admits.

“Goodbyes are overrated,” I say, knowing that’s absolutely false. Saying that final farewell is a gift for loved ones. When we are robbed of that moment because someone is taken suddenly then we always feel like there’s unfinished business. All goodbyes unsaid reside somewhere and I’m sure it’s a place that reeks of regrets.

The honking sound emits from the other side of the car again. “Not a better young woman on this earth,” Pops says, and then wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. “Well, ’cept for you, Addy, and your grandmum. Most astonishing women I’ve ever known.”

“She said the same thing about you before she died,” I tell my pops, and it’s the only gift I can give him.

The twinkle in his eyes tells me it’s the best gift I’ve could have given him.

“She said that?” he says through a chuckle and a sob.

“She said I should be nice to you,” I admit.

He waves me off. “You are you and I love you just how you are.”

“You always did,” I say, and then turn my attention to the scene outside my window. The street leading up to the gated entrance to our home is lined with people holding flowers and posters. The posters read the same thing over and over and over. Hundreds of signs of affection that all say the same thing. They read:

“We could not have loved her more.”

Chapter Fourteen

Aiden’s face drops with slack when I stroll into his lab. I returned to the Institute straight after the funeral because I don’t have a moment to waste right now. The daft scientist opens his mouth, but I cut him off by holding up my hand.

“Yes, you’re sorry for my loss. Blah, blah, blah. Can we skip the unpleasantries, because I have work for you and I need it done fast. If it’s not done straightaway then everything I’ve been working towards will be lost,” I say, and watch his expression progress from sympathy to clinical. Good, this isn’t going to be as difficult as I imagined.

“Uhhh… yeah, sure. I thought we were about wrapped up on projects, but if you need my help then I’m all yours,” Aiden says, that familiar squeak in his voice.

I tilt my head and give him a mischievous look. “Oh, I bet you wish you were all mine, you pervert,” I say.

He returns my look with one of amusement. “You never take a break from the jokes, do you? Ren Lewis and his cunning attitude are unstoppable.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Now the work is actually just starting. I need you to create a device for me and it’s going to involve more talent and brain power than I think you possess, but let’s give it a go anyway.” Actually, Aiden is the only human on earth that I think can pull this off, but I’d never tell him that. And still this is a long shot. I shouldn’t have waited until after Dahlia died to turn my attention to this, but I also was overwhelmed with making her into a Dream Traveler.

“You really know how to inspire a person to want to work with you,” Aiden says. “What is it that you’d have me do?”

“I need you to create a device to find the location of what you probably call a wormhole and then the device needs to open it,” I say, all in a rush of matter-of-fact words.

“Oh, is that all?” Aiden says, bursting out with a giant laugh. He pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes, which are filling with tears from his dumb reaction.

“Well, no. There will probably be more, but let’s start with this for now,” I say.

“So you want me to help you find a wormhole?” he says, leaning against his workstation and crossing his feet in front of him. He’s acting cocky with his skepticism and it’s going to get him killed.

“Door, portal, passage, whatever you want to call it. It’s important that you don’t get stuck on semantics here.”

“Right,” Aiden says. “Because that’s the obvious hurdle in all this.”

“Look, I can’t help it that you’re a loser who has very little imagination. Your immediate cynicism on this is not only unappreciated, but it’s hurting my feelings during this really vulnerable time in my life,” I say, pulling off the perfect amount of pity in my voice and arranging my face into something that looks pathetic.

The scientist takes a minute to study me. Then he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

My face then lights up with a victorious half smile. People are really too easily manipulated. “You are sorry and a fool,” I say.

Aiden, realizing that I’m playing him now, shakes his head at me again, but this time with his lips pursed and an expression that says, “This man can’t be helped.”

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s say you find this wormhole, how do you know where it leads to? It could put you on another planet or in Mesopotamia.”

I shake my head. “No, for as much as you know about science you’re a fucking idiot. You have spent too much time at Comic Con. Wormholes don’t really connect with other time periods. They can’t because time is linear. Wormholes, if you actually knew what you were talking about, connect the three worlds because they are all connected. There’s doors between these dimensions, let’s call them.”

He shakes his head before I’m done speaking. “No, that isn’t right.”

“Look, spacewaster, I’m going to need you to forget everything you know about science because it’s wrong,” I say.

“But I have a PhD—”

“Shut the fuck up. You learned from a bunch of humans how this world works,” I say, cutting him off.

“Einstein actually,” he says, proudly.

“A human nonetheless. I’m about to teach you something if you will shut your dumb mouth,” I say.

“You’re going to teach me about science?” he says on the edge of a laugh.

“Yes,” I say with a sigh.

“And you didn’t learn this from humans?” he says.

I shake my head.

“Aliens then?” he says.

“You’re a fucking moron,” I say.

“Wait, are you telling me that you’ve had conversations with God?” he says.

“No, that’s how a hippie would describe it. I’ve seen the fabric of this universe. Of our world,” I say.

“But how?” he says.

“I turned off the fucking television, unlike most buffoons on this earth. I listened.” I throw my arm out wide. “What none of the fuckers on this planet get is that all the information is locked inside the conscious mind. It’s a bank and we all have an account there if we aren’t brain dead. Hell, even if we are. The information is infinite, which is why most know so little. But spend time studying the vault and the answers to anything can be found.”

“Then why are you even talking to me? Why are you coming to me for answers, which is how it appears,” he says, and I want to slap the smug look off his face.

“Call it a shortcut. Finding information in the universal mind isn’t always fast or easy,” I say. And it’s true. I can search for the how, but Aiden will know it without me digging on my own and I strangely know that.

“Okay, so tell me about science,” he says.

“You know as a Dream Traveler that there’s this world,” I say, pointing to the ground, meaning the physical realm.

“Right,” he says, already shaking his head. “And then there’s the dream travel realm. The dreamscape.”

“Good job, monkey face,” I say. “There’s rules for each realm. Here we’re entitled to the physical and consciousness. In the dreamscape we only have our consciousness.”

“Are you saying there’s wormholes between the physical realm and the dreamscape?” he says.

“Yes, probably. Most likely. There’s all sorts of remnants of relativity,” I say.

“Did you just say the term relativity?” he says, boasting his big attitude.

“Shut the fuck up. I had to learn about science for this. I’m already angry about it and looking for someone to unleash my hostility on. Anyway, we don’t need to find wormholes in the physical realm because they would just lead to the dreamscape, which I can already get to,” I say.

“Wait, how do you know they’d lead to the dreamscape?” he says, looking honestly curious now.

I sigh heavily. Stomp over to the whiteboard sitting against a wall and pick up a marker. The smell of the ink tinges my nose when I snap the lid off it. I draw a single horizontal line.

“This is time,” I say.

“Yes, it’s linear,” he says.

“The reason I know that there aren’t portals to different time periods is because of how it’s set up. Wormholes aren’t what you think they are,” I say.

“You mean they aren’t doors into another place that’s possibly light years away but can be accessed through a single portal?” he says.

“Yes, they are that, but you think you can find one in 2017 and it will stick you in 1981,” I say, ticking two separate places on the line.

“Right. That’s the common assumption. And that I can find a wormhole in the main hall of the Institute that will put me in outer space,” he says.

“Where’d you thankfully die. But wormholes don’t really exist—”

“Well, I know that, it’s just cool science fiction,” he says.

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, wormholes don’t exist like you think they do.” I hold the pen up. “Everything is grounded in an archetype and wormholes do exist but they aren’t doors to things millions of miles apart or time periods decades apart. They are just doors and they open into the space next to them, which is how passages work, if you remember,” I say.

“So that’s the reason they wouldn’t work with time, because it’s linear?” he says.

“Good job, dumbass. Now before I said there are only three dimensions in this world we live in. There’s the physical realm,” I say, drawing a rectangle. Then I draw under it a matching rectangle. “This is the dreamscape.”

“And you suppose there’s doors between those realms because they are touching, is that right?” Aiden says.

“I presume, yes. But that’s not what I’m after. I want to find the door to the third realm, which I assume is located here,” I say, drawing a matching rectangle under the dreamscape realm.

“And that is?” he says.

“The place where there’s no physical bodies and no consciousness, only the subconscious,” I say.

“You mean the Underworld?” he says.

“Exactly,” I say.

Chapter Fifteen

“Fuckity fuck,” I say, slamming my open palm on the conference room table.

Trent stares back at me with a look of uncertainty. Not only does he never know how to respond to me, but he’s more on edge due to my recent loss. If fuckers like him don’t stop looking at me like I’m a fragile little puppy hopping around on three legs, then I’m going to hypnotize them all until their heads explode. I’ve had enough of everyone’s worthless sympathy. They aren’t even giving it because they want to help me. They want to help themselves. They want to feel better about themselves. In my situation they’d need someone to hold them up and they think they can do that for me. But they can’t because I don’t do pity. I’m fucking allergic to it.

“I realize that we didn’t see this coming but—”

“I did see this coming!” I yell, now slamming a closed fist on the table.

Trent pulls back, looking shocked. “You did…?”

“Yes, but then Dahlia had to poorly time her death and I got overly distracted,” I say, remembering connecting the pieces of the massive theft on the optometry offices.

The whites of Trent’s eyes when they widen are a stark contrast to his dark skin. “Ren—”

“Don’t Ren me,” I say. People don’t like how flippant I am about everything that’s happened. It makes them uncomfortable, but I’m so bloody tired of worrying about how other people are dealing with the way I’m processing my situation. Fuck them and their selfish hearts. They use them to feel all right, feeling scared and reluctant to actually experience life.

“I connected that the retina scans taken at optometrist offices were going to be used to steal yet more information,” I say, remembering the epiphany but then getting pulled away before I could put an agent on the case.

“How could you have possibly known that the retina scans would be used to gain top-level security to the Pentagon?” Trent says.

I drop my chin and regard him behind a repulsed expression. “I’m Ren-Fucking-Lewis and it’s not my first day on this job, as it appears it is for you. For God’s sake, Trent, you’re going to have to get a whole lot better at this job and quick. I’m not always going to be here to think for you.”

“Well, I guess I could see making the connection now, but… Wait, what did you just say?” he says, the last part of my statement finally sinking in. God, he’s so fucking slow.

“I don’t repeat myself. You know that,” I say, and now drum my fingers on the conference table, trying to figure out the next ten moves.

“Are you quitting? I mean, if you need some time off then it’s perfectly understandable after every—”

“I’m not a fucking quitter,” I say.

“Oh, then why are you saying you won’t always be around to help me?”

He’s bloody confused and it’s kind of cute to watch his dumb brain try to piece together the fragments of a riddle I’m constantly swinging in front of his face. “Let’s just say that I’m relocating.”

“Oh, well, but you’ll still be able to work for the Institute, right?” he says.

“The commute would be a bitch, so no. I’m guessing that this will be one of my last cases,” I say, and enjoy the look of horror that springs to his face before he washes it away with something a little less pathetic.

“But Ren,” he says.

“Don’t worry your ugly little head about that now. I’m here to hold your hand for a bit longer. Right now we need to focus on these current case details.”

He nods, trying to muster a new confidence. “Yeah, of course.”

“So the security cameras were disabled when the breach happened at the Pentagon? Can we get agents to time travel to get a glimpse of the perpetrator?” I ask, running over the details I memorized from the case file.

“Uhhh… Yeah, I tried that but it didn’t work,” he says.

“Why?” I say with a growl. I’m certain I’m not going to like the answer.

“The person appears to have been invisible,” he says.

“What? Are you fucking kidding me? The thief has the skill of invisibility. Brilliant.” I throw my hands in the air. “Yes, now I officially quit! Fuck this job,” I say. Invisibility?! Really? I’ve seen it all, or at least I thought I had, but now to have an adversary who is invisible. That’s bloody absurd.

“Yeah, it appears that’s their dream travel skill. That’s our best guess, that we’re dealing with a Dream Traveler.”

“Or someone stole that Potter kid’s invisibility cloak,” I say.

“I think it’s most likely that this is a skill, a unique one,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at the dumbass wasting my time. “Thanks, genius. I wasn’t being serious about the cloak.”

“Right,” he says, covering his long forehead with his hand.

“So the invisible man used a retina scan he stole to gain access to a top-level area of the Pentagon. Then the fucker did what? I didn’t have a chance to read the entire file,” I say, remembering seeing it come through on my phone, but deciding to only scan the first page.

“Well, you were a bit distracted. I wavered on if I should send it over to you on that day, but I didn’t want you to be mad that I left you out,” he says.

“Funeral. You are referring to sending me the report while I was at Dahlia’s funeral,” I say, and run my hands through my spiky red hair, which makes my hand sticky from the gel. “You know, Trent, you’re going to have to be a real man and say things directly. Stop pussy-footing around the obvious. Dahlia died. I went to her funeral. She’s gone. Deal with it as I have. I know you lie on the floor of your room crying and listening to her music for most nights of your lame life, but you’re going to have to move on now. No more sugary-sweet ballads. No more crying yourself to sleep to the sound of her voice. You will survive. God, I hope you can fucking survive after this because I don’t have the time to find your replacement.”

Trent doesn’t look as shocked as he should and it kind of pisses me off. Actually he looks curious. “How do you do that?”

I yawn loudly. “Do what?”

“Cut off the emotions,” he says.

“I’m a man. I don’t cut off emotions. I quarantine them. I process when appropriate,” I say and then pause, considering whether to continue this lecture or not. He may not be ready. “Trent, at the end of the day, this is just fucking life. We live. We die. Shit happens. It’s really not as big a deal as everyone likes to make it. The worst thing in the world can happen and guess fucking what? It doesn’t really matter. The world goes on. You only think things will break you. That you’re vulnerable, but that’s a bloody choice. If you knew what I know then you wouldn’t look so pathetic. You wouldn’t act so pathetic.”

“What do you know?” he says.

“That we’re all bloody gods, capable of extraordinary powers. Life is limitless to those who believe this,” I say.

“Well, that’s an incredibly hard reality to fully digest,” Trent says, but I can tell he wants to believe me.

“That’s because you’re a failure. Those who can’t believe in their full greatness will never experience it. You have to believe it to see it, not see it to believe it,” I say.

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” he says, but this isn’t something he can easily digest. “So the perpetrator stole records on civilian and military individuals.”

“Any correlation with the stolen data?” I say, having suspected that there would be a crime using the retina scans, but not knowing what it would be. It seemed obvious that it would be on a high-security place like the Pentagon, especially since that security is brand new as it’s a part of the current President’s legislation.

“We’re looking into correlations, although a huge database was accessed and the files copied,” he says. Trent has no idea what’s going on here. And even worse, he doesn’t know what to do next. Thankfully for him I know exactly what to do. I turn for the exit.

“Wait! Where are you going? What do you think is going on?” Trent says at my back.

I pause and rotate around to face him. “I’m going to interrogate the one person who can identify our thief. The one who is potentially behind all this,” I say.

“Who?” he says.

“Oh, don’t you want to be surprised?” I say, and turn and stalk for the exit.

***

Just as I did on the night of the election, I teleport into Douglas’s office. However, now the fuckhead does all his work from the White House Oval Office, thanks to me. As I suspected, the President of the United States is hunched behind a desk, his face screwed up from almost thinking. He’s staring at several papers, flipping through them madly.

“Reading is tough for you, isn’t it?” I say and as I assumed, the knowledge of my sudden appearance makes him jump.

“Oh dear lord!” he says, clutching his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I have that effect on people,” I say, pinning both my hands on the front of the President’s desk. “Please know, if I so desire it I can do far worse than give you a heart attack.”

“I’ve been checking in every day. Reporting everything that comes across my desk,” he says, his voice frantic.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I say, and watch him visibly relax, his shoulders pulling down away from his ears.

“Oh good, because I was worried. I don’t understand half of what comes across my desk, so the act of reporting it is difficult,” he says.

“That’s because you have the IQ of a ferret and when I say that I feel I’ve actually insulted the little rodents,” I say.

“I’ve always liked ferrets. They’re neat looking,” he says, and then to my horror he snorts with a dumb laugh. President of the fucking United States. Americans are all brain dead.

With my hands still pinned on the desk I say, “Why did you push to have the retina scanners installed as the new security at the Pentagon?”

He tucks his large chin back and regards me with a batty expression. “Honestly, I thought it sounded like a cool idea when I heard about it. Like right out of a science fiction movie.”

I tap my fingers on the desk, impatience oozing from my every movement. “And where did you hear about this cool technology?” I say, a hint of condescension in my voice.

His eyes flick up to the ceiling as he fucking thinks, like a special needs ferret that ate rat poison. “Oh!” he says, the information apparently sawing through the thick walls of his dumb brain. “There was this dinner party a few months ago, prior to my election.”

“You weren’t elected,” I remind him and then wave him forward. “Go on, moron.”

“Well, there was a man there. An investor. He was willing to give me campaign money, but wanted me to hear his idea for a security upgrade. I heard the idea and thought it would be really cool. Upgrade the Pentagon in all the right ways,” he says.

“Name. What was the man’s name?” I say.

He scratches his wrinkled forehead, which is overly tanned from the dumb spray-on formula he no doubt uses as an attempt to cover his age spots. “Honestly, I don’t recall. That was a while ago, and I’d had a few martinis.”

“Send over a guest list for that party. I want it within the hour,” I say, pushing away from the desk and the disgusting ape’s foul breath.

“I don’t know if I can track it down that fast,” he says.

“You’ll do it, or you’ll be impeached for some heinous crimes. Do you understand me?” I say.

“Right. Yes, of course. I’ll have the list cross-referenced with the list of campaign supporters to help you trim it down,” he says, nodding his head now.

I give him a look of sudden astonishment. “Wow,” I say with no enthusiasm. “Look at you not being a complete dumbass, for once in your life.”

“Thanks,” Douglas says a bit sheepishly, sliding his hand along the side of his head.

Chapter Sixteen

The light from the banker’s lamp on my desk isn’t cutting it. Or maybe it’s my eyes, which have read thousands of words of text. Maybe it’s the reflection of the green glass shade off the stainless steel wall behind it. I twist around to realize that the Institute staff took heart to what I said and removed everything from my room but my bed and dresser and desk. I had everything related to Dahlia emptied from the room, including the sunlamps that she had strategically placed around the space. Maybe a bit of a premature move on my part, but I’m trying to remain focused at this time and not get swept away by emotions. Everyone wants me to grieve. Needs me to. But what those imbeciles fail to understand is that the moment I do that then I’ve given power to the idea that Dahlia is actually gone and there’s no way to get her back. I won’t do that.

I twist back around, my eyes taking a moment to adjust from the dark at my back. Pulling the book in front of me closer, I squint at the sea of words. They blur before taking shape. With a quick glance at the text I then return to taking notes, my hand sketching out the words in long, flowing cursive, an art form that will die soon.

Consciousness constructs reality. Without that and there is no experience. Stars aren’t consciousness just light and fire and energy, just as souls are. But combine consciousness with a soul and you have a person.

I pause, my senses picking up on something strange. Turning my head to the side, I expect to see someone standing beside me, but the space is empty. Then I turn back to the book, but again, I get that impression that something or someone is lurking at the corner of my vision. Blowing out a hot breath, I return to my notes. The ballpoint pen makes a scratching sound as I write.

We know that consciousness can exist outside the body.

I pause again, but this time because I’ve lost my train of thought. Lately, I feel like I’m in the field of nowhere and on the edge of something. It’s like I’m in that transitional moment when everything is leading up to something important and yet it seems that nothing is occurring. I’m stuck in an in-between moment. The one that precedes a great epiphany. And I know it and yet, I’m impatient with the process.

I redirect my focus to the large book in front of me: Socrates and Philosophy in the Dialogue of Plato. I tap my silver ballpoint on the leather-bound volume. “What is it that I need to know?” I say to myself, to the book.

Aiden has his challenges trying to find a way to open wormholes between the dimensions, but I’d happily exchange jobs with him. I know what I need to do and yet I don’t. I know what I’m looking for when I enter the Land of the Soul and yet I don’t. I have a plan and yet no map. I’m lost but I know where I’m going. It’s confounding. With such certainty, I know my soul will exist when I enter the third realm, but I don’t know any more than that. And Dahlia’s soul. That’s another complication I’ve yet to understand.

My eyes fall on two words. A name. Platonic soul.

The pen is back in my hand and sketching out the words as my eyes seize them out of the book.

Three parts to the Platonic soul. Logos, Thumos and E—

I halt. Certain again that something has just flickered in my peripheral. With a deliberate focus I turn, expecting to see a projection or something. Not Dahlia. She’s not a ghost and that’s not what I’m wishing for. We ensured that she moved on completely, knowing that she couldn’t get stuck in this world. I needed her to move straight to the Land of the Souls.

Once before I spied a person dream traveling in the physical realm. It should be impossible, but there is one thing that flexes that law. Emotions. Twenty years ago when I brought Trey his children, the ones I’d rescued from Allouette, there had been great emotion around that event. That’s the reason that I was able to spy Roya in the dreamscape. She’d dream traveled back in time to witness that moment, to comfort her father when he found out that Eloise, his wife, had died. It was the great weight of emotion and stress during that time that pulled back the sheet between the physical realm and dreamscape and allowed me to see Roya. And now, I think a similar cosmos is working and for the same factors.

“This is a great trespassing and if you don’t leave now then I’m going to go back in time and take your mum out before she has a chance to birth you into this world,” I say to what appears to be an empty room. And in the physical realm it is vacant. However, I sense the person in front of me with such certainty. And then I don’t and know that I’m once again alone.

Six minutes pass before I hear the knock at my door that I expected.

“Come in, you little repugnant witch,” I say, my back to the door as I finish writing my last sentence.

I turn as Adelaide sends the door into the recesses and stands looking at me, guilt covering her face. Because I know how dumbasses think, thanks to years of preventing their mistakes, I knew that Adelaide would come straight to me after her trespassing. She’d feel the sick need to apologize.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” I say, swiveling around and crossing my arms in front of my wrinkled dress shirt.

“You’re working on something,” she says, standing just inside the room. With a cautious look at the hallway at her back, she sends the door shut, giving us privacy.

“I’m always working on something. That doesn’t answer my question,” I say.

“It’s not a case for the Lucidites,” she says, like she’s caught me in a lie.

“No, it isn’t,” I say.

“Well, I was spying on you just now because I wanted to know what you’re working on,” she says.

“I really don’t have to tell you that it’s none of your business,” I say.

“It is my business because you’re my—”

“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want to lose several thousand brain cells,” I cut her off.

“Ren, it isn’t fair that you demand to be so secretive. That you don’t allow anyone in. That you keep me at a dis—”

“Take the word ‘fair’ out of your vocabulary, Addy.”

She sizes me up with her large green eyes, which I know see more than most. Observe the world with a superior knack for analytics. My daughter is both a curse to me and a blessing to this world. “I know what you’re doing,” she says, sounding smug.

“Stomaching you? Yes, it’s quite difficult and I do feel the contents of my stomach pushing to the surface as we speak,” I say.

“You’re trying to bring her back,” she says, ignoring my cunning quip. I hate it when people do that.

“No, it doesn’t sound like you know what I’m doing.” I point to the door. “Get out and I don’t want to see your face for a while, so keep your distance.”

She dares to walk forward, her eyes on the stack of books on my desk. “Then if you’re not trying to bring Dahlia back…” she says, her gaze roaming over the volumes that to most would offer meaningless insights, but to Adelaide are probably telling her the full story. Then she gasps. “You’re going to go after her.”

“You’re grounded. Forever,” I say, crossing my ankle over my knee and leaning back in my desk chair.

“I saw you write something about the Land of the Souls,” she says, trying to look over my shoulder at my notes.

“I saw a future where I strangle you,” I say.

“You can’t take a consciousness into the Land of Souls without destroying our world. You taught me about the laws of the universe. About time and space,” she says slowly, as though trying to recall that specific lecture. “And anything that breaks laws will make the earth destroy itself with natural disasters and catastrophes.”

“This world is shit. Who cares,” I say.

“I care. And you do too. You’ve spent the better part of your life trying to protect this planet and now you’re going to destroy it, all so you can be reunited with the love of your life? You should care about what this could do to our world,” she says and now she sounds angry, but she has no idea who is better at this.

I stand at once and thrust a finger in her direction. “Don’t tell me what I should care about!” I yell, my voice echoing off the stainless steel walls. “And don’t you propose to think because I’ve bestowed a bit of knowledge on you that you know how this planet works. You’re a fucking grasshopper who thinks because she understands a few laws that she’s got this whole bloody world figured out. Well, you don’t. You’re an ignorant little shit that needs to mind your own business,” I say, all the repressed emotions bursting to the surface finally.

“That’s not fair,” she says, her fists by her side and her mouth hardly parting for the words.

“What did I tell you about using that word?” I say, my chin low and eyes smoldering.

“Why should I listen to a damn thing you say? You save this world and then when you see fit, you opt to destroy it for your own selfish gain,” she says and I never realized that my daughter was a humanitarian. I thought she was just an annoying little git. There might be hope for her after all.

“I know what I’m doing,” I say.

“So journeying to the Land of the Souls won’t hurt the physical realm?” she challenges.

“It might, just a bit. Depends,” I say, now feeling more even-tempered.

“Depends on what?” she says.

“On how fast I can reconstruct my soul and get us the hell out of there,” I say, all of this actually dawning on me as I speak. The text from Plato instantly took shape in my head during this conversation, as though this argument was the catalyst I needed to see what I was missing. Bloody brilliant.

“Well, that doesn’t sound hard,” Adelaide says, her voice overflowing with sarcasm.

“It should be easy peasy,” I say.

“And then what?”

“Then I take Dahlia to the dreamscape,” I say, waving at the door. “And now it’s time for you to leave.”

“What? She can’t go into the dreamscape. She’s a Middling,” Adelaide says, rudely ignoring my dismissal of her.

“She was a Middling. I fixed that,” I say and yet again I point at the door. “Leave. Looking at you is robbing me of my soul and I’ll apparently need it for where I’m going.”

“But if you…” She trails away, her eyes studying the wall behind me. “That means…” Again, she doesn’t finish her sentence. Her mind is constructing the newest reality. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

“I don’t really see how I could,” I say, casually taking a seat again, my voice cool.

“But Ren—”

“I’ve made up my mind. This is not up for discussion, especially with a little sneak who refuses to leave my chamber after you’ve been dismissed several times,” I say, and spin around, putting my back to her.

“Ren, I don’t want you—”

“Get out now, or there will be no formal goodbye when the time comes,” I say, my voice bordering on hostile.

Her feet hesitate. I hear it in the way her clothes shift, like she’s taken a step forward and then paused. And then she retreats and I know she’s gone when the door slides shut with a gentle swooshing sound.

Chapter Seventeen

Soon werewolves will be prowling the streets. And soon is a relative term here. It could be in a year or a few. It could also be in only a few months. It’s hard to tell since we’re still lacking in the news reporting department. We have no idea who we’re up against and our best guess is that it’s an invisible mastermind with an unhealthy desire to produce creatures out of horror films.

Well, that’s my best guess, but everyone else at the Institute is in denial. There isn’t enough evidence for Trey or Trent to believe that all the clues point to the creation of a werewolf population. However, I think they’ve buried their heads because they don’t want to believe the truth. They haven’t recovered from the last battle and the idea of badass werewolves tearing people’s throats out before we can see it in the news reports is too much for the wimps. They should face the fucking facts, though, so we can actually take the advantage, which unfortunately, I’m not certain what that could be.

We’re a step behind this mad scientist. Just yesterday a dozen men from various walks of life went missing and they were on the list from the database that was stolen from the Pentagon. Most wouldn’t connect the abductions, but the Lucidites have ways of spotting these correlations. In less than a few hours, each of these men vanished in a similar fashion. There was no indication of an attack or a struggle. No one saw a single thing that gives us any clue who took the men or where they are being held. If I didn’t have more pressing matters then I’d be working this case from every angle and harassing the news reporting department to do their fucking job.

But what the hell do I care if a bunch of werewolves are unleashed on society? I mean, we don’t have to jump to the assumption that this is totally a bad thing. Maybe some good could come of it. Maybe the men were willing and are submitting themselves for the purpose of science. Not that I totally buy that. I actually just don’t give a damn. Breaking into the realm of the dead is kind of monopolizing my free time and head space lately.

The voices in Aiden’s lab make me pause because one of them I don’t recognize. The other one is undoubtedly Aiden’s nasally voice, which usually makes me cringe due to its overly happy tone.

“I think the first strategy for finding a wormhole is simple observation,” the stranger says.

“Hmmm,” Aiden muses. “How do you suppose we go about that?”

“It’s fairly straightforward. Wormholes are pretty unmistakable. They are bright around the circumference and then dull in color in the center,” the man says with a thick German accent.

A laugh follows his words. “Pretty unmistakable, huh? So you’ve seen a wormhole before?” Aiden says.

“No, actually I haven’t, but the research on what they’d look like is rather extensive,” the stranger says.

“Under different circumstances this might be a good strategy, but I think this approach will be too slow for Ren’s timeline. He’s kind of the proactive type and I think he’d rather we create a way to find these transports rather than go and discover them by searching,” Aiden says, and at the mention of my name I round the corner and march straight into the lab, stopping only a few feet from the stranger. He’s wearing a long white and gray beard and the buttons of his shirt look close to popping off.

“Who the fuck are you?” I say.

The man narrows his eyes at me behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Who are you?” he dares to fire back at me.

“Ren, this is Professor Alexander Drake. He’s one of the world’s experts on wormholes, as well as many other unrelated subjects. I brought him in on this project to advise since I’m hitting a few walls,” Aiden says in a rush.

I revolve in Aiden’s direction. “I told you this was to remain a private matter. Now I must kill you both,” I say, with a tired sigh.

Aiden laughs because he doesn’t think I’m serious. “Well, it was either bring in a fresh thinker on the subject or not progress at all with the project. I figured you’d rather we were actually successful after how far you’ve come.”

I look at the man who resembles Santa Claus, but without the cheery demeanor. “Alex here is ancient. I fail to see how he’s going to offer anything fresh or new,” I say.

The German coughs loudly. It’s his way of telling me my insults aren’t appreciated. I don’t trust Germans, mostly because they eat too much saturated fat and clog up the streets of London on holidays with their fat asses and bad attitudes.

“With all due respect, Mr. Lewis, I’m reasonably certain that I can offer some valuable insights on this project based on what Dr. Livingston has shared with me,” he says, indicating Aiden.

“It’s true,” Aiden chirps. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure that as much as I wanted to believe it, that wormholes were real or that we could access them. However, Alexander has convinced me otherwise.”

“Call me Drake. Alexander was my father’s name,” the old man says and I just get a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Too curious not to ask, I say, “Wouldn’t Drake be your father’s name too?”

“No,” he says, that resentment again in his voice. “I changed it to my mother’s maiden name many decades ago.”

Most people wear their traumas like pendants around their neck. However, this man isn’t meaning to. Whatever has made him so angry at his father is still boiling under the surface. It’s an uncontrollable anger. A dangerous one.

“And yes, I firmly believe that finding and accessing wormholes is possible, especially with the technology you have here at the Institute. It’s is quite the marvel that this place exists and is also top secret,” Drake says.

I blink and look at Aiden. “He’s not a Dream Traveler?”

“No, he’s a scientist, physician, and professor for a university in München,” Aiden says.

“He’s a Middling. How did you think that a Middling could help us on something like this?” I say to Aiden.

“Well, Dahlia was a Middling and she was probably one of the most talented vocalists in history,” Aiden says, and I have to admit that his reasoning is correct on this.

“Oh, yes, the famous singer, Dahlia,” the old man says. “So sad to hear of her passing.”

“Dahlia was actually Ren’s life partner,” Aiden says, and I swear he sounds grossly proud of this admission.

“Don’t use that phrase. We shagged,” I say, dully.

Drake takes a small bow in my direction. “I’m sorry for your loss. She was an incredible singer, and it surprises me that she was a Middling,” he says.

“Well, she was a Middling, but we actually figured out how to convert her to Dream Traveler before her death,” Aiden says, again sounding proud. He really needs to absolve himself of that pesky emotion.

“Aiden, would you shut the fuck up,” I say, a new heat in my voice. Has the dumb scientist completely lost his git brain?

“Sorry, it’s just that—”

“Convert a Middling to Dream Traveler,” Drake says, stroking his long, gross beard. “That’s fascinating. I never thought it possible.”

“How do you know about Dream Travelers?” I say to the man who seems to be fondly musing on this information.

“Aiden of course filled me in when he recruited me. However, I have worked with a few Dream Travelers in my professional endeavors,” Drake says.

“Forget everything you’ve heard here,” I say. “Now are we any closer to creating a device to open and access portals?”

Aiden clasps his hands behind his back. “I’m happy to admit that after discussing the project with Drake, I have some new ideas. And most important, I actually think this is all possible now,” the dumb scientist says.

“Radiation is probably the biggest concern when creating this device and then using it,” Drake says. “Nevertheless, I don’t think we should be too deterred by that. My research partner has a theory regarding using negative energy—”

“Drake, I don’t care about the how. Aiden will tell you that going into long monologues about science will only lower my usually unending patience and increase the odds that I’ll murder you,” I say, cutting him off.

This is a man who is used to being rude to people, I believe by watching his mannerisms and observing the permanent frown wrinkles around his mouth. However, he’s not used to other people trumping his grumpy nature.

“Well, what you need to know is that the device is conceivable,” Aiden says, rocking forward on the balls of his toes and then back down again. “I’ll know more tomorrow, but I think opening the wormhole from the dreamscape is possible and that we can stabilize it enough for passage.”

“What you’re talking of doing is pretty radical. Is this the kind of projects the Institute regularly funds?” Drake says.

“No, and when you’re done working on this with Aiden, we are having your brain wiped clean,” I say, and turn and walk away.

Chapter Eighteen

Thanks to a nice long bit of actual sleep, I’m able to teleport once again. I still shouldn’t overdo it, but with everything finally coming together, my mind is able to rest. Tonight I will dream travel now that I’m adequately refreshed and that should really boost my reserves. Dream traveling is way more restorative than regular old Middling sleep, but the catch is that you can’t be exhausted in order to dream travel. God is always fucking everything up with rules. For instance, he gives us the fountain of youth, but makes it so we have to kill ourselves to get there. Very fucking clever.

I teleport straight into the conference room of the strategic department and startle a dozen agents when I arrive. No matter how many times I pop up beside a Lucidite, it always startles them. These bloody wankers act like people materializing out of the air is fucking unbelievable.

“For God’s sake! Do you have to do that?” a girl of around twenty says, pushing back in her seat, which is closest to me. Her nostrils are entirely too large for her nose and her eyes are an inch too far apart.

“Yes, Bessy, I do have to do that,” I say, looking down at the girl who will probably last another month as an agent. Trent is horrible at hiring agents, but hopefully that changes soon.

“My name isn’t Bessy,” she says, and stands, pulling her seat back with her against the wall, where she sits again. It would kill the whale to stand for thirty seconds. No, honestly, I’m certain it would kill this oversized troll to stand or walk far distances.

“Really?” I say in mock disbelief. “You look like a Bessy. Is your name Bertha then?”

She ties her fat arms across her chest and shakes her head. From my peripheral, the room of agents is too engrossed in our exchange to say anything. And Trent is probably at my back and he’s too much of a wimp to intervene in my bullying. There’s a reason jerks run this world. We intimidate people. It’s a great skill to have.

“Olga, Helga, Prudence, Dorcas, Uvula, Myrtle, Gus?” I say, running through the names. “Is one of those repugnant names something you answer to?”

Again she shakes her head, her chin pinned down.

“Oh, got it. You don’t have a name,” I say, nodding like this makes sense. Then I turn to the room of agents, all with their eyes on me. “Get the fuck out of here. Trent and I need to discuss real business.”

“Ren,” Trent says at my back. I turn and almost realize I’ll miss that look of disapproval on his face. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

I study him. His slouched shoulders and untucked shirt. He’s not even trying to make a look of authority with his frayed cargo pants and the mountain of dreads which are tied up in a fucking bun on the back of his head.

Nodding, I turn back to the table. “Anyone still left sitting in this room twenty seconds from now will wake to find that they’ve stripped off all their clothes and wiped their twigs and berries against the stainless steel walls of the Institute,” I say.

And because most of the agents are ones I recruited and know I’ll use mind control to make a point, they all jump from their seats and clamber for the door. Trey forbade me to use mind control on residents of the Institute many years ago. However, I was able to use it for training purposes, which is pretty loosely defined in my opinion.

When the room is empty, I turn to Trent, who is actually smiling. Then he releases a laugh. A long one. “God, you can be damn hilarious when you want to be,” he says.

“You know that I’m not a clown put here for your amusement?” I say, pretending to be offended.

“Right,” he says, quieting his laughter. “I don’t think half the time you’re even trying to be funny, which is what makes it priceless.”

“Stop hitting on me,” I say.

He holds up his hands, his palms a shade lighter than the brown skin of his arms and hands. “Yes, of course. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says and there’s a hint of the prior laugh in his voice. Maybe the old jovial, and always obnoxious, Trent is returning.

“I quit,” I say and then nothing else.

The smile in his eyes fades. “You what?”

I roll my eyes. “Why do people have to pretend like they don’t hear things when around me?”

“You’re quitting as an agent?” he says.

“Actually, I’m quitting as a human, but that’s a longer story than we have time for. Besides, you’ll just run off and blab your big mouth. So don’t. Don’t even tell anyone that I’ve quit. It will come out with my obituary,” I say.

“Ren, is this a joke?”

“Again, I’m not a fucking clown who plays pranks and pratfalls for your bloody amusement. This is me quitting,” I say.

“Then where’s your formal letter of resignation?” he says and now there’s a bit of mischief in his eyes.

“It’s in the bloody mail, along with a basket of fruit and a jar of fucking marmalade I made myself,” I say.

“So this is your formal resignation, is it?” he says.

“Yes, and I’ve quit once before, but this time don’t get your hopes up that I’ll be coming back. It will be nearly impossible,” I say.

Trent now studies me. He’s not as critical of a thinker as me, but no one truly is. However, Trent is smarter than most. He has a good instinct and if he’d fucking use it then this department won’t go to shit.

“All right,” he finally says, and as I suspected he’s not going to ask me why I’m leaving or where I’m going. He’s curious as hell, but he knows better than to waste his time with asking questions that I won’t answer. “So, is this when you leave me with your final words of wisdom?”

“Yeah, don’t fuck up,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets and studying the conference room. It’s enclosed in glass walls that are lit from above in neon blue lights. The room is mostly dark, but not so much that it makes one’s eyes hurt. And outside the conference room are other similar rooms used for brainstorming or researching. The whole department is like a darkroom where we develop solutions instead of photographs. It’s light and yet dark. Conducive for high cognitive thinking sessions. I designed every ounce of the space more than twenty years ago. I was a criminal. There was no way I should have been trusted with the brand new position of Head Strategist for the most powerful organization in the world, and yet Trey wouldn’t take a no from me. And the chap ended up being correct. Trey is one who heavily relies on instinct and he knew I was right for the job. But more importantly, he knew that the job was right for me. That it was going to save my life. And in so many ways, it did. But that life isn’t one I’ll miss. I was never meant to grow old saving the world. I feel that my life must take an unconventional approach. The most unconventional.

“So in a few days, maybe a week, you’re going to get a visit from Adelaide,” I say, my hands still casually in my pockets, my foot crossed over my ankle in front. “I have one last request for you and it’s that I want you to honor what she says.”

Trent half smiles. “Oh, you’re going to try and call this a request. When have you ever made requests of me?”

I tug up my wrist and eye my watch. “Honestly, Trenton, I don’t have time for semantics right now. Can you cry or whatever else you need to do to close out this farewell?”

Aiden hasn’t finished with the project. Actually, it’s not entirely certain that he’ll be successful. But I’ve learned that one needs to prepare for inevitable success. That means we don’t wait to count our chickens before they hatch. We don’t wait to have the new job before quitting the old one. A real man acts as if a victory is imminent. That’s called bloody confidence and most don’t have it because it takes risks.

“As fond of you as I am, I don’t think crying is in my future. I’m kind of tired of being melancholy anyway, so I’ll just suppose that you’re off to better things and wish you well,” he says.

Trent is trying. He’s trying to bury his demons and face that which has scarred him. But he’s still living half his life in the past, haunted by the things he saw and the ones he couldn’t prevent.

“You can’t lead them as long as you’re unwilling to let it all go,” I say, motioning to the table where the agents sit during meetings. “No, you didn’t make all the best decisions. No, you didn’t stand up right away when it came time to fight. But you know what? You survived. And you can either be better for it or you can choose to live in that moment of defeat. Or relive it, as I suspect you do too often,” I say.

“It’s just that battle… the battles, they shocked me to the core,” he says, his eyes large and tragic. “I have performance anxiety now. I doubt every decision I make. I don’t even know how to think half the time because I feel like I’ve lost my confidence in my ability to reason. But I want to live. I want to get over everything, but I don’t know how.”

“And maybe there isn’t a way. Maybe you’re doomed,” I say, my voice morose.

He nods, like he’s considered this as a real fate.

I clear my throat and reposition myself, my shoulders back and my head held high. “You know, Trent, you can stay on earth and not live. And you can die and go on to do great things. If you don’t get over your trauma, if you are forever damaged and react in certain ways because of that, it’s because you’ve made that choice. Life and the way we live it is all about how we think. If I do leave you with any last words then they are to be unconventional. Don’t just think outside the box. Throw away the fucking box and think outside a sphere that’s constantly morphing. Think so far from the norm that your ideas startle people. That’s when you know you’re thinking creatively and the creative mind is the most strategic,” I say and finish my speech by drawing out the last word.

“So does that mean that I should put on a smile and start making unconventional decisions in response to the cases? Because that would startle everyone. They all expect me to be in mourning with them. I feel like not acting on cases, versus acting and getting pulled into another trap, is what everyone thinks I should do,” he says.

“Stop making decisions based on what other people want or will think. That will only get you into trouble. My best advice has always been that what other people think of you isn’t your concern. Analyze the problems. Design solutions by working from the end. And then fucking act. Because staying in a constant state of paralysis is a surefire way of fucking up everything,” I say apathetically.

He nods slowly, his eyes distant. “I know you’re right,” he says in a tormented whisper.

“Then take my advice before the Institute loses its footing. And do it fast because I sense there’s going to be a few natural disasters and strange worldly problems on your hands soon,” I say, knowing that my plan to enter the Land of the Souls is going to fuck with the ecosystem.

“How do you know that?” he says.

“Just do,” I say and let the space go silent for a beat.

“It’s been a real honor to work under you,” Trent says, extending a hand.

“Oh, I bet you’d have liked the chance to have really worked under me,” I say, and actually smile a little.

“Ha! Yes, go out on a gay joke. That’s for the best and the way I want to remember you,” he says.

And then I actually extend my hand to Trent, shaking his briefly. That short exchange tells me that Trent really does think highly of me. As he should.

Chapter Nineteen

President Fucktard followed my orders and sent the guest list over to the Institute right after our meeting. My instinct tells me that it wasn’t coincidence that a partygoer gave the dumb presidential candidate the idea for the retina scanner. This was planted information and then the generous sum donated to Dougy’s campaign just sealed the whole thing. Of course, I worry about Trent connecting dots like this in the future, but if he takes my advice then he’ll see things holistically.

Someone who has been planning this werewolf experiment for a long time implemented the retina scanner technology knowing that it would only take a clever hack job on optometrists’ offices to get the information for security clearance. They were obviously after special records, which it sounds like detailed every aspect of certain civilian’s lives. They were looking for the right candidates. These guys were handpicked for a reason, and I’m guessing it has something to do with gene splicing. A new technology which came out of Aiden’s lab called CRISPR makes all of this a startling reality. In the past, creating a Frankenstein’s monster using wolf genetics was a laughable event that one only saw in horror films. Now, thanks to fucking technology, it’s a real possibility and, I’m guessing, an inevitable future.

I won’t be here to stop this werewolf population, but at least I can find clues that Trent’s dumb agents missed. The agents Trent assigned to research the guest list weren’t able to connect any of the donors to suspects in the retina scanner robbery. It may be because the agents are failing under Trent’s rule, which is obviously too weak. Or it might also be because this suspect is well hidden. That’s why I requested a copy of the guest list, because I usually can see things others miss with their insufficient brains.

Of the three hundred guests who attended this boring political circle jerk, half of them contributed to Doug’s campaign. The guy should have won the vote just based on the amount of money he spent on the election. However, he’s such a complete failure and says the crudest things that even the majority of stupid Americans weren’t going to vote for him. That’s why we rigged the election and made him our puppet President.

I scan the list of names, my eyes taking a snapshot of all one hundred and fifty. Some of the names I recognize instantly as politicians whom the Lucidites also put into office. Others my mind attaches to celebrity status or even private corporations. It’s amazing how much information my mind retains on specific individuals. I really am an amazing specimen. The Lucidites will suffer greatly when I’m gone and therefore the world at large. I have zero remorse about abandoning this ignorant planet though.

I’m scanning through the names, not on paper, but with my photographic memory, when a new one stands out. I don’t have much information associated with this person. Really, just the university where he works and his recent involvement with the Lucidite Institute. Still, I know this is our suspect. I pull up the page of names to confirm my memory recalled it accurately. Sure enough, the name of the person who I’m certain planted the retina scanner idea in President Dougy’s brain sits on the page.

Alexander Drake

***

“You are the biggest fucking dumbass on the planet,” I say to Aiden as soon as I enter his lab.

He looks up from a tablet and smirks at me. “There are seven and a half billion people on earth. Are you sure I’m the dumbest?” Aiden says, like we’re playing a cute game of quips. I should kill him now, but I still need his help. Maybe in a minute I will.

“Drake is behind a theft case I’ve been working,” I say, my head scorching from my violent anger. “You allowed a fucking criminal mastermind into the Institute, revealed the Lucidites society to him, and gave him bloody access to God knows what.”

Aiden scratches his head, now looking a bit sheepish. “That would explain why he stole a ton of my files and disappeared. I’ve tried to track him down, but it appears he’s quit his job at the university,” he says.

“Oh-my-fucking-God!” I say, throwing my hands in the air, the action vibrating my entire body.

“Yeah,” Aiden says, with a commiserate expression. “I was a little astonished that a scientist with his caliber of knowledge and reputation would do something like that. However, I’ve deduced that he’s the one who stole the files.”

“And what did these fucking files include?” I say, knowing I’m not going to like the answer.

“Well, there were ones on different devices I’ve created over the years, things that I’m certain he can’t replicate, but are still of interest. And then strangely, he stole the file on how we converted Dahlia to a Dream Traveler,” Aiden says, real confusion written on his pale-ass face.

Again I throw my hands in the air, but this time in surrender. “Well, you’ve pretty much fucked our world up for good. I kind of knew it would be you who would bring this bloody place down. Give a guy a brain, but not common-fucking-sense.”

Aiden nods. “Yeah, I totally goofed,” he says, like he merely laundered a fiver by mistake, turning the bill to rubbish. “I really didn’t see all this coming.”

“Because you’re a bloody idiot,” I remind him.

“On a positive note, Drake was happy to help me create the opener,” Aiden chirps, his blunder not affecting his self-esteem quite like it should have.

“That’s because he wanted to gain access to your fucking data,” I say.

“Right, but what’s done is done, and I wouldn’t worry much on it. There’s not a lot that a Middling can do with my files. Replicating my technology would be extremely difficult,” he says, overly confident.

“Would it be too difficult for a scientist whom you recruited to help you build a device to find bloody portals?” I say, with my usual calm superiority.

“Well, although that’s an excellent point—”

I cut him off. “Would it be too difficult for a man who is working with someone who can become invisible?”

Aiden’s mouth pops open. “No! Invisible? That’s incredible!”

“No, it’s fucking alarming,” I say.

“I wonder if that’s their dream travel skill or if it’s something else,” Aiden says, his eyes now dancing with excitement.

“What do you mean, something else?” I say.

“Well, one of the reasons I recruited Drake was because of his technological advancements. They aren’t anything like what we’ve done here, but still impressive,” Aiden says.

“And why would he want the data on how to convert Middlings to Dream Travelers? Any clues?” I say.

Aiden shrugs. Idiots shrug. People who don’t know how to communicate properly, shrug. Real men don’t shrug. “That I don’t know. My best guess is that he probably wants to experiment on himself. He was fairly fascinated with our race and mentioned that some of the people he’d admired the most have been Dream Travelers,” he says.

“We can only hope he gets it wrong and kills himself,” I say.

“I wouldn’t worry. So we have a guy who converts himself to a Dream Traveler. It can’t be that big of a deal,” Aiden says, dismissing my concerns. He doesn’t know about the wolves, the stolen data, and the US citizens who have been kidnapped, and that it’s all probably related to Drake and something he’s working on. Good thing I’m leaving this planet behind because it’s fucking screwed.

“Anyway, here’s the opener,” Aiden says, turning around and grabbing a small black device off the lab table. It resembles a thick credit card and looks too ordinary to be what I’m hoping it is.

“What is that?” I say.

“An opener. You like the name? It’s simple but describes exactly what it does. It opens portals to other realms. The doors you were talking about,” he says.

“Wow, you’re so bloody clever. How do you do it? Teach me,” I say dryly.

Aiden smiles, obviously not realizing that I plan to kill him after he hands off the device. “I made it out of black carbon steel because—”

“Don’t care. How does it work?” I say, cutting him off.

“Well, like all my devices, it’s super simple. However, it will take a bit of guesswork on your part. After researching data on the appearance of wormholes, I then cross-referenced that with places on earth where people have reported seeing such things. Usually it’s been Middlings who reported the strange phenomenon. My guess is they were at the right place, time, and angle to witness the appearance of the wormhole. They wouldn’t be able to go through, though, because it’s about like seeing something through a glass door. You have to open the door to get to the other side and I’ve concluded that all wormholes are locked, which is for our own good,” Aiden says.

“This is the most boring speech I’ve ever heard. Get to the bloody point,” I say.

“Well, you’ll need to dream travel to one of these coordinates in the dreamscape where I’ve found evidence of the portal. If my assumptions are correct then they’ll be in the same place in the dreamscape, since the physical realm is exactly the same in appearance. However, we don’t know that these doors lead to the Land of the Dead. They could lead back into the physical realm, but you’ll have to use the opener to find out,” he says.

“Then I can just use this opener thingy and if it doesn’t work, I’ll go to the other locations,” I say.

Aiden toggles his head back and forth, doubt in the movement and written on the scrunched-up expression he’s wearing. “That would be the right approach, however, the opener only works once. As a citizen of this universe, I can’t have you leaving wormholes open because then people could be passing in between the realms all willy-nilly. So after you use the opener, then you go through and the door shuts behind you. Then the opener self-destructs,” he says.

“So just give me a load of openers and we can be done with this convo, which is ripping at my already waning morale,” I say.

“Ren, these things,” he says, waving the device in his hand, “are the most advanced piece of technology ever created. It should have taken me years, but thanks to Drake, I somehow managed the task faster. I’ve only had time to make two devices and to be honest, I’m too exhausted to make any more at the moment.”

Now that I’m actually forcing myself to look at Aiden, I realize purplish bags hang under his eyes. Good, hopefully he’s worked himself to death.

“When could you have more?” I say, snapping at him and extending my hand for the device.

He holds up a finger to pause me. “In a few days.”

“I don’t have that. Dahlia could have reincarnated by then,” I say, snapping again.

He shakes his head at me, still not handing off the device. “Well, then two will have to work. That should get you in and maybe out. You know, getting out of there is the biggest risk,” he says, a warning in his voice.

“Reassembling my soul so I don’t destroy the planet is the biggest risk, you fucking moron,” I say.

“Well, I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen and that you make it out of there and back into the dreamscape. Do you really think you can survive there?” he says.

“I have no fucking idea,” I say, blowing out a breath and looking at him with honest contempt. “Consciousness can survive in the dreamscape. That’s all I know. I don’t know what we’ll be or what form we’ll take. I’ll send you a fucking postcard when I bloody find out. Now hand over the opener-things.”

“First I have to show you how it works,” Aiden says, holding up the device. “When you’re in one of the places that might have a passage to another realm then the opener will sense it. If it’s able to open the door then it will light up blue here.” He indicates a sensor on the top. “For only one minute, it will send out a burst—”

I didn’t even have to say anything, I only shook my head and Aiden caught on that I didn’t want to hear this shit. Finally, I’ve trained him. Finally, and now it’s too late to benefit from it.

“The opener will make an area of density, which should light up the edges of the door. This is what people have witnessed when seeing the wormholes. You will have to slide the opener into an edge of the space and if it works then it will appear to hover in mid-air. In actuality, it is sticking into the space between the realms because of the awesome technology that I put into this bad boy,” Aiden says, tapping the device. “Once in place, and this is my favorite part,” he says with a dumb giggle, “then you’ll tap the bottom, where I’ve installed a button. That releases this.” Aiden then pushes the bottom of the device and something releases and a chain drops out, the button dangling from its end. “I thought it would be cute if the actual opening device resembled a chain that you pull on a light, since in essence you’re illuminating a path to the other realm, as well as opening a door,” he says.

“It’s fucking adorable,” I say in monotone voice.

“So then you just pull the chain and the door should light up entirely. I’m not sure what it will look like or if any of this will work. But I do suspect that you won’t be able to see what’s on the other side until you step through. It might take you into the Land of the Souls or it might put you back in the physical realm,” he says.

“But from the Land of the Souls, the door would only lead back to the dreamscape?” I say, almost muse.

“According to your theory based on how the realms are set up and how the doors only open to adjacent worlds. However…” He trails off.

“What?” I growl, not liking that his tone has shifted.

“Well, when I told Drake about your plans, he seemed to think there might be other things next to the Land of the Souls. He agreed that wormholes probably are doors that open to adjacent worlds, but he seemed to think that there were multiple realms next to the Land of the Dead. He called it the elevator that opened to multiple floors,” he says.

“That’s contradictory,” I say.

“That’s what I thought, but he quoted some pretty impressive quantum physics that kind of made sense. It was stuff about parallel universes. He seemed to think, in essence, that one takes the stairs down to the Land of Souls but they take the elevator out of it. You yourself said that you had to get to Dahlia before she reincarnated. So there has to be the entry to new worlds from the Land of the Souls, otherwise how do they get back out?” Aiden says.

“Fuck, that actually makes sense,” I say, mostly to myself.

“You know this is all a gamble,” Aiden says, a caution in his tone. He hands over the opener and then, grabbing another one off the table, he also releases it to me.

“It’s worth it,” I say. “I’m departing tonight. I want you to destroy all of the data on this project. Never release what we’ve done to anyone.”

“Your body will die once you’ve entered the Land of the Souls. You know that, right?” he says, his voice heavy suddenly.

“Yes, but my consciousness can survive without it if I’m fast enough,” I say, realizing all of this is just conjecture.

“I’ll miss you, Ren,” Aiden says, a real fondness in his bloodshot eyes.

“Unfortunately, I can’t return the sentiment. Try not to fuck up the world,” I say, slipping the devices into my breast pocket.

“No promises, but maybe I’ll raise children who can fix the world’s blunders the way you’ve done all these years,” Aiden says.

“I doubt it,” I say, making for the door. I stop at the entrance and turn around. “And Aiden…” I say, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” I say simply and leave.

Chapter Twenty

For one of the first times I can remember, Trey isn’t in his office during the lunch hour. That’s notoriously when he holds office hours. He’s always had an “open door” policy and wanted the Institute staff to feel like they could come and see him about anything. He always wanted to appear accessible to his people, as their esteemed leader. I told him long ago that he should give off an air of supremacy and tell them all to fuck off and get back to work. He shrugged the whole thing off to a difference in our management styles. I’m a bloody master at management for the simple reason that I’m highly competent. People want to follow those who are incredibly effective. They don’t want someone who is accessible and listens and helps them plan their defunct lives. They want someone they can trust. Fortunately for Trey, he’s extremely dependable and trustworthy.

I find him in his residence, which is even odder than him not being in his office over lunch. He’s never in his flat. The man works until he’s exhausted and then maybe he’ll retire for a few hours.

“Are you all right?” I say to Trey when he answers his door. It’s strange to have to look down at him, since when he could walk he stood even with me.

He rolls back the wheelchair to make way for me to enter.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he lies, a heaviness in his eyes that pulls at something in me. It’s a strange emotion and I think it’s called sympathy.

Trey’s residence is one of the larger ones in the Institute and it’s furnished with many objects that make it feel warm, which is a contrast to most of the Institute. I take a seat in one of the high-back chairs, making myself even with Trey. His chair makes a creaking sound as he approaches. Of course he could have a motorized chair, but the man is too stubborn for that. He told me he wanted to move himself around and I realized then that he needed to push himself, both literally and figuratively.

My eyes fall on the wood coffee table to the right of Trey. “I went to your office and you weren’t there,” I say, and the implication is strong.

“I just needed some time to myself,” he says, and he’s letting his pain show. That’s why he needed time away. He couldn’t show the residents of the Institute what he’s allowing me to see right now. This raw aching pain that belongs to Trey, but looks all wrong on his usually impassive face.

“I quit,” I say and then not another word.

Trey just blinks at me. He likes to play my games, which is why he’s one of the only people I can stand.

“As an agent,” I say when he’s won the silent game.

“Again,” he says, referring to a few years ago when I abandoned my duty to the Institute and got a job selling tickets in the Underground. That was my attempt at reinventing myself, but the monster won and so I returned to my powers and my service.

“This time it’s for good,” I say.

He tightens his eyes at me. “You’re being serious.”

“Of course I am,” I say.

“What will you do?” And his voice is almost pleading. In that one question, he’s spilled his remorse over my decision.

“I’m going to kill myself,” I say.

His green eyes close for a half beat and when they open they have the weight of too much pain in them. “Ren, don’t.”

And because Trey Underwood knows me so well, he can read the honesty on my face.

“Consider it already done,” I say, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as I can. That will make this easier and it’s already hard enough.

“This is what you’ve been working on, isn’t it? It’s the projects you had Aiden working on,” he says. The world better be glad that Trey used his supreme intelligence for good. This is a man who is smarter than ninety-nine percent of the population and deduces things extremely quickly.

“I’m going after Dahlia,” I say, and then prepare myself for the disapproval. It happens slowly. Trey rocks his head back an inch and then it drops forward. His palm cradles his forehead and then he shivers out a sigh.

“You know there’s nothing you can say or do,” I say. And he does know that. He won’t waste his time with telling me I can’t do this. That he will stop me. Trey won’t remind me that it’s wrong and that I’ll hurt our planet. Maybe the old Trey would have argued with me, but not this one. This Trey has exchanged part of his spirit for just the will to live.

“When?” he says, his head still down and voice muffled.

“Tonight,” I say.

When he raises his head, his eyes are filled with tears, threatening to spill over. I’m not a person who cries. I can’t remember ever doing it as an adult, but that’s because I’m weak in many ways. Seeing Trey on the verge of sobbing doesn’t make me think he’s frail. The act of showing his feelings makes him strong. This is what makes him better than me. I’ve just told my best friend something that will continuously bring him unending sadness, so of course, the human in him has already started to grieve. I wouldn’t recover from his death and I don’t expect him to fully recover from mine. He’s lost so much, but I’ve known Trey for most of his life and losing me will be him losing part of himself. We get each other. And that’s a rare and beautiful thing that some people never find.

With a strength to impress, he pushes away a single tear with a sturdy hand and then nods. The tears retreat in his eyes, but the red around them intensifies.

“What if your plan doesn’t work?” he says. “What will you do then? Will you come back here?”

“It will work,” I say, and I truly have to believe that. I need to have total confidence, so much so that I can make him believe it.

Another nod. “So this is it,” he says.

“Just about,” I say and stand and walk for the door, where I left something in the hallway. I retrieve the cane I had made for Trey. The handle is a warm oak wood, intricately carved and reminiscent of a wave in the ocean. The rest of the cane is brushed stainless steel, just like the walls of the Institute. It’s the combination of the place Trey leads and the oak desk he inherited from his father. The meeting of the cold with the warm. Old with new.

I present the cane to him, holding it horizontal in both hands. “I want you to use this,” I say, meeting his eyes which are fresh with new tears.

“Ren, the healers say—”

“You don’t listen to the healers,” I say, my words punishing, covered in conviction. “You listen to me, Trey. You will walk again, but you can’t give up. Don’t you fill your brain with the wrong messages.”

Finally he wraps his fingers around the cane and lifts it from my hands, pulling it onto his lap. “Thank you. It’s beautiful,” he says, his eyes running over the elaborate details of the cane.

“It is. And you will use it and then you will lean it in the corner and let it collect dust, because things that you outgrow can just sit,” I say.

A reluctant smile tugs on one side of Trey’s mouth. “You always believed in me more than I deserved.”

“No,” I say in a hush. “If anything I never gave you enough credit.”

And then Trey does the most unexpected thing. He laughs. Well, it sounds more like a cat hacking up a hairball, but I recognize it for what it is. “Who would have ever guessed that you would become my closest friend?”

“Yeah,” I say, squatting down so we’re eye level. “I pretty much had your wife murdered.”

“But you saved my children,” he says, his eyes on me, but distant. He’s probably seeing that memory from twenty years ago when I delivered the bloody infants to him in Stockholm, Sweden.

“And I made your life hell harassing everyone in the Institute,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You made me realize that everyone deserves a second chance. Ren, you proved that out of a great tragedy, a great gift can be found. Your friendship has meant so much to me these past two decades,” he says, his voice growing hoarse on the last sentence. Trey’s Adam’s apple hesitates in his throat as he tries several times to swallow.

My knee pops when I stand. “Thank you for giving me the second chance, and the job,” I say, thinking of my mum’s words on her deathbed.

“Second chances don’t ever, ever come along. You go and seize them,” my mum had said as she lay dying.

“Why are you telling me that, Mum?” I said. “That’s such a strange thing to say out of the blue.”

“Because you, Renny, I know with all the faith bestowed upon my heart, will need so many second chances in life. It’s hurt at times to think of the road God gave you when he made you so powerful… And still the burden is absolutely yours.”

It was Trey’s faith in me all those years ago that saved my life. My enemies would have come after me, they would have ended me. But it was also the second chance he gave me to be good, to do something that mattered. I shiver at the poetry of it all.

“When Dahlia died, I told her she couldn’t say goodbye because that’s not something you say when you’re going to see each other again,” I say.

Trey gives me a sturdy look, one that says so much. A lifetime of wisdom radiates in his glassy eyes. Then he extends a hand. “Goodbye, Ren,” he says, his voice cracking.

Without hesitation I slide my hand into his, cupping the other side with my opposite hand. “Goodbye, old friend,” I say.

I’ll miss you, he says in my head, using my telepathy linked to touch to send a final message.

I simply smile in return.

Chapter Twenty-One

I feel like I’m on a fucking goodbye parade. It’s getting old and I’m glad it’s almost over. Yes, goodbyes are permanent. And even I admit they’re not always fun, but there’s something fresh about farewells. It’s a transition. A change. An act of subtraction and that’s not entirely bad. With that comes an opportunity and I’m hoping that’s what my absence does for the people in my life. Let’s face it, all these blokes have become too bloody dependent on me. I’m probably enabling the entire lot. I’ll just have to hope they can cope without me, but I’ll console myself with the notion that the world will probably go to shit anyway, so whatever.

I sold the gaudy mansion in Malibu. It was Dahlia’s house before it was ours and she’s in every corner of that space. It wasn’t difficult for me to be there, but I read the agony in Pops’s eyes when he didn’t think I was watching him. He’d sit staring at the couch where Dahlia often sat curled up reading a book. I knew by the expression on his face that he was seeing her, like a ghost resting in her old spot. Dahlia is gone and yet she haunts her own home for the people still alive. Adelaide said that she could have sworn she heard Dahlia singing in the hallway, but then realized it was just the wind chimes ringing through an open window.

Now the Lewis clan are all residents of the Institute. Adelaide wanted to work as an agent full-time so she could earn the experience to be assigned harder cases. And Pops wanted Adelaide to have Lucien around her as much as she desired, so it just made sense. The setup isn’t a chic mansion nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains, but in some ways I think it’s a better home for everyone. No, Lucien can’t run in the grass regularly, but he has something that Adelaide never had, a community of Dream Travelers whom he’ll grow up with. They’ll teach him how to hone his powers. And Pops, who never appreciated Dream Traveler societies, is now shifting his perspective gradually. Regularly I’ve found him in the Main Hall at a dining table, having a lively discussion with a Lucidite. He finally admitted to me, “They’re just people, like me, like your mum.”

However, Lucidites aren’t just ordinary people. They are ones who were specifically recruited by Trey because their powers are unique and they own a pride in creating a better world. Lucidites, I’ve found, are atypical in their approach to living. They aren’t afraid to risk it all to create positive change. Lucidites are the cornerstone to this world, but no one will ever know that. These are people who don’t want credit for doing what they see as a service. They are the only people who aren’t looking for compensation for risking it all.

I enter our flat to find Pops on the ground with his eyes covered. He pulls his hands down. “Peek-a-boo,” he says, shoving his face in Lucien’s direction, who doesn’t look at all impressed.

“I know,” I say to the child. “He really thinks you’ll fall for that. Maybe if he had bigger hands the trick would be more believable.”

“Ha!” Pops says, pushing up to a standing position. “He loves it.”

I throw a fond glance at the plaid armchair in the corner, which I wish I could take with me. Our residence isn’t as big as Trey’s, but there are three bedrooms and a living room. It works. And soon they’ll have an extra room to use as a study or art room or whatever.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Pops says, waving at the child, but talking to me. “I need to run down to the supplies closet to grab some shampoos for Lucien’s bath. Can you watch the tyke?”

“Sure, sure,” I say, waving at him. He should know that I never really watch the bugger when he leaves him in my care. But the supplies closet, where Lucidites can find various toiletries, isn’t that far so he won’t be gone for long. Well, that is, unless he runs into someone and chats off their face. My pops isn’t used to having so many people around and he’s turned into a social moth.

When he’s gone I look down at the child, who Pops says resembles me as a kid in every way. Apparently, we’re alike right down to our expressionless attitude.

“We’ve never really gotten on too well, have we?” I say as he gnaws on a block. His response is just a series of blinks. “Well, it’s really all your fault. You’ve hardly ever got anything to say and I can’t be expected to do all the bloody talking. A relationship with you is like a one-way street. It’s fairly boring being around you.”

He drops the block and pushes out his bottom jaw, showing me his row of two teeth.

“Point proven,” I say and then drop down so I’m kneeling. “I have a feeling you’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble as you grow up.”

He balls up his fist and slams it down on a pile of blocks, displacing them.

“You may not like it, but I have experience on these things. You can be raised by the very best, but still turn out bad. It’s the monster. He can’t be beat, only tamed. And something tells me you’re going to jump on that monster’s back and let him take you on a wild ride,” I say, watching him run his fingers over the fibers of the carpet.

“Ga! Ga!” Lucien says, his fat cheeks red with heat.

“But something tells me that once you disembark off that monster’s back, you’ll go on to do great things. It’s in your genes,” I say as I stand.

“Zip! Chip! Nip!” he says.

I look down at the baby, the one with already a face full of freckles. “And would you stop pretending you can’t talk. You may be fooling them, but the act won’t last.”

Then I turn and walk for Adelaide’s door. At my back I hear, “Bye-bye, Ren.”

***

The metal is cold under my knuckles when I rap at the door. A moment later I hear Adelaide say, “Granddad, you don’t have to knock. Come in.”

The button on the wall clicks when I press it and then the door slides into the recess. Adelaide looks up from her desk and her expression shifts from a smile to quiet disappointment.

“Wait. Not yet,” she says and stands from her desk. She knows the only reason I’d visit her is to say my final goodbye. The regret is written on her face.

I point at the chair. “Sit,” I say and press the door for the room, leaving Lucien playing alone in the main area.

Dutifully Adelaide takes a seat back in her chair. In front of her are a few books, ones from the Lucidite library. Since she started as an agent, she’s been devouring everything she can on our society and race. Like me, she’s a fast reader and reads two to three books a day. It’s one of the reasons she’s going to make a good agent.

Like a bratty school child, she crosses her arms and slouches. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I say, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, and then I pin my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands. “It’s time.”

“It’s too soon,” she says, and Adelaide is trying to act grumpy, but I spy the hurt under that fake exterior.

“It isn’t soon enough, actually. I might be too late,” I say.

“Dahlia is dead. I’m alive. Why are you abandoning the world of the living for someone who is gone?” she says.

A small, albeit sincere smile forms on my mouth. “Because when you find a love like what Dahlia and I have then you never, ever allow this fucking world to keep you apart. I’ve lost a lot of people and I’m tired of it. This time, I make the rules. This time, I decide who I get to keep,” I say.

“But what about me?” she says.

I rub my palms against each other. “That is my only regret in all of this,” I say.

Her chin lifts, a new hope in her eyes. “It is?”

“Well, yes. You’re still so poorly behaved and I worry what will happen to this place if you don’t have me to berate you.”

She purses her lips and gives me an expression that says “I should have expected that answer.”

“Dahlia and I belong together. I can’t explain it and I realize that my choice to be with her takes me away from you and that you—”

“I want to find love like that one day,” Adelaide says, daring to cut me off. “I actually totally don’t get it, but then I kind of do. If I found my true love, a person that it wasn’t work to love, well, I’m sure my soul would feel tethered to them.”

I just stare at the girl before me, the one with hair as red as mine and the same discerning eyes. We’re so similar and yet, I’m certain she was given a superpower to get under my skin in the worst way.

“You’ve done many great things, but when I see you with Dahlia, I do think that’s your best achievement. You found your mate. And you didn’t settle, like most gits. You actually found the one person that complements you in every way. I really didn’t believe in true love until I met you two. Now I know that it exists, but it’s rare,” she says.

“We sacrificed a lot and lost a lot of time together,” I say.

“So you’re saying it’s not easy?” she says.

“I’m saying that’s the reason that people rarely find true love. They find companionship, but love is a word we throw around too much. We’re all a bunch of hormone-ridden humans who can’t really discern the difference between comfort and love,” I say.

“Yeah, I know you’re right. I’ve seen it my entire life. People just match up because they like the way the other person looks or they don’t bore them to death or because they’re lustful. But then it all fades and they are just two people sharing a life. Then I met you two and realized that you actually found your match, the person that seems made for you,” Adelaide says and there’s an interesting new respect in her voice. She may not like what I’m doing, but I see now that she admires it more than she did.

“I want you to take over the werewolf case,” I say when it’s been too quiet for too long.

Her head, which had dropped, now flips up at this announcement. “You what? But that’s a level five case,” she says.

“And I fear that it should be reclassified as something even higher, if there was such a classification. It’s going to be incredibly dangerous and difficult,” I say.

“Then why do you want me to do it? Is it because you want me dead?” she says, with a smirk.

“I want you on the case because you’re the best agent for the job.” I pause and then say, “But I sincerely hope it doesn’t take you out.”

“Yeah, dying from a werewolf attack has to be the worst,” she says.

“Go to Trent and tell him that I assigned you the case. I gave him a heads-up that you’d be making an announcement,” I say.

“Do you really think I’m the best agent for the case?” she says.

My eyes flutter a bit with annoyance. “Don’t fish. And honestly, I’m not certain that you’ll be successful. We are blind here without the news reporting department doing their jobs. And the people behind this seem to be really well organized and funded. I suspect you’re dealing with a rather large organization and Dream Travelers are probably involved,” I say.

“Well, thanks. This almost makes me happy,” she says and now tucks her fingers under her legs and kicks a bit, her feet grazing the carpet.

“Adelaide, building a happy life usually takes constant renovations,” I say.

“Do you really think I’m capable of being happy? I’m not the type for such things,” she says.

“Well, look at me,” I say.

“Yeah, you managed it a bit and we’re pretty similar,” she says, and then her face flushes red.

“No, it’s true. We’re strangely similar,” I say and then I sit up straighter, looking directly at Adelaide. “My mum spoke to me about happiness before she died. She knew that, just like you, I was going to struggle to find any semblance of happiness in my life.”

“I love when you talk about her. Your face shifts. It lights up a little,” she says, her voice almost laughing.

An old pain assaults my chest and then rises up into my throat. It’s an ache connected to my mum. I stare at the carpet, wondering if I might actually be close to crying for the first time in my adult life.

“What did your mum say to you?” Adelaide says, ending the silence.

I clear my throat, looking at her, realizing my scars are clearly written on my face and then realizing I don’t care. “She said that she wished she could take away my powers so I could be happy. However, she knew my battle was to find happiness after being who I was, a greater being than most. My mum, a beautiful but ordinary Middling, knew that finding happiness with a mind like mine was going to be difficult.” I lift my chin and look at the ceiling, taking in a calming breath. “My mum would have said the same to you.”

“That’s really beautiful,” Adelaide says.

Now I look directly at my daughter. “She was right. My mum was right on all of it. Happiness has been the hardest thing for me to obtain, but there shouldn’t be a greater pursuit for you. You can save the world, Adelaide, but if you don’t save yourself then it will never matter.”

“You’re not going to want to hug me, are you?” she says, and I hear the tears in her throat.

“I don’t think either one of us are the hugging type,” I say, standing up and turning for the door.

“Is it okay if I tell you something personal?” she says, and it’s rare to hear the shyness in her voice.

“I think you should do whatever you want. What do you have to lose, your chances with me are running out.”

She pushes up from the chair, but hesitates with the series of motions several times. Then she’s standing in front of me, looking at me directly. “I love you. You don’t have to say it. I know you won’t. But I can’t let you leave and not say it. Because it wasn’t until I met you that I realized I was capable of loving someone. And I don’t love you because you’re my father. It’s because to me, you’re truly amazing. Most people are so boring. So average. So polite. But, with all your faults and your abuse, you’re still one of the most extraordinary persons I’ve ever known. And I think I’ll spend my entire life just searching for someone who compares to you.”

“I hope you find them,” I say and then pull a small leather-bound book from my suit jacket pocket. “I want you to have this.”

She takes it. “What is it?”

“It’s my book of secrets. Everything I know about this world and the things that most people don’t.”

“Oughtn’t the book be bigger?” she says.

I regard the pocket-sized book. “You’ll be surprised at how much information is in there.”

“Why are you giving it to me?” she asks, real disbelief in her voice. Adelaide really doesn’t get it… yet.

“Adelaide, you’re my legacy. You’re what I leave behind. My greatest gift to this world, and I trust you with the vast knowledge I’ve acquired while on earth. I believe it is in good hands with you,” I say, tapping the top of the book in her hands.

She pulls the book up and presses it to her chest. “Yes, I’ll keep it safe. I’ll use the knowledge wisely. I promise,” she says, and I hear the tears in her voice but she’s staying strong, knowing that’s what I desire in this moment.

“Good,” I say and press the button for the door. With one last look at my daughter I smile, and it’s a sincere one. “I love you always,” I say, repeating my mum’s last words to me before she died.

“Goodbye, Ren,” she says in a whisper.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Pops gives me a disappointed scowl when I exit Adelaide’s room. “You left him alone,” he says, indicating Lucien, sitting in the exact place where I abandoned him.

“What can I say, I’m a deserter,” I say, approaching my room at the end of the hallway.

“Well, we just won’t ask Ren to watch you anymore,” Pops says in a baby voice, ruffling the redhead’s hair.

That shouldn’t be a problem, I think as I run my finger over the button for my door. I pause. Turn. Stare at the man on the carpet, playing with the child like he’s a kid himself still. He’s in his nineties now, but no one would guess that looking at him. How have my pops’s eyes never dulled? Each year they sparkle with the love he genuinely feels for the life he lives. Of course, that spark renewed more so once I introduced Adelaide and then Lucien to him. I don’t regret being the unloving child my parents didn’t deserve, but I’m grateful that he has more children to lavish with his love. I almost think they are deserving of the unyielding affection that man will bestow upon them. I know with full certainty that there isn’t anything Adelaide or Lucien can ever do to lose my pops’s favor. I tested that for myself and I know that man loves me unconditionally. If there is any good in me, it is because I had parents who loved me despite the monster. They knew I was wicked and yet, they chose to see only the good in me.

I turn and regard Adelaide’s door, where I hear a soft muffled cry. It has taken me my entire life to understand how a parent could love a child so completely, as my father always did. Now I get it, a notion I thoroughly never expected to understand or feel for myself.

The giggling of the child on the carpet steals my attention. I turn and watch the boy and man playing. There’s a bond already well established between these two. It’s evident in the way they both seem so at ease with each other. I guess I never appreciated how a father and a son are endeared to one another, regardless of whether they don’t see the world similarly. I realize now that I’m who I am because of who my father is, and everything about that is perfectly fine.

“Goodbye, Pops,” I say, pressing the button for my room.

He holds up his large hand. “Night, son. See you tomorrow,” he says, his eyes mostly still on Lucien.

The door glides back behind me. My pops was the one person I couldn’t dare to say a proper goodbye to. There was no way I could tell him what I plan to do. To have the scorned look he would have undoubtedly given me forever ingrained in my memory would be too much. He won’t understand when tomorrow I don’t awake. He will be so very hurt when he finds out what I’ve done. But my pops will forgive me, and that I know with confidence.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I lie down on the bed, not having removed my suit. The two openers rest in my breast pocket. And in my hand is the list of coordinates where I might find portals to the other realms. With a focused mind I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

This is where they will find my body dead tomorrow.

***

The silver transport is long, a series of twists and turns. This first location is quite far from the Institute. It’s funny that I’ve always thought of dream traveling as a type of transportation using the wormholes of consciousness. It’s all truly interconnected, the premises that make up our world.

The sun peeks just over a mountain range which is a guarded by the Guanabara Bay. I know that as soon as I eye the city spread around it. Rio de Janeiro. And I know from my high vantage point exactly where I’m standing. Instead of first turning to look at one of the New Seven Wonders of the World at my back, I look up at the heavens.

“Very funny, God. You’re fucking hilarious,” I say out loud.

Then I turn and find exactly what I knew would be behind me. The Christ the Redeemer statue stands tall, hands outstretched. The morning sun grazes over the surface of Jesus’s calm face. I won’t for a minute consider it’s a coincidence that a wormhole is located in this place known as a symbol of Christianity. My guess is that the energy spread by worshipers probably powers the portal. Or maybe the passage has been witnessed here because of the number of visitors who hike up to Corcovado Mountain to gaze at the statue. Everything is energy, though, so I’m guessing my first assumption is correct. Humans have no idea how much their thoughts and emotions fuel the elements of this world. However, at this early hour, I have Jesus all to myself. There are no Middlings in the physical realm strolling around on the platform. And in the dreamscape I don’t feel the cold fog that is drifting over the bay, about to cloak the city in wet air.

I slip one of the openers from my pocket with a strong hope that the portal it opens takes me to the Land of the Souls and not back to the physical realm. Aiden suggested that I observe the space, if it was large like this one, with too many potential areas where the portal could be. I just hope it’s not on the top of Christ’s fucking head, because I’m not dream traveling up there. Heights make me want to barf.

I lift my gaze to the statue before me, which was erected to provide a sense of peace to the Christian followers.

“Why are you such a big fucking deal?” I say to the soapstone statue of Jesus. “I better get a bloody landmark statue when I’m gone. I bet I saved more people than you.”

I’m just about to tell Christ another thing or two when I notice something close to the statue. At its base there’s a reflection, but the area is cast in shadow so that doesn’t seem right. As I approach, the reflection disappears and reappears. Again and again. It’s almost like a trick on the eye. I turn to gauge if the rising sun could be the cause of this, but it isn’t touching the base of the statue yet with its rays. And when I turn back around, I see it more clearly out of the corner of my eye. It’s a rim, just as Aiden described. And then I eye the opener and notice a faint blue light is glowing on the top. However, it isn’t strong enough. That’s what my instinct tells me. Three more steps bring me to the place where I’d see the rim of the supposed portal, but it disappears completely. However, the strip on the top of the opener now glows bright blue.

“Looks like I’ve found your little shortcut,” I say to the heavens. Actually, according to gross science, these passages are merely remnants of general relativity, whatever the fuck that means.

If this opener works then the act of it sensing the wormhole will stabilize it for a short minute, making it dense. In essence, it’s taking an invisible door and illuminating and then unlocking it.

“Here goes everything,” I say, placing the opener just above my head where I remember seeing the reflective light. And I actually suck in a breath when the device sticks in the air, like it’s stuck to an invisible wall. I’ve seen many things in my life, but nothing quite like this. It’s almost like the pairing of science and spirituality, briefly meeting for my purposes. Who would have ever thought?

Knowing I must be quick, I press the button on the bottom of the opener and the cord drops out, dangling in the cool Brazilian air. The chain resists only slightly when I tug it downward. Then I hear a sharp click and I release the string, and gradually a light hovers and then it separates, streaking a line behind it. The two points circle in opposite directions until they arch and then meet at the bottom, illuminating a large circle. Then the light seeps in to the center of the circle until there’s a bright hole in front of me. I may be the only person who has ever seen the sight before me. An open wormhole. I hold my breath. Lift up my foot. And step through to the other side.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The world I step into is not the physical realm. I know that at once. The sky in the physical realm would be the same one I just witnessed in the dreamscape, but the one that hangs over me here is dark. It’s not like a night sky, but more like an inky purplish one. And as I blink at it, I can see further out to space than ever before. My vision seems to zoom in on distant stars and planets, while still seeing it all from a distance. Everything in this realm is the same, and yet different. Rio de Janeiro is still the same city, maybe darker in some places, and lighter in others. I turn and the biggest astonishment yet meets my vision. Christ the Redeemer is gone. The more-than-one-hundred-foot statue has disappeared. The pedestal where it sat in the dreamscape is just a blank space lit by the sun that still rises in the dark sky.

I’m not granted another quiet second to study the strange world around me because the ground begins to vibrate. At first it’s a soft rumbling, but then the stone under my feet cracks and the earthquake intensifies. I’m at the top of a mountain where I can only go down, but thankfully there’s not a massive statue which can fall on me. My feet lose their balance on the ground that is now rolling, like I’m standing on a surfboard and riding a wave. I allow the momentum to bring me down to the ground, where I hit it faster than my reflexes can process. My chin knocks into the stone floor, but my hands break the fall’s severity. And all around me Rio de Janeiro moves, but it’s a blur in my vision. The ground further splits in places. My legs slip into a giant crack that instantly is formed. Can I die in the Land of the Souls? I guess I always considered I’d be defeated by the task, rather than die.

And then the shaking lessens, like simmering water being pulled off the stove. I roll to the left, to a place that has fewer cracks, which are still splitting, creating a chasm a few feet away. Now I push to my feet and pieces of me start to break off. Literally, as if I’m made of stone like the statue of Jesus, I crumble. A scream like no other I’ve ever witnessed bursts out of my mouth. My hands appear like a sand castle being broken down by the wind. And the pain isn’t quite pain. It feels as though something inside me is being emptied. I never realized how full I was inside until this moment, where I’m being sucked out from within. And the scream. It’s unending. Mostly connected to the terror I feel. I never thought there was anything to be afraid of losing, but right now what is being taken from me feels like the greatest tragedy. An enormous panic sweeps through my mind, cloaking me in a darkness of fear. I fall to my knees, my palms meeting the stone. I gulp for breath, but I’m suffocating. I try and process what’s happening, but I can’t think past the fear. And then I feel nothing. Not a single thing. All at once, I’m empty.

I have no body.

I have no mind.

I have no heart.

I’ve lost my soul.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A light hovers over me. It brings my vision back into focus. At least I think it’s my vision. I don’t know what I am anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. How could I not be who I am? And to lose myself. I note that this all should be tragic. Was that a thought I just had? Somehow I’m thinking. I know it. But this isn’t how I’m used to thinking. I seem to be merely observing. No opinions. Just unbiased thoughts. Like untouched consciousness. I am a hollow observer. No feelings. No attitudes. No ideas. No bodily sensations. I’m nothing.

***

Again, my vision opens to observe a buzzing light overhead. It zooms by. I don’t remember where I just was. Everything went away. I went away. Actually, I don’t know where I am. But I am… I don’t know what I am. I don’t know anything. And yet I do. I’m lost and yet there is no I, so am I lost?

My mind blanks. My vision too. Again the blackness.

***

“You’re going to have to work harder if you don’t want to slip into the nothingness,” a voice says above me. Maybe all around me.

The light. It’s overhead again. A soft, twinkling light, like a Christmas bulb sitting alone in the gray sky. The sky is gray. There is a sky. Who am I that observes this gray sky? I am…

“Stand up. That might help,” the voice says. It’s a woman’s voice; her accent is Spanish.

“I cannot stand. I do not have a body,” I say, and hear a voice which is so familiar, and yet…

“Then how did you speak?” the woman says, and the bulb of light zooms to the side of me.

I did speak. At least, I think that was my voice. But how? And how is there a me who spoke?

“You’re wearing a suit. You are a man. You need to connect with the shell you’ve left behind or you will fade into the nothingness,” the woman says at my side. My side… who am I?

I am a man... the woman had said.

“You have red hair. It is a lovely shade. You are a middle-aged man, one unlike any we have here,” the woman says. “Now stand up.”

I don’t know how. I don’t remember.

“Roll to your side. Yes, you have a side. Roll over and push up. Just know that it’s instructions that you own, somewhere in the back of your consciousness. You can pull it from the universal mind. You don’t need the information in your mind, which I realize you must have lost,” the woman says, and her voice is warm and meant to comfort. That is my simple observation.

And I do as she says. I intend to use the data for the “how” of standing that’s logged in this universal mind. And then I, this nothing being, is moving. I roll to my side, push up using a gray hand, and then rock until I’m standing.

And the world around me is gray. Just many varying shades of gray. There is no color, but I’m not sure why this matters. Shouldn’t Rio de Janeiro be full of color? Then I stare down at my body. I, in fact, do have a body. It is gray as well. And then the light zooms around me, but there is no sensation connected with the action. The light speeds away, around the broken plaza, and then lands just before this thing that is me. And suddenly the light blossoms into a figure. A woman dressed in an emerald green dress. Her black hair is parted down the middle and braided and tied into a bun on the top of her head.

“Do you know who you are?” she says.

I shake the head on my shoulders.

“I do not know either, but I saw what happened. You feel like a shell to me and it’s because you lost your soul, didn’t you?” she says.

I shrug shoulders which seem foreign to me.

The woman flickers into the light, hovering a few feet off the ground. Then she reappears, but now she isn’t a she at all. A man, old and dressed in slacks and a white shirt, stands where the woman was.

“You don’t belong here, do you?” the man says, his accent Scottish.

“Where is here?” I say, sensing I know the answer, but not able to connect to the idea.

“The Land of the Souls,” he says and then pop, he’s a light again. And then the woman is before me once more.

That’s right. The Land of the Souls. And I came for a reason. An important one. But I don’t recall it. Who am I?

“You’re slipping again,” the woman says, snapping gray fingers at me. “Stay focused or you will fade into the nothingness.”

“I need to find something, don’t I?” I say, my voice so low.

“Souls are made of three parts,” she says.

“Body, mind, and heart,” I say, but the words don’t feel like mine. And why should they? Who am I?

“Yes,” the woman says. And then she flickers and a young Chinese girl with hair to her waist stands where the woman was.

“I must reassemble my soul,” I say, and this triggers a memory. I have a memory. I blink at the girl, as though she will tell me the answer that I’m searching for, but then the strangest words fall out of my mouth. “I am Ren Lewis… I was… I lost him.”

The young girl nods. “I saw you before your soul split. You had a personality. You were confident. Not just an observer. You were thinking and feeling. Now you are a shell,” she says.

I remember entering the Land of the Souls now… kind of. I turn, remembering the statue—

“It is back,” I say, pointing at the statue of the man named Christ which my memory said was gone before.

“The way the Land of the Souls works is that we construct everything instantly based on how we feel about it. When you first arrived the statue was gone, is that right?” the girl says.

I nod and then the girl is gone. Only a light and suddenly she bursts into the figure of the Spanish woman, stoic and tall. “That must be because you don’t believe in Jesus.”

“I don’t know what I believe. I hardly know who I am,” I say.

“In our land, how you feel about things changes how they appear. What you know about things changes how you see them. Those who have had more experiences through many lives, see more. It is the reason we continue to evolve through the process of reincarnation,” she says.

“So your world here looks different to you, doesn’t it? Can you see the statue of Jesus?” I say.

She nods proudly, her eyes on the gray statue. “Oh yes, and he’s beautiful in my world.” Then she turns to me and morphs into the old man again. “Your world is probably the way it looks in the physical realm, is that right?”

“Yes. And it is gray,” I say.

He nods. “You have no feelings or thoughts to associate with this Land, so the laws don’t work for you. It sounds like you must reconnect to who you are, or risk slipping away,” the old man says.

Then he buzzes into the light and circles the plaza before pausing in front of me and taking the shape of the woman.

“Why do you do that? Fly away and then back. And why are you changing into different people?” I say.

“Souls are free. They fly when they desire it. It is the bliss we only have here, but it isn’t enough,” she says and I observe the melancholy in her voice. “Soon I will return to the Land of the Living. I must continue my soul’s journey. And, I switch into the different personalities I was when alive in the physical realm. Sometimes I can control it, other times I cannot,” she says.

“Why are you mostly in this form, then? The one of the woman,” I say.

“Because Violet Vider was the life I cherished most. It was when I was her that I learned the most about the heart, which is important for my soul’s purpose,” she says.

“Oh,” I say and that is all.

“Do you know why I am here, Ren Lewis?” she says, and her saying my name reminds me that I am me. I am a middle-aged man. I have red hair.

“Why?” I say.

“Because it was an important place for me,” she says. “Souls always go to the places in our Land that were important in the physical realm.”

“So…” I say, not really knowing what to say next.

“So where would Ren Lewis go if he wanted to find his body?” she says.

I scratch my head for no reason that I know of. My nails are kept well-manicured, I notice. And then I see a flash, of a man sitting in a flat. Reading a book in an armchair. That man was who I used to be.

“Have you heard of a place called London? That place exists, right?” I say. That word just popped into my head. London.

She laughs now and it almost seems like a new sound to my ears. “Yes, London is a place. And you speak with a British accent. Maybe you should go there.”

I shrug. “But how?”

The woman taps her head. “We create our land here and although you can’t color your world, I wonder if intention still works for you. When I was living I could dream travel, going anywhere I desired using my intention. This works for all souls here in this land,” she says.

“Dream travel,” I say, and it sparks a new memory, a host of memories actually. And then I know who I was, who I used to be. I know shades of him. He was bad and good and powerful and never wrong… And…

“Just make the intention, Ren Lewis,” the woman says and blinks into the light, the one like a bulb. And then from her ethereal form she says, “You have little time. I sense more dangers are on their way.”

And then I look out at the bay and the ocean and notice the large wave rolling forward. A tsunami, no doubt a result of the earthquake.

All these memories flashing in my mind bring new ones. I close my eyes. “I am Ren Lewis. I intend to go to where my body spent much time in London. I am Ren Lewis. I am Ren Lewis.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Every experience seems new, and yet it doesn’t. In the recesses of the mind I don’t know if I have or not, there’s a connection that sparks and then dissipates as I move through a silver tunnel. This experience is brand new. Not new. It is my first time, and also not. It is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I don’t know how to explain the feeling of unfeeling. Of experiencing the unexperience of this all. I am lost and yet I’m here. I’m me and yet I don’t fully know who that is.

I drop out of the tunnel—the transport, I’m guessing—and land in a room. A set of rooms. The walls are blue. Paintings hang on the wall. Furniture sits in corners. I have no opinion on the space, and yet an instinct tells me I should. I should care about the act of sitting in the armchair. The books lining one wall have meaning to someone. Is it me?

My hand finds the silver doorknob to a room. A bedroom, I notice upon entering. A man’s room, maybe. There are more doors. Behind one is a polished bathroom with gray tiles. There are shavings on the sink. Only a few. The person who lived here was tidy, I observe.

I have red hair, that’s what the woman said. But the shavings are gray. Everything is gray. This man who is me. I am Ren… What was my other name? Lowell? Lois? Lewis? Yes, Ren Lewis. I am Ren. Reynold, actually. Wait, where did that come from? Reynold was my father…

Something pops in my chest. I gaze down. The gray suit looks no different, but something thumped under it. Then I remember my prior thought. I had a father. I was a man who was born. I had a family. Had… Do I have a family? Why am I here? There was an extremely good reason. A person. A girl, maybe. Did I have a daughter? Again the thump in my chest. Now it brings a sharp pain. I suck in a gasp with the lungs I don’t have.

Thump. Thump.

My hand claps to my chest. The fire starts in my arm and spreads up to my shoulder and then like a bolt of lightning it strikes at my torso. I slam down to my knees, the tile clapping against my bones. My fingers find the door frame and with an energy I didn’t assume I’d have under this pain, I pull myself up. And then I see it. The face I wear stares back at me in the mirror.

“Hello, Ren,” I hear a voice say. My voice. “Who are you? Why are you here?” I ask the figure and he copies me. Gray eyes stare back at me. They aren’t gray though. In the real world, the right world, the one where people’s souls are intact, my eyes have color. They are green.

Wait, how did I know that? And yet, it must be true. I have my mum’s eyes. And the rough assault on my chest sends me backwards. My shoulders knock into the wall. The tile smacks against my head.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The beating in my chest is too fast. And yet, something beats in my chest, which I should be glad for, if I knew how to be such things. I reach out for the shelf beside me, but the image of myself in the mirror, grimacing with violent suffering, steals my focus and I slide to the ground. My head careens with the toilet and then the floor. Warmth covers my forehead, but I only give notice to the stinging sensation. It is a feeling. I’m having a feeling and it’s offensive in its level of discomfort. To feel my body is a burden I did not know I had. And yet, my body feels for a reason. One that makes me have a soul.

Something is oozing down over my eyelid. From my place lying between the vanity and loo I press my hand to my forehead. Blood that is neither red nor gray covers my fingertips. Then I notice there’s a twinge of color to my surroundings. Just a twinge. It isn’t gray and yet, the lightness of the colors around me makes me blink to clear my vision. It doesn’t help.

And then an explosion detonates in my chest. I smack both hands to my heart. My heart. I have a heart. And it’s beating out. I’m dying. My body is dying. The organ in my chest races at lightning speed. Heavy, rough beats that feel like my heart is trying to escape my chest assault me one after another. My mouth opens to scream, but only a hot breath escapes. And then there is no breath. The racing, wild beating of my heart ends with a final strike, one so violent it screams across my body. And then my head falls to the side.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The tile is cold on my cheek. My cheek. I feel cold. I feel. The bathroom is a blur of almost-pastels. The towel hanging on the wall is a light green, but my instinct tells me it is darker. I push up from the floor, aware that I feel the tile under my fingertips. I feel. My body feels. But there’s no beating in my chest. That sensation of a heart before is gone. I’m also aware that I’m not breathing. I’m just being.

In the mirror I catch the image of the me again. He has light red hair and I was right, the eyes are green, but his are too light. Mint green. And then in the mirror I catch something. A queasy sensation rumbles in my stomach. The feeling is offsetting and yet, I feel. How can I complain about feeling? With slow steps I turn, taking in the image of my dead body on the ground. I spin back around to the mirror to double check. Yes, I’m still here. But then there is also the me on the ground. The one who died. The one who suffered a heart attack and breathes no more. I hold up my hand, which has a smidge of tan color to it, the freckles not quite orange.

The hand I’m holding up slides to my face, stroking my jaw. I’ve recovered the first part of my soul. By experiencing my body’s death, I recaptured the eros part of my spirit. This thought jars me. I had prepared for this journey. Now I know it, but I don’t know how. And I don’t know why I’m here still, but I do know that if I’ve recovered the part of my body related to my soul, then I need to find the one connected to my mind. Logos. That word pops out of the ether and straight into my thoughts. I have thoughts. But I’m not thinking. Not with the same agility that I should. Thoughts just occur to me, but I’m not critically constructing them.

Without knowing I’m going to, I walk for the door and through the residence, the one where I lived. Maybe… My feet stop when they bring me to the shelf lined with leather-bound volumes. There’s a lifetime of reading in this one place. Again, I’m surprised when my body reaches out without a warning. It appears to be operating on its own, maybe out of instinct. My fingers pause on a large book with a shiny red cover. The Dream Travelers Codex. It’s a book I have read, I somehow remember. No, I wrote it. I contributed… I don’t remember the details. Pulling the book from the shelf, I flip to a halfway point. The pages are thick and smell fresh, like the book is new and was never read. I scan the first page, not looking for anything. My instinct tells me that I need to focus on the end result and the “how” will appear. I want to find the place where I can recover my logos, the part of my soul connected to my mind.

Then I turn the page and two words leap off of it. They are followed by a series of images in my mind. Hundreds, no, thousands of images. A lifetime of memories are connected with that location. And that place was important. Important to me. To the world. My eyes fall back on those two words. Yes, that’s where I need to go next. To the Lucidite Institute.

***

An earthquake knocks me off my feet just as I dream travel to the Lucidite Institute. The ground is back under my feet when I arrive in a darkened room, one that’s lit by a soft blue light. It reflects off the glass walls, which partially enclose the conference room where I stand. The surface of the conference room table is slick under my fingertips. A flash of memories streaks across my vision. I spent many hours at the front of this table. I led many meetings here. But I still don’t know who I was. A powerful man…maybe. A leader, but of what? Did I do important things?

I press both my hands down on the surface of the table, leaning over it. The position immediately triggers another memory. It’s of me standing in the exact same position, my head down and a nasty grimace on my freckled face.

“Do you want the world to spin off its axis and spiral willy-nilly through space until it’s sucked up by a black hole?” I say, but I don’t know who I’m talking to. The room is filled with people, their faces looking drawn from the way the dark blue light casts against them.

“No, sir,” a young man says. He has black dreadlocks and skin to match their color. “I’m just saying—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to what I’m saying. We are going to allow the missile to hit—”

“But sir—”

“Do you know where the most intelligent minds in the world are housed?” the man who is me says.

“In this room,” the guy says.

“Correct. Now honestly, out of all of these brilliant minds, who do you think is superior in their reasoning? And don’t give me lip service, boy,” I say.

“There is no doubt that it is you, Ren,” he says.

“Exactly. Now let me tell you something. Sometimes we step in and save the village from the attack. Sometimes we save the corporation from bankruptcy. Sometimes we prevent the shooting, landslide, or explosion. And sometimes we allow it to happen. The key to running a strategic department that intervenes in the world’s affairs is to know when to act and when to sit back and turn one’s head. The missile hitting will be unfortunate, but the news reporters saw a different future if we prevent it. And using my first-class logic, I’ve determined that allowing it to happen is the better scenario. Lives will be lost, but the end result will have an impact on how that city operates for the next century. Sometimes allowing tragedies to happen creates a necessary evolution. Societies progress the most when they fall on their knees and we want to help and save lives, but not at the expense of progress. I caution you in your approach. It needs to be holistic or otherwise you’re going to end up creating a bunch of apes because you never allow the people you save to face the adversity that would cause real soul searching and redemption.”

The room is silent after the speech I give. Then the guy nods his head. “I didn’t see all of that before, but that makes perfect sense,” he says.

“Of course it does, because I’m a fucking genius,” I say and then the vision is gone. I’m released from it to find myself shaking at the table’s edge.

I press back until I feel the seat behind me and sit. My head crowds my hands at once, my elbows on the surface of the table. Immediately a throbbing hits at the back of my skull. I reach for the spot, but then I’m overwhelmed by the voices. A million words, all said at the same time, echo in my head. They are everything I’ve ever heard flooding my brain at once. How can a person remember everything they’ve ever heard? And yet, I know I’m that person. The most intelligent mind in the world. And as the voices grow louder, I realize I’m losing my mind. Then the flashes careen with my visional cortex. A seemingly infinite string of images pours through my brain. The weight of it makes me drop my head and it collides with the surface of the table, just as the room spins and the voices take shape into images in the room. I’m surrounded by people. Thousands of people. And they’re all talking. Their voices speed up until they are all speaking on fast-forward. The dizziness makes me slide out of the seat and roll to the ground, which is crawling with tiny black bugs. I try to push up, but the people are pressing into me. Hover over me. And then their individual words become the same. A chorus that overwhelms my sense. They chant over and over again, “Save us. Save us. Save us.”

My hands jerk up and cover my head, which seems like it’s filled with smoke that’s about to shoot through my ears. “NO!” I yell. “I don’t know how!” And then all at once the room empties. The people are gone. Their voices too. The bugs vanish. And my mind blanks. Then I open my mouth and words I didn’t know I was going to say fall out. “I don’t know it all,” I say, and then my eyes fall shut and I feel a soft wave carry me away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Something is pressed into my cheek. And then I know. I know what it is, where I am, and hundreds of things about my surroundings. The way my mind processes now is starkly different than before. I open my eyes to find I was right. I’m lying face down on the blue carpet of the conference room for the strategic department at the Lucidite Institute. It’s located at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Honolulu. The entire history of the Institute flexes in my brain and I’m overwhelmed with the amount of information I can hold in a single thought. The way my mind processes wouldn’t flabbergast me if I didn’t have the prior experience of not thinking. The unknowing I had before the logos of my soul was reunited with me was such a different experience than now. I was blank before and now I’m processing everything in my environment and about my situation with an efficiency to impress.

I press up to a standing position. The blue light in the space is brighter and a shade darker. All the colors in the room are more intense, but still light. My world hasn’t come fully to life. I can’t affect my world yet, as the soul in Rio de Janeiro told me I should be able to do. And I know there are no emotions connected to my thoughts. Each idea is black and white, not filtered through the emotional center. The superior reasoning of my brain tells me that’s wrong. Emotions ground a person’s thoughts. They bring color to the world.

Now I have my memories. Now I know who Ren Lewis is. I remember why I am here, but I’m not sure how I thought it was so important. Why did I care about Dahlia so much? I hear her name in my head and it’s followed by data. No emotions. In my mind I see her smile and it doesn’t light up a connection for me. I traveled into this realm and lost my soul for this person, but I still don’t understand why. However, I know exactly where I need to go to recover the thumos part of my soul. My desires. My passion. My very spirit.

***

The house smells of bread and smoke from the fireplace. Mum made a fresh loaf of bread every day. She always said, “Life is too short to eat day-old bread.”

My childhood home is untouched by age in this realm. I know it’s been shut up since Pops left it, but no dust lines the shelves. I push my hands into my pockets and rotate in a circle, looking for something. Shouldn’t this place, the home I grew up in, bring a host of emotions? The memories sweep through my mind, but they are simply photographic images of a boy and his parents. Sometimes my sister, Lyza, is in the memories, but mostly she isn’t. The more I try to make myself feel something, the more the slippery premise of feeling slides further away. To recover the eros and logos parts of my soul, my body died and I lost my mind. How do I connect with the thumos of my soul?

The hole in the wall I made when I found out my mum was dying is still here. Staring at it only deepens the well of numbness inside me. People die. My mum did. Why does it matter? What should I feel about it?

I take careful, meditative steps through the house, passing a room where I used to sleep. For seventeen years, in that space, my body grew from that of infant to a man. It is what happens when children get older. Lyza’s room is next to mine. I have known her all my life. That is all. There is nothing more to think on that subject. My parents’ room is at the end of the hallway. I push the door back, expecting to find it empty and another roll of emotionless memories associated with the space.

A pale green light hovers over the bed. It’s like the one in Rio de Janeiro, like a small bulb suspended in the air. And I’ve already processed exactly what it is and the implications at lightning speed.

“Mum,” I say, my voice hollow.

And as if being summoned, the vision of my mum appears. It’s translucent, much the same way I remember the woman at the Christ the Redeemer statue. Around the edges of her form are sparks, as though she’s bleeding into the space.

“Hello, Renny,” she says, and a giant smile lights up her face. It’s been over twenty years and I haven’t forgotten that smile. I haven’t forgotten the way her eyes brighten when she smiles.

“What are you doing here?” I say to her, my voice matter-of-fact.

She flickers into the green light again and then an image of a boy appears, but only for a moment. And then she’s back.

“I think the more important question is what are you doing here? I died. I live in the Land of the Souls until I decide to return to the Land of the Living. However, you aren’t dead, are you?” she says, and again that familiar tone to her voice passes over my ears.

“No, I didn’t die to get here. You know that how?” I say.

“Souls have a lighter appearance,” she says, her Irish accent faint, like I remember. “You are solid and not shimmering.”

I stare down at my body. She is right. And I’m not flickering into a light like she does every few seconds or shifting through my different lives. I regard her for a long moment. She shifts many times from her appearance to the boy’s and also into that of a young woman with long black hair. However, she stays longer in the form I know her as in my life.

“You have grown, my son,” she says, taking a step toward me. “I have fondly thought of you during my soul’s reflections.”

“Have you,” I say, but there really isn’t a question in my voice. I don’t really know what to say to the woman before me, the one whom my memory is flooded with images of.

“Why are you here?” she says. And everything is so calm between us, which seems strange. Shouldn’t we be saying more? Doing more? But I don’t know what that would be.

“I’m here for a woman,” I say. “But I don’t really know any more than that.”

She nods, seeming to understand and accept all this at once. Then she points to the bed in the room. “I died in that bed.”

“I remember,” I say, my voice dull.

“Do you remember the regret you had during our last moment together?” she says, and I notice how wise she is in this Land. Like the other soul I met, she is tranquil and at peace.

“I believe people show regret when others die,” I say, constructing the answer using logic.

She nods her pale head of red curls. “Renny, you had a regret in your eyes for other reasons. I was dying and that was unfortunate. But even then I knew something and wouldn’t say it. You weren’t ready to hear it. And I didn’t want our final moment to be marked with guilt,” she says.

My mind traces over the memory I have of right before my mum died. She lay weakly in her bed. Mum told me she loved me. And before that she shared many things with me about my life and what it meant to her. The words she said on her deathbed play in my head now.

“I can’t tell you how many times you’ve given my life meaning because the occasions have been too numerous. As a baby you smiled and that was enough. But then you became a child and your acts of selflessness were incredibly inspiring. And you came into your gifts and I felt like a goddess to have been your mother. You, Reynold Lewis, have been a true joy to raise. Most won’t understand you. Most will be afraid of you. But the ones who embrace you will understand what I saw on the day I stared at you after thirty-six hours of being in labor. You, Renny, are more than exceptional. You are unique. There will never be another Ren Lewis. And that’s why God gave you such impossible talents. Because you were meant to do things humans shouldn’t.”

And I remember I then simply pressed my lips to her forehead and said, “I love you.” Then I left her to die. I blink at my mum before me now, a dawning opening up a place inside me.

“The regret in my eyes, the one you spied. It’s because I was unwilling to open my heart to you in that moment. To tell you how much you always meant to me,” I say, and now my voice is an astonished hush.

She nods, a pained smile on her face. With her hands pressed together in front of her, she takes another step forward.

I was too stubborn to allow my feelings back then. I was too cold inside to do the one thing I wanted. And now the regret billows out of me as a realization so sharp and cutting hits me.

The strangest sensation prickles in my throat. It’s followed by a raw aching that slitters down through my chest and cuts at my being from the inside out. “For all my life, I regretted not telling you that you were the best person I ever knew,” I say, and the words come out of me with a volcano of ache. Tears fill my eyes, making my vision blur. And then they stream down my cheeks one after the other. I, Ren Lewis, am crying. I’m truly feeling. I am allowing the regret to punish me.

“I didn’t know how in that moment, your last, to tell you what you have always deserved to hear,” I say, as the words I longed to tell her before she died unfold in my heart. “You thought I was exceptional. You thought being my mum was a gift. But I have always been the one looking at you with awe. I might be powerful, but I am no one compared to you, Mum. The burdens you shouldered while still smiling and giving are the true feat. My talent is nothing compared to your ability and capacity to love.” And all my words are accompanied by tears and sobs and the heaving of my chest. Each statement releases more emotions. More hurts. More of the person inside me. With the back of my hand, I push tears from my cheeks. The experience of crying is so foreign and yet freeing. It’s as if I didn’t know that my heart had been barricaded in a coffin for all my life. But the door to the casket has now been opened. “What I didn’t say to you and should have is thank you,” I say to my mum, who stands before me still smiling calmly. “Thank you for loving me. Thank you for giving my childhood such beautiful meaning. Thank you for believing in me.”

She reaches out for me, but her hand stops just a few inches from my chest. “Loving someone is not for them. It is for you. We love each other to fulfill our own desires,” my mum says.

And then I reach out and grab my mum’s hand, squeezing it as a giant realization hits me. “Mum, I love her. I love her so completely,” I say, thinking of Dahlia, feeling my undying affection for her. “She was the most important person in my life, so much so that I can’t leave her. I can’t be without her.”

My mum squeezes my hand back. “Then you must go and find her. Finish what you came here to do. You are complete now,” she says, spreading her hands in a presenting manner at me. “You have done it, my son. Your soul has been reconstructed.”

And I’m so accosted by how wise she sounds, even more than when I knew her when she was alive. Then I notice what she means. Not only do I feel, but now my body is glowing a bit, just like hers. I feel lighter and yet, I’m different from her. I’m something else. I didn’t come into the Land of the Souls by dying. I’m something new.

The colors of the room then intensify and I realize I’m seeing my mum more completely. I’m seeing everything more completely. The room is bright and beautiful and I know I’m viewing it the way I feel about it. I’m constructing my world.

“I’ll be back,” I say, because I don’t want to lose her again. Maybe I can live here with her and Dahlia forever.

“Son, you can’t stay here,” she says, her face taking on a shade of disappointment. Then she lifts her arm and extends it to the wall. “Out there, the world is changing. I feel it. This is the gift of being a pure soul. We are connected to everything and feel that connection. The world, ours and the others, are being destroyed.”

I nod, remembering the earthquakes. How many more have happened since I’ve been here? How many more natural disasters have occurred due to me invading this realm?

“Will you go with me?” I say. “I plan to take Dahlia out of here. Maybe you can go too.” Since now I know that all souls in this Land can dream travel, maybe my mum can access the dreamscape.

She shakes her head, the movement full of confidence. “Oh no. I must move on. My soul has a journey and I’m almost ready to go on to my next life.” Then she smiles fondly. “Maybe I was waiting for you. It’s hard to know how the instinct of the soul works.”

I nod, thinking I might cry again. It’s such a strange part of my new reality. Such a peculiar vulnerability.

“So this is it?” I say.

“Renny, I think what we’ve learned is you never know. Who knows, maybe we will meet again,” she says.

And any tears I have disappear when the smile takes over my lips. This world is a stunning place and the woman before me is so much a part of that exquisiteness. The room grows brighter, like a window was just opened and sunlight invited into the space. Then I step forward and wrap my arms around my mum, the single most loving soul in my life.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The turbulent wind is the first detail my senses notice upon landing in our house in Malibu. The gusts seem to almost be pulling at the house and I can feel them threatening to burst open the front door behind me. Air slips through the tight seal along the frame, tickling the back of my neck. Through the bank of windows I notice the hurricane storm ripping at the palm trees and turning the topiaries over. It isn’t common for hurricanes to tear across the California coast. However, it’s also uncommon for someone alive to invade the Land of the Souls. God isn’t happy about my presence here, and he’s taking out his awful temper on the earth. And even though I’m certain my body is dead in the physical world, I’m still here unnaturally and this isn’t going to stop until I leave. I’ve done what no one has ever done. I’ve broken all the rules. I’m certain God doesn’t even know what to do with me at this point. I can’t really die because I’m not alive. And I can’t really live because I’m technically dead. However, I didn’t die until after I entered this realm and now I’m something completely new.

I ignore the crash against the backside of the house. The fucking limo probably got picked up and thrown at the mansion in an attempt to make me leave. I throw my eyes at the ceiling. “I’m almost done here. I’ll be gone in jiffy,” I say to the big guy in the sky who is on a real fucking power trip right now. “What if I couldn’t leave? What would you do then? Keep up this damn tantrum until you destroyed your bloody earth?”

A jolt rocks the house, making me lose my footing. The banister is slippery but I grab it in time to catch my fall. “Okay, I get it. You know I can leave here and you want me out. So sorry for disrupting your fucking system,” I say, my voice condescending. God won’t be happy until I’m in the dreamscape, which is the in-between, which is technically what I am now. “I just have to fetch someone and then I’ll be out of your hair. I fucking promise,” I say to God and then climb the stairs.

Years ago, I climbed these same stairs on my way to find Dahlia. I’d abandoned her after my mum’s death, so afraid of losing her. The irony isn’t lost on me. I remember standing outside Dahlia’s room hoping she’d forgive me, take me back. And she did and it’s because of that that I’m here now. But I’m uncertain if I’ll find her this time or if she’ll want me. My mum was so different in soul form. So wise. I’m still a human in so many ways. Dahlia has died. Maybe she won’t want me anymore. Maybe she’ll have outgrown me. These worries race through my head and my heart as I finish my trek.

On the far side of the upstairs sits the double doors to our bedroom. I don’t know that this is where I’ll find Dahlia. Actually, I don’t even know if I’ll find Dahlia. She has to have had many other lives and they may be dictating where she’s lingering. Dahlia may be more tied to one of her other lives; she may prefer it. And if that is the case then this will all have been worthless because I can’t take a personality away from here who isn’t Dahlia. I won’t. I want the woman who saved my soul when I was living, made me realize I have one.

I open both doors and stand looking into the dark bedroom. The storm has brought darkness to the house and even my feelings on it don’t seem to change the light. Or maybe it’s that my feelings are crowded with doubt and the dark house is how I feel about it. Maybe that’s why the space grows a smidge blacker when I realize there isn’t a light, a soul buzzing around the room. She’s not here and if she’s not here, I don’t know where she’d be. The bed was her favorite place to be. It was our favorite place together.

This was a risk. I knew it all along. And I can search this realm for Dahlia’s soul, but I have to realize I may never find it. There are millions of souls.

Glass suddenly shatters, spraying me in the face. I shield my head with my arm. And I look up when I only feel cold wind and the light shower of water. One of the lawn chairs lies in the middle of the bedroom. It entered via the second-story window. I’m running out of time. I turn and race for the door just as it slams shut in front of me. When I try to force it open, it doesn’t give way. Something has fucking jammed it shut on the other side. Probably one of the dumb statues Dahlia loved so much. I dream travel out of the room and land in the study. It’s not a place I expect to find Dahlia, I’m just trying to escape the wrath of God. He’s such a fucking jerk when he doesn’t get his way.

The windows in my study have all been blown out and now violent wind rushes through them, tearing the drapes back and forth. I race for the den, shielding my head from the objects raining down from overhead. A large painting flies off the wall as I round the corner, nearly knocking me out. This isn’t just a hurricane anymore. It’s the storm from fucking hell and I can only imagine what it is doing in the physical realm.

The den is flooded when I arrive, drenching me up to the ankle. I’m about to dream travel when a bright flash streaks across my vision, nearly blinding me. Then it’s followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Lightning has struck in the backyard, which should be impossible but God doesn’t appear to be playing by the fucking rules anymore. I’m disoriented from the blinding flash of light and being assaulted by the loudest sound of my life. Then the house moves. The ten-thousand-square-foot house fucking moves. God’s winds are seeking to pick it up from its foundation and toss it in the air. I’m not waiting around to find out if it touches down in Munchkin Land.

“Fine!” I yell at no one. I stand with my feet apart, all my fears crowding me now. Tears crack in my throat. “Fucking fine then, God. You fucking win! I lose! I get that I broke the rules, but I did it for her! I did it for a good reason!”

Again a ferocious clap of thunder rips through the air.

I did this all for bloody nothing. I tore my soul into pieces. I made Dahlia into a Dream Traveler. I left everyone in the physical realm. And for nothing. Of course God was never going to allow me to succeed. I’m the most powerful man in the world, the only one to enter the Land of the Souls while alive, and still I can’t beat God. How did I ever fucking think I could?

The water in the den is now up past my ankles and the storm sounds like a train is going through the house. “You took so many from me. My mum, Jimmy, Jane, and my Dahlia. You just couldn’t fucking let me have her. You couldn’t grant me that one bloody thing. Fine. I fucking get it,” I say, realizing my punishment will be eternity alone in the dreamscape. It’s probably what I deserve. I close my eyes, readying myself to dream travel to one of the coordinates for the wormholes. I’ll have to use the opener to get out of here and then God can stop throwing his fucking tantrum.

My consciousness latches onto the location, my focus waning due to the storm winds tearing at my face. And then the tickling sensation runs over the backs of my hands, my arms, and then my torso. I open my eyes to catch the blue light racing around me. It zooms away and then reappears in front of me. It is the most beautiful sapphire light I’ve ever seen. And then it springs into the form of the only person I ever needed to see again.

Dahlia stands before me in soul form, her beauty comparative to nothing in any world.

Chapter Thirty

“You’re here,” we both say at the same time. Then we laugh in unison. I’m leaping inside that this moment happened. That I didn’t lose her. That I didn’t miss this chance.

Then she flickers into the blue light and morphs through six different images, all of varying races and ages. To my relief she does settle when she’s Dahlia again.

The storm continues to batter the house, but I dismiss it for a moment and step forward, tracing my hand across her cheek.

“I didn’t know if it would work. If you’d find me,” she says, glowing brighter for a moment.

“Not even God can keep me from you, dear Dahlia,” I say.

She flickers again. Morphs through her different lives. She stalls on a monk dressed in robes.

“Dahlia, what life is your soul most connected to? I have to know because—”

The flickering through the lives interrupts me. She pauses again when she takes the form of an elderly lady with white hair. I push down the disappointment with a gulp. “I have to go,” I say, my eyes moving to the storm that’s unrelenting and all around us.

Then she flickers again and to my relief she lands on the image of Dahlia. The one I know so well. With a grace that has always stolen my focus she extends a hand to me. “I’ve learned so much since returning to the Land of the Souls. I’ve been enlightened on my purpose. And now I know something that I never thought I’d come to know,” she says.

I take her hand and press it to my mouth with a chaste kiss. “And that is?” I say, my eyes expectant on her mouth, desperate to know what she’ll say next.

“I learned that you’re my soul mate and if I’m not with you, then I’m alone,” she says, with a tender smile. “Take me wherever you go.”

I unleash a smile I feel in my heart, in my entire being. I pull the opener from my pocket so I’ll have it for when we arrive in the next location. Overhead there’s a creaking. Then a crashing sound and then something fucking tears through the roof of the mansion. I grab Dahlia’s hand and yank her to the side, away from the destruction dominating all around us. Realizing this assault on the den is only going to get worse, I yank her down the hallway and to a place that will be safe enough to give us a chance to dream travel. I’m almost dragging Dahlia through the halls when I hear her yell behind me.

Frantically I whip my head over my shoulder. “What?” I say, still running and unable to easily make out her words over the winds and rain.

“The blue light!” she says, pointing at me.

My eyes jerk down at my hand and I realize she’s pointing at the opener, which is bright blue. There’s a wormhole in our house. I halt and shield my head from the rain pouring in through the roof. Without a moment to consider my decision, I push the opener into the space before me and find that it sticks in the air at once. Then I tap the button and pull the chain in one swift movement. A bright circle illuminates immediately, showing us the door.

“Where does it go?” Dahlia yells over the shredding sounds the storm is making.

“I don’t know,” I say back. “But it’s our only chance.”

“And I can go through there with you?” she says.

“I don’t know,” I say again.

Her hand is wet and warm when she slips it into mine. “Let’s go,” Dahlia says and pulls me through the passage.

Chapter Thirty-One

I stumble through the portal. Fall. Land on a hard surface. I’m coughing when I tumble through the door. Rain seems to be caught in my throat and the bright light overhead is a stark contrast to the gloomy house we just left. But I open my eyes and endure the strain to find the best sight of my life in front of me. Lying on my chest, tangled in my arms, is the love of my life. Dahlia and I lie curled up on a ground which is covered in moss and stone. She lifts her head and I recognize at once that she’s not glowing like she did in soul form. Neither am I. Dahlia and I are both lighter in appearance, the form one takes when dream traveling.

“We’re in the dreamscape,” she says, pushing up off me and to her feet. I do the same.

“The key to that statement is ‘we,’” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and pulling her into me.

She’s taking in our surroundings, which I notice at once aren’t typical. We are in a walled-in garden which is rich with roses and fruit trees. Medicinal herbs line one wall and a fountain punctuates the center of the space, which isn’t small, but the walls make it feel quaint. However, there’s something not quite right about this place and my mind doesn’t at first find what it is.

“The bird,” Dahlia says, pointing at a sparrow perched on the edge of the fountain. It’s frozen and sits staring blankly ahead. I walk over and realize the coy fish in the pond are frozen too, floating in the water in mid-swim.

“It’s like this world has been paused,” I say, finding a few other animals that are unmoving. Rabbits, bugs, birds.

“So this isn’t the dreamscape?” Dahlia says.

“It is, because we’ve taken on dream travel form, but this isn’t our dreamscape. I think it’s a parallel universe,” I say, taking Dahlia’s hands and leading her through the space. “Maybe it’s a copy of our world. A backup of sorts.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” she says.

“I didn’t know half of what’s happened recently was possible,” I say, gauging the details of our surroundings. But then Dahlia stops beside me and tugs on my hand.

I tear my focus off this strange world and regard her. Dahlia’s eyes beg for my attention. “Ren, you did it. Somehow you did it.”

I half smile at her, a mock look of offense on my face. “How could you ever have doubted me?” I say.

“It astounds me that after all this time, you continue to stun me. You are absolutely the most amazing man ever,” she says and rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me softly on the cheek. It doesn’t feel like it would in the physical realm or the Land of the Souls, but I feel it still and the fact that forever I have my Dahlia is enough. I did do it, and still the full realization of the future spreading before us hasn’t hit me yet. I have kind of been through a pretty major ordeal though.

Dahlia steps back, her hands still in mine. “You wanted to never lose me and now you have me for eternity or however long we’re granted in this place,” she says, waving at the space around us.

I push her dark brown hair away from her face, my fingers pausing on her jawline. “You’re going to grow extremely tired of me.”

“Ren Lewis, you’re the only person I have never tired of.” Then she takes my hand and leads me to an archway that’s bathed in vines and roses. Sitting on a twig is a ladybug. I reach out and pick up the insect, which is alive, but not alive. It’s like we are, in the in-between.

“What a strange place,” I say, musing on the stillness of the bug.

“What a beautiful place,” Dahlia says and she reaches out and touches the wings of a butterfly perched on the petal of a rose. And then there’s a flicker. An awakening. The wings of the monarch beat, pushing air away. The butterfly’s antennas twitch and then the creature that was frozen takes flight, flitting through the air and away. Dahlia steps back into me.

“Just like in the vision,” she says in a hush.

“Vision?” I say.

She turns and gives me a guilty smile. “Before I died I had a vision that I could touch things and bring them to life. I fantasized then that it was one of my Dream Traveler gifts, but then I died and…”

Her words trail away.

“I think it’s definitely your skill, because I can’t bring anything in this world to life,” I say, taking the ladybug still in my hand and placing it in Dahlia’s. It has barely touched her palm when its wings buzz and then the insect flies away through the garden.

A smile full of her amazement lights up Dahlia’s face.

“It appears you can bring this world to life, if you so desire it,” I say, regarding her with the same amazement she had shown me moments before.

“It would appear,” she says, her eyes dancing over the garden at our backs, the possibilities probably springing to her mind.

“And that means we could make this world as we want it,” I say.

“Giving life to that which is good,” she says, completing the thought in my mind.

I extend an arm to her. “Shall we go and discover what’s out there?”

She wraps her arm around mine with an excited nod.

When we come to the entrance to the garden, I realize what we couldn’t see with the trees and walls of the garden blocking the sky. And I realize how amazing this world really is. The poetry of it creates a tender ache in my chest. Below us stretches green rolling hills flecked with houses and bordered by waters of a lake. Above us the green and blue lights of the Aurora Borealis grace the sky. My thoughts from before circle back around in my brain. The first time Dahlia and I dream traveled we gazed at these lights. And then I had thought that the Aurora Borealis was proof that other worlds exist. My instinct told me they were the bleeding over of these other worlds. And to look back and see how perfect the symmetry of this all is steals my breath. It makes me realize how incredibly complex and beautiful this world with all its realms and dimensions truly is.

I turn to Dahlia. She’s wearing an expression that perfectly explains how I feel inside. Grabbing both her hands, I pull her to me. Her fingers break from mine and she slides them around my neck.

“I love you, Ren Lewis.”

I almost laugh against her mouth as she kisses me. “I love you” doesn’t feel quite like the right thing for me to say in this moment. It doesn’t seem like enough.

I separate from her, but only an inch. “I love you, Dahlia. And I never knew what love was until we met and I lost my soul to you.”

Epilogue

When I was born, the doctors said I wouldn’t live the night through. I was born with a broken heart. And for most of my years on earth I have been certain that God shouldn’t have allowed a healer to save me. I thought I was too powerful. Too wicked. Too cursed. And God and I have battled for all of my life, sometimes finding peace and other times him checkmating me. However, I understand now the reasons he saved me. As a man who has worked to find holistic solutions to the world’s problems for the majority of my years, I understand God better than most. And now I realize why he gave me so much power. I thought he was tempting me. But that was never the case. And from my newly appointed position, I understand so much more. God wasn’t trying to scar me. He wasn’t playing a game with me. This entire time I didn’t realize that God was training me. Preparing me. Ensuring that one day I was ready when I accepted my final role.

Some don’t want to live forever in a world they view as evil. And some want to live forever in a world they know they cannot fix, but they are afraid of what comes next. However, only two will ever live forever in a world of their choosing.

I’m Ren Lewis. And I am a God who has created my own world.

The End

Want to find out what happens to Adelaide when she takes over the werewolf case? Turn the page to read a sample from the Olento Research Series. Alpha Wolf picks up right after the Ren series. Preorder it here: http://amzn.to/2lDYNPp

Sneak Peek of Alpha Wolf (Olento Research Series, #1):

Prologue

Obsidian eyes snapped open to drink in the dark. Outside the lab, everything was black but for a crescent moon that hung in the starry sky.

“No!” the man who was not quite human growled, pulling his eyes from the window. “Not again!”

And then the change began.

Rio held up his hand, and since his night vision had rapidly returned he spied it. The mutation. Sharp fibers slipped through the pores of his hands and arms. Hair as black as his eyes and cutting to the touch stopped growing after two inches. And then the claws pierced the ends of his fingers, but he looked away from them, disgusted by how his hands changed.

A scream that sounded more like a howl ripped from his mouth, and his canines suddenly tripled in size. Boiling with an anger he once only knew on the force, Rio pulled back his arm and launched it through the concrete wall that had imprisoned him for months now. Before, when he’d assaulted the wall, his only companion in this cell, it just stood untouched from his assault. Now his clawed fists rocketed through the one-foot-thick concrete until it was free on the other side. Surprised, he pulled his arm back to peer through the hole, which was the size of a soccer ball.

Staring at him with glowing green eyes was the man he’d only spoken to, never seen. For how long had they heard one another howl in misery after the treatments? But now Rio’s neighbor stared back at him, his own changed face drooling with the hunger. The change was always accompanied by the unstoppable hunger. Zephyr’s ravenous expression turned into one of awe for an instant, as though the reality before him momentarily blanketed the quenching desire.

“Did you just do that?” the man who appeared more like a wolf said. Zephyr’s hair was prematurely silver, his face long and covered in stubble.

Rio’s way of answering was through proving. Proving that he hadn’t lost his mind. And he needed to know for certain that the wall hadn’t just given way due to his repeated attempts at battering it. He needed to know that it was the strength within him that had created the damage to the wall. Again, he pulled his arm back, like a slingshot about to be unleashed. And then he sped it forward into the wall and through the dense rock. With his hand on the other side he towed it up, tearing the concrete above it in two, making a huge hole with the single movement.

Howls echoed from the other cells. A result of the change. A result of hearing the destruction happening nearby. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Rio realized that the staff on duty had been alerted to this disturbance. Approaching footsteps echoed off the slab floors.

“Hurry,” he said, backing up and making way for Zephyr to get through. Since he was smaller in build than Rio, he was easily able to negotiate through the almost man-made hole. His extra speed while in this state assisted him in the task.

“Can you?” Zephyr said, nodding at the row of bars in front of them. The locked gate, which had imprisoned Rio for so long, stood challenging him like always.

“I can damn near try,” he said, his Spanish accent flaring in his words. As a werewolf, or whatever they’d made him, he was stronger, had better vision, smell, and hearing. He could jump higher and with greater endurance. However, he hadn’t been strong enough before to break through concrete. Something was changing in him. Looking out the metal bars, he saw the hungry, irate eyes of his imprisoned companions of the last few months. Something was changing in all of them, but not the same thing. They were growing in different ways, like a pack with unique capabilities.

His hands, now covered in fur, wrapped around the bars. Then he made the intention and his muscles followed suit. Rio ripped both his arms toward his chest and the metal squeaked as it bent. The cage door cried its complaints as it was pulled from its hinges. Then it burst completely off and Rio threw it at the poor excuse of a bed he’d been forced to lie in for all these months.

***

Zephyr was the first through the open doorway, always the one talking about getting free. And now they were, but the eyes of so many stared back at them, behind their own imprisoned doors.

“You free them with whatever it is you can now do,” Zephyr yelled. “I’ll find keys.”

The footsteps of the security or scientists or whoever had been approaching had faded. Maybe they were grabbing reinforcements. These men didn’t have a chance to worry about that. Zephyr knew that they had to get out while they had a chance. And he wouldn’t leave anyone behind.

Rattling metal and loud explosions of relief were the soundtrack in the background as Zephyr yanked drawer after drawer out of the cabinets lining the far wall. This was where the scientists always went first before going to release one of the prisoners. And then a clanging sound he’d come to associate with the moment before the treatments met his ears, which were pinned up higher than usual on his head. He grabbed the keys and turned to greet a rough assault. A rent-a-cop stood in front of him, and, almost like he’d been waiting for him to turn around, he rammed the butt of his gun into Zephyr’s face just as he spun for the cages. His jaw split open at once, but that didn’t stop the beast inside of him from tearing forward. He leapt across the short distance, his open mouth seeking the clear exposed skin of the security agent’s throat. And when his teeth sunk through the flesh and tasted the warm blood inside he let out a soft growl. Above him he was conscious that other agents stood, were watching, unaware how to respond. They had been told not to harm the “experiments” and were obviously unprepared for an emergency like this.

Around them, men changed by drugs and science were springing from their cages. All of them hungry, but their inhibitions sequestered for the night.

Then overhead the alarm sounded. The one that would bring more security. More problems.

“Come on,” Rio yelled through the chaos. “We’ve got to go!”

Zephyr pulled up from his feast to spy the sight around him. He’d momentarily forgotten where he was, so drunk from the experience his body craved. Warm flesh.

“Come on,” Rio screamed again, waving Zephyr away from where he was perched, closest to the main doors. Then the man he didn’t know well, the one who had freed him, slammed both fists through a concrete wall until the night on the other side made its presence known. The men, all changed by the wolf blood they’d had spliced into their DNA, spilled out into the open air, into the outside where freedom was a real possibility.  Zephyr pulled his sleeve across his blood-drenched mouth and sprang forward, making it across the space and out into the night in less time than humanly possible.

Sirens rang overhead, making the already deranged pack crazy with dread. They couldn’t be captured. They couldn’t go back to that lab.

“Move,” Zephyr yelled, and it was that one command that sent the pack scurrying in different directions. Each wolf took his own route toward safety. Some scaled the nearby buildings. Some escaped through the adjacent alley. And some ran straight for the streets. All were too fast for the approaching security and none of them would be caught tonight.

But in the lab, a prisoner stirred from his sleep that felt too real to be a dream. He’d heard commotion, but it made itself a part of the nightmare playing in his head. Now he stared out at the locked gate in front of him and at the empty lab, devoid of the other eleven men he was used to having around him. Like a lone wolf, separated from the pack, Connor had been abandoned.

Chapter One

“One never knows what a man can withstand unless put to the test.”

– Olento Research Employee Manual

One month later…

Zephyr only saw the sun on his days off. Since the change, he had become nocturnal and therefore had taken the nightshift as a guard at a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Yes, as a retired Special Forces captain he could have gotten a job as a private contractor or anything more illustrious than catching college students stealing cheap bottles of vodka. However, he wouldn’t have access to pharmaceuticals in another job. It hadn’t been hard to steal the store manager’s keys and make a copy. He’d accomplished that on his first day, right after his interview. His speed and prowess made him the perfect thief. And his x-ray vision made it so he could find anything he was looking for, even those things hidden.

Now every night that Zephyr worked he disabled the security cameras while the clerks played poker during the slowest store hour. He just knew there had to be a drug inside the locked pharmacy that would change him back, take the canine out of him. Make the strange dreams stop. But no matter how many pills he swallowed the attacks still came. Every two weeks the change happened. Twelve excruciating hours. For half a day Zephyr was stuck in the form of a man and a wolf. And although he had been fast and agile all the time, he was a blur of movements as a werewolf. He could do things that he’d only seen in movies. He had always associated these ridiculous werewolves with a full moon, but that rule didn’t seem to dictate his change. However, he had been an experiment, just like the eleven other men he’d escaped with. Often he wondered where they’d run away to.

Zephyr stood in the shadow the neighboring house cast, watching and wishing his x-ray vision worked from this distance. He found that he needed to be ten to fifteen feet from whatever he was trying to see through. This skill had come on when the lucid dreams started. He half expected that he’d have super strength like Rio, but that hadn’t been the case. Instead, he could see through things.

He smoothed down his black mustache and then the short hair on his chin, wondering what they’d done to him in that lab. He spent every night at the drugstore recalling the memories that were covered in images of syringes and bright overhead lights. And yet, none of the pieces connected. Zephyr didn’t know what had happened, but worst was that he didn’t know what he was anymore. One moment he’d been leaving his parents’ house, strolling to his car, and then he awoke to find himself imprisoned in the cell at the lab. His military training had been more extensive than that of a surgeon. Never had someone snuck up or attacked him without him being aware, but still…

He shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. It didn’t matter how it happened. Whoever had taken him, changed him, it didn’t matter. Now he had to deal with it. He wasn’t under their thumb anymore. And the changes that happened every two weeks weren’t the greatest stress on his heart. It was the sight he was looking at now. A woman of around sixty smiled as she marched out onto the front porch. She shaded her eyes with her hand. “Hello, world,” he saw her mouth. This was what she did every day upon greeting the rising sun. Then she turned back to the open front door.

“Are you coming?” she sang to someone inside the house. The woman turned her attention to the purse tucked under her arm and began to rummage through it.

“You forgot your keys,” Zephyr said under his breath. “They’re on the kitchen counter.” A fond smile slid onto his face cloaked in shadow.

The woman, who wore a salmon-colored sweater, turned again to the door. “Charlie, I forgot my keys,” she yelled.

A man with silver hair, similar to Zephyr’s which was sprinkled with black still, walked through the door, pulling it shut as he did. He shook the keys in the air, ringing them like a bell. “You know I’ve got them,” the older man said.

“Oh, what would I do without you?” the woman on the porch said.

“I don’t know,” he said, handing the keys to his wife. There was a sadness in the man’s eyes when he cast his stare out to the sky and the rising sun. There was a loss in them.

“Shall we?” he said to the woman beside him.

She nodded and they continued to the car, to complete their daily errands as they did most days.

Zephyr pushed the large sunglasses up on his face, also pushing away the yawn. He’d need to sleep now. Now that he’d completed his daily ritual of watching his parents living their lives without him. He could still live his life. He could do so much. However, he couldn’t be in their lives again. He didn’t trust the beast inside of him. This was as close as he’d allow himself to the people he loved.

Chapter Two

“We do not help others because it’s honorable. We do it because it’s our responsibility. Seeking honor only leads to ego and that only leads to mistakes.”

-Lucidites Employee Manual

Adelaide’s hair couldn’t be described as dark auburn. Or chestnut. Or warm ginger. No, she had loud, orangey-red hair. She favored the shade of her hair, unlike most redheads. It was one of many things she’d inherited from her father, whom she missed increasingly every day. The ache was supposed to go away. The desire to see him walk through the door and tell her to “fuck off” was supposed to wane, she thought. But it never did. And more and more, she found she needed his counsel. Ren Lewis was an ornery jerk who gave people life-saving advice while insulting them. He was also British like Adelaide and therefore, in her opinion, a lot better humored than the lame Americans she worked with every day, who usually didn’t get her dry jokes. She’d also inherited her father’s Dream Traveler gift of mind control, which she was better at using than in months prior. And the only thing she didn’t appreciate that she inherited from Ren Lewis was his gift of telepathy linked to touch. It had ruined every single intimate relationship she’d ever had. Knowing what other people think was never a gift.

The voluminous file of papers stared back at Adelaide, the brackets on the front appearing like little eyes that were scowling at her. She pressed her fingers into her own eyes, feeling the stress burrow deeper in her head, making her jaw tense. When she opened her eyes the wish she’d said in her mind hadn’t come true. The folder still sat in front of her. It hadn’t self-destructed or been stolen by the creature who took her socks.

“You’re a real worthless piece of shit,” she said to the inanimate object, which made zero reply.

With a sigh the girl flipped open the folder, her eyes scanning the files she’d studied countless times. She felt that she was the worthless piece of shit, projecting her own feelings on the gigantic file. There were dozens of reports in there, but they didn’t give any clues about where to look next or how to proceed with this case. Her father would have known what to do. Ren Lewis would have flipped through this file and known exactly how to handle the werewolf case. But for as similar as she was to her father, she didn’t have his experience. He’d warned her before he died that agents working in the strategic department for the Lucidite Institute needed experience before working high-level cases. However, he had given her the level five werewolf case, telling Adelaide that she was the best one for the job. Maybe he just wanted her dead from a werewolf attack so she could promptly join him in the afterlife. But probably not, she thought. Her father wasn’t the sentimental type. He gave her this case and expected her to solve it. And she had to because failure wasn’t an option.

Adelaide tossed the most recent report to the side. It detailed a sighting of a werewolf-looking man roaming the streets in San Diego. That didn’t help. She couldn’t put surveillance all over the streets. Firstly, she didn’t have the resources for such a thing. And secondly, that was the loser approach. Ren always told her to be efficient in her methods. Work backward from the end. What she needed to do was round up these twelve werewolves. She knew that was how many would be out there based on her father’s notes. Twelve men of varying backgrounds and ages had been taken around the same timeframe. Her father had pulled pieces of random information together and threaded them with what others saw as unrelated evidence. The abductions had happened at around the same time on the same day. Twelve men, all with curious backgrounds, vanished from different parts of the country. Some were ex-military, previous police officers, high school dropouts, rehab graduates or ex-inmates. The common thread was they’d all quit something and were in between life choices. Most wouldn’t have connected this thread, but Ren Lewis didn’t think like most. He was holistic in his approach.

Of the men abducted, some were thought to have had something horrible happen to them. Others were dismissed as having purposely gone missing, based on their records. And since there was no sign of struggle, no eyewitness testimony, the cases were pushed aside. The authorities hadn’t even connected that the men were abducted together, but the Lucidites were able to run reports on crime news and link together similar cases that happened in close proximity and time.

The men went missing right after a series of wolf massacres happened. Then some key research was stolen from the Lucidite labs. After that, everything went silent. All leads dried up. Even the news reporting department at the Lucidite Institute turned up zero clues related to the werewolf case. News reporters were the team of clairvoyants who used their powers to find tragedies in the future so the Lucidites—the crime fighters of future events—could intervene if necessary.

However, the news reporters didn’t see anything that could help Adelaide. And just when she thought her first big case had dried up, maybe gone away, one of the news reporters discovered an upcoming werewolf attack. However, the reporter hadn’t been able to supply enough details for Adelaide to determine where the attack would happen. Then it came to pass; a woman was mauled in a mall parking lot in Los Angeles. But the security cameras had been disabled, almost like the beast had planned it. Stalked his prey and ensured that there wouldn’t be any evidence. The woman passed away on the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance. But before she died, she kept repeating one word: “Werewolf.”

Adelaide withdrew the map from the file. She circled Los Angeles. Then, pressing the marker firmly into the paper, she circled San Diego. And there’d been one other eyewitness report, this one in Utah. A boutique owner reported seeing a homeless man digging through her trashcans in the back alley. When she yelled to him, planning to offer him real food, a man with wolflike features turned around. He then sprinted in the opposite direction before scaling the side of the shop’s brick walls until he was on the roof. Adelaide pulled the pen up to the top of the map and circled Salt Lake City.

This was all Adelaide knew about the case and it wasn’t enough. It didn’t tell her where to look next. Her father had been right that all the initial clues led to the creation of werewolves, even though no one had believed him. And now these beasts were loose on society. But she didn’t know why. Who created them and why would they let them free? That was the one intelligent conclusion she’d been able to make about any of this. These men were free. That was the only reason one would be rummaging through a trashcan.

She slapped a palm to her forehead. Adelaide expected more from herself. She was a Dream Traveler, the race who could travel to any place and time with their consciousness when they slept. This power also lent each Dream Traveler a gift. She’d inherited her father’s gifts and he was the most powerful Dream Traveler to ever live. And working as an agent for the Lucidite Institute, she had incredible technology and resources at her disposable and yet she remained stumped. With more force than necessary she slammed the file shut and threw it across the room. I’m going to fail, she thought. The one thing my father trusted to me, and I’m going to fail with it.

Continue reading Alpha Wolf, which comes out May 15, 2017. Preorder it here: http://amzn.to/2lDYNPp

Acknowledgements

Writing this series took just over fourteen months total. However, I have a lifetime of people to thank. The first thank you goes to Kelly for encouraging me to write Ren’s books and loving them even though they weren’t always pleasant. Every writer needs a Kelly in her corner, pushing her to do her best to entertain the readers. You, like me, are a nerd girl and one of my favorites.

Thank you to my notch squad who makes so much of my current production possible. Steph and Jess, I can’t do what I do without you. Seriously. You two astound me with what you do for me on a daily basis. Mentally and otherwise.

And a huge thank you to first chair, Colleen, for making me sane. That’s like the biggest and hardest job ever, but you do it. I can message you and it’s like I get a Zen moment. And thanks for the early feedback and cover help. Like seriously, are you a figment of my imagination? Too good to be true at this point.

Thank you to Christine LePorte, my editor. Haha! I made you tear up! Mission. A. Complished. Thanks for making me a better writer.

Thank you to Andrei Bat. Well, we did it again. I cranked out another story and you put up with me. Thank you for making my visions come true. I know I’m a pain in your ass. Join the club.

Thank you to the readers. You all matter more than anyone else, however, I need everyone to make this happen. Still, I don’t discount a single message, comment or post. I read everything and I appreciate it more than you know. I wasn’t supposed to be writing novels. I’m supposed to be in a dead end job that sucks out my soul, but you all are making my dreams come true, over and over again.

Thanks to the beta team: Kelly, Melinda, Heidi, Colleen, Steph, Jess and Anne. Wow! How did a gal get so lucky to score you all as beta readers? If my books are any good it’s because of your help and support.

Thank you to BOD and all the bloggers and awesome reviewers who make my books successful. I love all of you and count your support as akin to gold.

Thank you to BBC programming. If it wasn’t for you then I would have grown up watching mostly the Movie of the Week. However, you offered me something I could relate to. Something that spoke to me. I love the British!

Thank you to my friends. Heidi, your support is always my saving grace. Thank you to my sister for believing in me and keeping me alive in those early years. Thank you to Linda, Fay, Nicole, Cheryl, Stacey, Erin and to the huge community who has continued to encourage my writing.

Thank you to my Facebook community. OMG! Kris, Wendy, Tommi, Ashley, Molly, Shari, Anna, Melissa, Claudia, Michelle, Michelle, Patricia, Debra, Shelah, Danielle, Mary, Casey, Bec, Amanda, April, Beverly, Brandi and so many others. I cannot tell you how much your support means to me. Well, I hope I kind of just did.

Thank you to my family Randy, Edie, Luke, Dad, Kathy, Bea, Anne, Marijo, Laura and many of the others who keep pushing me further and cheering me one.

Thank you to all the musical artist who really inspired my heart and kept in grounded in Ren’s cold, dark soul. I couldn’t write without music.

Thank you to Carole, my mentor, for constantly supporting me. Your advice is so valuable to me.

Thank you to Glamour UK for taking a chance on Ren. To Locus magazine for showing your superbly awesome interests in the books. And thank you to Jeff for the inspiration.

And my final thank you always and forever goes to my daughter, Lydia. You are my muse. The reason I started writing. The reason I’ll never quit. One day you’ll read these books and wonder why my vocabulary and vulgarity was so pitiful. However, I hope you see the genius that is Ren Lewis. If you do, then you’ll see me.

Love,

Sarah

About the Author:

Sarah is the author of the Lucidites, Reverians, Vagabond Circus and Ren series. She’s been everything from a corporate manager to a hippie. Her taste for adventure has taken her all over the world. If you can’t find her at the gym, then she’s probably at the frozen yogurt shop. If you can’t find her there then she probably doesn’t want to be found. She is a self-proclaimed hermit, with spontaneous urges to socialize during full moons and when Mercury is in retrograde. Sarah lives in Central California with her family. To learn more about Sarah please visit: http://www.sarahnoffke.com

Check out other work by this author here: http://amzn.to/1HBPLpb

The Lucidites Series:

Awoken, #1: http://amzn.to/1P4KriX

Around the world humans are hallucinating after sleepless nights.

In a sterile, underground institute the forecasters keep reporting the same events.

And in the backwoods of Texas, a sixteen-year-old girl is about to be caught up in a fierce, ethereal battle.

Meet Roya Stark. She drowns every night in her dreams, spends her hours reading classic literature to avoid her family’s ridicule, and is prone to premonitions—which are becoming more frequent. And now her dreams are filled with strangers offering to reveal what she has always wanted to know: Who is she? That’s the question that haunts her, and she's about to find out. But will Roya live to regret learning the truth?

Stunned, #2

Revived, #3

The Reverians Series:

Defects, #1: http://amzn.to/1ZqA6UQ

In the happy, clean community of Austin Valley, everything appears to be perfect. Seventeen-year-old Em Fuller, however, fears something is askew. Em is one of the new generation of Dream Travelers. For some reason, the gods have not seen fit to gift all of them with their expected special abilities. Em is a Defect—one of the unfortunate Dream Travelers not gifted with a psychic power. Desperate to do whatever it takes to earn her gift, she endures painful daily injections along with commands from her overbearing, loveless father. One of the few bright spots in her life is the return of a friend she had thought dead—but with his return comes the knowledge of a shocking, unforgivable truth. The society Em thought was protecting her has actually been betraying her, but she has no idea how to break away from its authority without hurting everyone she loves.

Rebels, #2

Warriors, #3

Vagabond Circus Series: http://amzn.to/1JmGMJe

Suspended, #1: http://amzn.to/1M1hwIn

When a stranger joins the cast of Vagabond Circus—a circus that is run by Dream Travelers and features real magic—mysterious events start happening. The once orderly grounds of the circus become riddled with hidden threats. And the ringmaster realizes not only are his circus and its magic at risk, but also his very life.

Vagabond Circus caters to the skeptics. Without skeptics, it would close its doors. This is because Vagabond Circus runs for two reasons and only two reasons: first and foremost to provide the lost and lonely Dream Travelers a place to be illustrious. And secondly, to show the nonbelievers that there’s still magic in the world. If they believe, then they care, and if they care, then they don’t destroy. They stop the small abuse that day-by-day breaks down humanity’s spirit. If Vagabond Circus makes one skeptic believe in magic, then they halt the cycle, just a little bit. They allow a little more love into this world. That’s Dr. Dave Raydon’s mission. And that’s why this ringmaster recruits. That’s why he directs. That’s why he puts on a show that makes people question their beliefs. He wants the world to believe in magic once again.

Paralyzed, #2

Released, #3

Spanish version of The Lucidites Series:

Awoken: Despertada

Stunned: Atonita

Revived: Resucitada

Sneak Peek of Awoken (The Lucidites Series, #1):

“You’re late,” Ren sneers, his British accent making the offense sound atrocious. “I should have guessed. Come on already, follow me.”

I turn back to Aiden, searching for a way out. He shrugs, only half looking at me.

I slide off the table and push my toes forward, but my body is sluggish and doesn’t readily respond to the commands from my brain. It takes an eternity to reach the door. Ren has already bolted down the outer corridor and is standing looking at me with exaggerated contempt. Again I’ve pissed him off; maybe I’ve actually done something this time or it’s just my very nature of breathing that’s setting him off. Hard to tell.

I turn back at the threshold. Aiden is typing away at a computer station. He looks busy. Focused.

“Hey,” I call to him, “thanks for saving my life and all.”

He’s still typing on his computer, engrossed in whatever he’s working on. I turn and head toward Ren. A few steps down the corridor I hear Aiden sing, “Just doing my job.”

Ren shoots down a narrow silver hallway. Since I’ve just dislodged a gallon of water from my lungs it’s difficult to keep up. I hardly have time to take in the corridor we’re moving through. The walls and ceiling are brushed stainless steel. The floor is a strange aquamarine, with a shimmering effervescence.

“Where are we going?” I pant. “Can you slow down?”

“’Fraid not, Roya. I’m trying to get you to orientation before it’s over.” He gives me a sideways glance. “You still mad at me for scratching you at our last meeting?”

“Scratching me? You stabbed me with a filthy pocket knife.” I pull up my sleeve to show the fresh gash which is destined for infection. Who knows where that knife has been or how many other people he’s cut with it?

“Blimey, stop being so dramatic. All I did was give you what you asked for.”

“I asked for proof that I was dream traveling, not an injury,” I seethe.

“But you knew it was real when you awoke, didn’t you?” he leers.

We’re still hurrying through the hallway when a stabbing pain splinters through my side. I stop and double over. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m going to be late to some orientation. I’ve got to rest for a second,” I say between wheezing attempts to breathe. We’ve already walked a long distance. How big is this place?

“I don’t think you’ll want be tardy to orientation, that’s all I’m saying,” Ren says, checking his watch.

I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My frustration rises to the surface and erupts. “I’m the challenger,” I argue, pointing at myself. “I’ve decided to risk my life for this whole mess. I think I can be a tad late to this stupid orientation.”

Ren bites his lip, a look of mischief in his green eyes. “Yes, Challenger, you’re right.” He holds up his hands as if surrendering. “Your call. I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, right.” I sigh and start walking forward again, but this time at my own slower pace.

Ren lets me walk off a few steps before ambling up next to me. “Let me guess, you’re probably also peeved that I did that whole projection business on you. Is that right?”

“You think?” I first met Ren while I was dream traveling. Trey had arranged the meeting. However, I got lost in a strange apartment building in London. Ren sent a projection of my cat to steer me in the right direction. He knew I’d follow that cat, not just because he was mine, but because he’d recently been murdered—by Zhuang.

The projection of my dead cat led me to a room where I found Ren, looking bored and irritated. “Finally,” he said, when I tentatively made my way into the darkened room. “Oh stop being so cautious. I’m not going to bite you,” he said flashing an evil grin at me. “Name’s Ren. I’m the Head Strategist for the Lucidites. Trey sent me to fill in some of your missing gaps. Apparently, you’re still in need of convincing.” He slid his hand into his trouser pocket and retrieved a silver pocket knife. Without taking his eyes off me he opened the blade and began cleaning his nails. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You currently don’t think the dream travel with Trey last night was real. You’ve probably spent most the day explaining the whole thing away. Now you’re here with me and the doubt is starting to recede and give way to belief, but you’re not there yet. I’m going to fill your consciousness with enough information and by the time we finish our little chat you’re going to be convinced this whole thing is real.” Ren looked down at his nails, admiring them. “’Cause it is.”

“So this,” I made a broad motion, “this is all real? It isn’t a dream?”

“The furniture is real, this place is real, I’m real, and you’re really, really here with me right now. So to answer your question, yes.”

I nodded and chewed on my lip.

“Well, the cat,” Ren said, “he actually wasn’t real. He was a projection.”

Letting the memory wash away I stomp beside Ren through the strange hallway of the Institute. “Did you really have to use my deceased cat like that when we first met?” I say.

Ren turns a corner and I have no choice but to follow him. “Using your dead pet was the easiest way to lead you to me,” he says.

“Hmm,” I muse. “Because finding me like a normal human being would be too difficult?” I lose my breath as our pace quickens gradually. “And my cat wasn’t dead before all this mess.”

“And thanks to us, you aren’t resting with it.” He stops abruptly and turns to me, swiping a finger over his lips. “Shame too, ’cause you’d fit so nicely in a shoe box or whatever you bury inconsequential pests in these days.”

I bunch up my nose as though the air smells rancid.

“By the way.” He yawns loudly and points his head to the door beside him. “You’re in there.” His hand hovers over a button to the right of the door. “Oh, and one quick, tiny thing Shuman forgot to mention.”

I stop and stare into his cold eyes with sudden dread.

“You aren’t exactly the challenger.” He puts air quotes on the last two words. “You’re more or less on the list of potential challengers. For some strange reason she omitted this part. Silly girl.”

“What?!” Horror rips through me. “How many other people are on this list?”

Ren taps the button, shoving me into a crowded auditorium. “Only one way to find out, luv.” He steps back and the door shuts.

Continue reading Awoken:

http://amzn.to/1VpagM2

Sneak Peek of Defects (The Reverians Series, #1):

“You called for me, Mother?” I say, standing up tall, chin held high.

She nods, stands from the Victorian couch in the sitting room, and waves her hand in a presenting manner at the man standing next to her. He’s a stranger. It is rare to find one of those in Austin Valley. “Yes, I’d like you to meet who President Vider hired to do skills evaluations on all Defects.” The man beside her has spiky red hair, a similar shade as my mother’s. He looks to be in his mid-forties, and by the style of his dark green suit, he definitely isn’t a Reverian. Another clue is that he has a pointy red goatee and all Dream Traveler Reverians are required to be clean shaven.

“Name’s Ren,” he says, not extending a hand to me.

“Hello,” I say with a small curtsy. “Nice to meet you. I’m Em.”

“Oh, so you didn’t name her after Mummy,” he says to my mother, his words coated in a British accent.

She rolls her eyes. A strange gesture for her to do to someone who isn’t one of her children. “Shut up, Ren. You know I’d never do something so sentimental and downright repulsive.”

“No, Lyza, you’d have to have a heart to do that, and we both know you don’t,” he says to my mother, a smug look on his face.

“A heart pumps blood. I obviously have one of those,” she says, smoothing back a strand of hair into her tight bun. “What I don’t have is this useless capacity for caring.”

“Always the literal one, aren’t you?” Ren says.

“This man, Ren, happens to also be my brother,” my mother says, not hiding the disappointment in her voice.

“Happens?” he says, actually looking amused. “Like it’s one big happenstance that we were born from the same parents?”

“What I mean is that the person who was hired by the President just happens to be related to me,” my mother says, cinching her arms across her chest.

I didn’t know my mother had a brother. Never met her parents. She doesn’t talk to us about them. About anything really. “Why does he have an accent and you don’t?” I finally say, breaking the staring contest between them.

Mother sighs loudly. “Because my brother doesn’t subscribe to the fact that accents lead to labeling and the best way to gain advantage is to have nothing marking you with where you’re from,” she says with her typical perfect diction.

“So we’re British?” I ask, confused.

“No, we are Reverians.”

A loud, thick yawn echoes from Ren. “Although this family reunion is incredibly touching, can we get to the reason I’m here, which isn’t to exchange stories of what we’ve been doing for the last twenty years?”

I step forward, studying the man in front of me. Disbelief and curiosity take turns overwhelming my thoughts. “Wait, you’re my uncle?”

“Don’t call me that,” Ren says, looking disgusted. “And yes, technically I am. I don’t send Christmas presents, don’t care about your grades, and I don’t give piggyback rides.”

“We don’t celebrate Christmas,” is all I say. I’d heard about this weird tradition from a new Middling who had started working at the Agricultural Center.

“No, I remember now my dear sister belongs to the Reverians’ religion, which is based on myths that are likened to unicorns. Do yourself a favor, luv, and pick up a world religion book. It will blow your mind. Although, come to think about it, diverse texts are probably banned here,” Ren says.

My mother throws a seething glance at her brother. “I see you haven’t changed a bit, have you, Ren?”

“Oh yes, I’m just as delightful as ever,” he says.

“Which is why you’re still alone, hopping from job to job, society to society, is that right?” my mother says.

“Being alone is a choice, dear Lyza. Some of us don’t need the money and prestige of a significant other. Some of us make our own way in the world, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you? How long has it been since you ventured out of this valley? Really ventured out, on your own, not some organized dream travel field trip managed and supervised by the Reverians?”

“I still fail to see why President Vider hired you for this job,” she says, her anger flaring in every word. I’ve hardly ever seen her this flustered, my mother, the queen of pretense.

“It’s simple, little Lyzie. I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” she says, her voice an octave under yelling.

“Oh, you don’t love my little nickname for you anymore, do you?”

“You know I never liked it,” she says, her expression pinched.

“I most likely won’t remember your preferences on the name calling, so don’t be offended when I call you it again. Or do. Doesn’t really matter to me,” Ren says, a hint of pleasure in his voice.

“Oh, just do what you were brought here for,” my mother says, sweeping past me, pulling the double doors closed behind her.

I turn and look at Ren directly. Menacing isn’t exactly the right word for him. He’s that, but he’s also thoughtful in his approach. Theatrical. And he does something most of the people I know don’t: he says exactly what he wants.

He eyes me like I’m a dirty puddle he’s trying to figure out how to cross. “Oh, why can’t I get away from teenagers? I bloody hate teenagers.”

“Well, I’m mature for my age,” I say.

“That makes one of us. So you’re one of the Defects. Interesting thing that’s happened in this valley. Note to self, don’t drink the water here,” he says.

“Do you think you can help us? That’s why you’re here, right?”

He takes a seat in the armchair and indicates I should take a seat on the couch opposite him. When I’m settled he gives me something that almost classifies as a smile. “No, I’m not here to help you get your gift. I’m here to assess you and give a report. What valuable information I provide may or may not help. Who knows, really?”

I deflate with a sigh. “Well, when you say this is happening in this valley, do you mean it isn’t happening elsewhere?”

A small smile quirks up the corner of his mouth. “As sheltered as your mother, aren’t you, poor dear?”

I only stare back at him, his dark green eyes like that of St. Augustine grass.

“No,” he finally says. “This epidemic appears to be confined to this valley, as far as I can tell.”

“Are you religious?”

“What an abrupt and personal question,” he says, shaking his head at me.

“Well, you don’t have to answer it,” I say, feeling sudden embarrassment burn my insides.

“Of course I don’t.”

“Do you think the gods are punishing us?”

“To be quite honest, I don’t think the gods or God or any other holy entity gives two cents about us,” he says.

“You’re the angry type, aren’t you?”

“You’re the honest type, aren’t you?”

I shrug.

“All righty, missy, let’s get down to business. Here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Got it?”

I nod.

“Oh good, it gives brief responses. That will help.” Ren leans back, crosses his ankle over his knee, and stares at the ceiling casually. “Do you hear voices?” he asks.

“No.”

“Do you see things which aren’t real?” he asks.

“No.”

“Get flashes?”

“No.”

“Control people with your mind?”

“No,” I say again.

“Have objects moved mysteriously around you?”

“No.”

“You really aren’t much fun at all, are you?” he says.

I squint at him. “I’m loads of fun.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you think so.”

I shake my head at him. I’ve never met someone with his audacity.

“All right, you failed that phase of testing and have graduated to the next loser round,” he says.

“I’m not a loser.”

“No, no, of course you’re not,” he says dismissively. He slips a device the size of the palm of his hand out of his inside jacket pocket. With a switch the device makes a low buzz.

“What’s that?”

“A frequency recorder. It’s science.” He says it like it’s a dirty thing. “And it’s an upgraded model so I’m probably getting all sorts of radiation.”

“Why are you using it then?”

“Well, the daft scientist who gave it to me is probably right that it will make the assessments I have to do a whole lot easier.” He pauses and only stares at me for a few seconds, an intensity in his eyes. “Did you get that message I just sent you?”

“What?” I say, dumbfounded.

“The telepathic message I just sent you. Did you hear it in your head?”

“No.”

Ren slips a gold ring off his finger. It’s clunky. Lays it on the table next to him. “Can you move that with your mind?” he asks, his voice flat.

I stare at it for over a minute. “No.”

He eyes the device and then slides it back into his pocket.

“Did you really think under these stressful circumstances I’m suddenly going to use my hidden gift for a stranger?” I ask.

“I knew for a fact you wouldn’t be able to. I’m studying your approach,” he says, slipping his ring back on. “And in my extremely intelligent opinion there’s no chance your gift is going to surface. What I don’t get is why you appear to have the instinct but there’s no power behind it.”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. Takes an impatient breath. “Dream Travelers have a certain level of frequency they exude when using their powers, but yours is on par with a Middling.”

“What?” I say again. “That’s bizarre.”

“No, let’s be honest. It’s sad.” He sits forward and looks at me sideways. “Tell me, have you suffered any traumas?”

“No.”

“Depressed?”

“No.”

“Suicidal thoughts?”

“Gods no.”

“Well, I’m momentarily stumped, but if it makes you feel better you’re exactly like all the Defects I’ve assessed. At least you have people to share your woes with,” he says.

“Do you think upping the injections will help?”

“Injections?” he asks, confusion suddenly covering his features.

“The meds they’ve been giving us,” I say.

“Oh yes, I heard about those. Medical science isn’t my forte, thank god,” he says, looking repulsed. “I don’t know if these meds can help, but if I become extremely bored toddling around this place I might look into it.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?”

“I don’t know, you can play hopscotch for all I bloody care. That’s none of my concern,” he says, looking tired. “I’m only supposed to assess you and a few other snots and report if any gifts surface. Right now my job is easy. You’re all appropriately named. Defects.”

I stay seated as he makes for the door. He turns just before he leaves. “So, what’s Em short for?”

My brow knits with momentary confusion. “Nothing. I’m just Em.”

“Really?” he says, an unconvinced tone in his voice. “Your mother’s not the type to name someone ‘just Em.’”

“What does that mean?” I say.

“Bloody hell if I know, but it sure is curious.”

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Sneak Peek of Suspended (Vagabond Circus Series, #1):

Prologue

There are those who come to judge the circus and then there are those who come to experience it. The latter go home satisfied. The former go home full of scrutinizing accusations. Those who experience the circus, taking it in and allowing themselves to be awed, have a richness built into their lives afterwards, almost like they’ve gained an extra day to their existence. Those who observe seem to have lost a day. They’re the ones who tear down sandcastles. They’re the ones who say clouds are just clouds when they are irrefutably in the shape of unicorns.

These skeptics are the people the Vagabond Circus caters to. The circus would shut their doors to the joyful and starry-eyed if their business didn’t keep it running. The Vagabond Circus runs for two reasons and only two reasons: first and foremost to give the lost and lonely Dream Travelers a place to be great. And secondly, to show the nonbelievers that there’s still magic in the world. If they believe then they care and if they care then they don’t destroy. They stop the small abuse that day by day breaks down humanity’s spirit. If the Vagabond Circus makes one person believe then they halt the cycle, just a little bit. They allow a little more love into this world. That’s Dave Raydon’s mission. And that’s why he recruits. That’s why he directs. That’s why he puts on a show that makes people question their beliefs. He wants the world to believe in magic once again.

And yet, what his patrons witness is real. Real people, doing real things. Things that are inconceivable to most, but real nonetheless. That’s because Dave recruits only Dream Travelers. People who can do what most can’t. Unique people. They aren’t magical. But to those who don’t know the difference, they are an inspiration. They appear magical. However, what most believe to be real magic is only the extraordinary which defines the Vagabond Circus completely.

Chapter One

Rain pelted the big top, gliding down the tent and gathering in puddles on the muddy ground. The crew had worked throughout the night to reinforce the oversized tent from the winds and storms. The earth it was bolted to was threatening to melt away, sending the bright green and blue tent into a mound of chaos. The Vagabond Circus had been on the road for three weeks and this was its first night in Seattle.

Tomorrow the city’s residents would have the opportunity to witness a show the people in Vancouver called “unbelievable,” “unreal,” and “more than a trick of smoke and mirrors.” The critics were speechless, as they were every year when the Vagabond Circus came through town. There was little to criticize and more than enough of the show to overwhelm the senses. No one understood half of what they saw at Vagabond Circus, but still they never looked away.

And yet in this year’s show there was something missing. The fifty people who came together to put on the show knew it. Its ringmaster, Dave Raydon, knew it. And the one person who could fill in the missing gap knew it after watching the show in Vancouver. But the audience had no clue there was anything lacking in the Vagabond Circus. They were ecstatic, leaving the big top with smiles that wouldn’t fade for hours. They had seen what they thought were tricks, not realizing everything about this circus was real.

In the shadows a boy stood under an old oak tree, only partially protected from the heavy monsoon. He watched in the dark as performers sprinted to their trailers. They were intent on getting dry and rested before the sun came up, marking a day of three shows. The boy was wet, but didn’t care. He was exhausted from hitchhiking and stealing rides on the train from Vancouver. But he was here. He’d followed Vagabond Circus. And soon he’d be ready for the next part of his plan.

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Table of Contents

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REN: THE MAN BEHIND THE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements:

REN: GOD’S LITTLE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements:

REN: THE MONSTER INSIDE THE MONSTER

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty- Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

REN: THE MONSTER’S ADVENTURE

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

REN: THE MONSTER’S DEATH

Author Note

Note

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Sneak Peek of Alpha Wolf (Olento Research Series, #1):

Acknowledgements

About the Author:

Sneak Peek of Awoken (The Lucidites Series, #1):

Sneak Peek of Defects (The Reverians Series, #1):

Sneak Peek of Suspended (Vagabond Circus Series, #1):

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