Three
I woke up in a bad mood. Before I’d even opened my eyes, I could tell it would be a long day. Han Solo leapt onto my face and made himself comfortable. It was hard to sleep with fifteen pounds of cat on my face, although I tried.
The shower didn’t help my bad vibes. I kept thinking about the night before, about that thing I’d seen in the mirror. As I dressed, I avoided the mirror. Last night’s vision conjured images from something I’d seen a long time ago, something I thought I wasn’t afraid of anymore—a dream I’d had as a kid.
I guess even grown-ups get scared of nightmares.
I wore my jade green sweater and leather boots, smoothed on some lip gloss, and hoped the circles under my eyes wouldn’t scare Jeremiah into a worse state.
My heart clenched at the thought of my godson. I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. Maybe if I’d visited more often, this wouldn’t have happened. What would Jeremiah’s mom think of me? Shawna had trusted me to be her son’s godmother, and I’d given her my word to protect him.
But I couldn’t blame myself yet. Maybe I could still help. I’d never been able to help kids before, but I would try.
A gust of November air stung my face as I opened the door and made my way down to my car. The humidity made the cold air seep through my clothes and burrow into my skin. Wrapping my knit scarf close, I headed for my Thunderbird. It fit the definition of transportation most of the time.
The car was a 1971 classic—yellow with black stripes down the sides. I’d fallen in love at first sight… I just wished I’d looked more closely under the hood before I bought it. Hoping it would be warmer out of the wind, I grabbed the handle, pulled the squealing door open, and climbed inside.
Nope, not much warmer. Smells of old car greeted me, scented with what was supposed to be a honeysuckle air freshener. My hands shook as I jangled the keys into the ignition. With a silent prayer, I turned the key. The engine cranked on the first try.
Lucky. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the causeway. Driving down Seawall Boulevard, I noticed the ocean looked extra agitated today. Brown water churned like stomach acid, roiling and unhappy, cresting over the sand and landing with determined force against the stone barriers meant to keep it at bay.
Galveston Island was known for three things: the medical school, hurricanes, and cruises. I’d experienced the first two but had always been too broke for a cruise. Too many med-school loans to pay back.
Galveston was an odd place. A long, narrow island off the coast of East Texas, it thrived off its tourism industry, but that hadn’t always been the case. It had a grisly history. The pirate Jean-Laffite once called it home, and before he left, he burned the place to the ground. Later, after the island had become a thriving port city, it became the sight of America’s most deadly natural disaster, the hurricane of 1900, where six thousand lives were lost.
Today, there’s still evidence of its history. Despite the hurricane, many historic homes still crowded its streets. The Strand District hosted a collection of historic hotels and timeworn buildings turned whatnot shops. I didn’t know if I’d spend the rest of my life in Galveston, but for now, I called it home.
Turning down 61st Street, I hit the causeway and drove off the island. Jeremiah’s house was a twenty-minute drive into a Houston suburb. I was thankful I wouldn’t have to brave the downtown traffic again.
I took the exit and drove through the neighborhood until I spotted the Dickinson’s house. As I pulled into the driveway, apprehension knotted my stomach. The house didn’t look any different—same seventies-style ranch home with the cracked-concrete drive, same lawn choked with more weeds than grass, same weathered toys littering the porch.
Getting out of the car, I grabbed my bag and slammed the door to make sure it shut. The stone footpath was an obstacle course of discarded playthings.
I’d always felt Sissy and Jeremiah were safe here. The house could definitely use some upgrades, but the kids were with a real family, something I could never offer them. They had parents and brothers and sisters. I envied them—I’d never had any of that.
As I rang the doorbell, chimes sounded inside. Mrs. Dickinson had several foster kids, so I expected to hear a stampede of feet, a chorus of voices shouting that someone was at the door, a flurry of excitement as the door was flung open.
Surprisingly, I waited in silence. Moments ticked by. I glanced at the Cozy Coupe on the porch, its seat filled with rainwater, and wondered if I’d come to the right house.
Finally, the door opened. Sissy, Jeremiah’s older sister, peeked through, her brown face set in a scowl, her kinky hair knotted and uncombed. At fourteen, she barely looked older than ten. I didn’t know the details, but I guessed her life had been pretty rough.
“Hey, Sissy. I came to see your brother.”
“Jer’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah.”
I peeked behind her, knowing she wasn’t being honest. “Are you sure I can’t come inside? Is your mom here?”
“My foster-mom,” she corrected me and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, is your foster-mom here?”
“No, she’s gone, too.”
The door started to close when another figure emerged behind Sissy. Mrs. Dickinson came to the door and caught it before Sissy slammed it in my face.
Time had exacted its toll from Mrs. Dickinson. She looked closer to sixty, though I knew she was in her late forties. The only jewelry she wore was a gold cross necklace. She reminded me of a substitute teacher after a long day with a rowdy class, but I’d never heard her yell. She smiled too much for that.
“Olive?” Mrs. Dickinson asked.
“Hello, Bonnie. I’ve come to see Jeremiah.”
Her brow creased.
“Didn’t Dr. Hill tell you I was coming?”
Mrs. Dickinson stumbled as she opened the door and let me inside. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Really?” That wasn’t like him. Dr. Hill was too much of a perfectionist to let something like that slip. I stepped onto the entryway’s floral-patterned linoleum. Smells of bleach and musty carpet drifted through the house.
“But you’re welcome anyway.” Mrs. Dickinson smiled, revealing teeth stained by years of coffee. I imagined someone raising a house full of foster kids needed loads of the stuff.
Sissy eyed me. “So you’re playing doctor today?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid this won’t be fun and games like our last couple visits.”
She stiffened. “Jeremiah don’t need any more doctors, and he don’t need you stuffing pills down his throat.”
Mrs. Dickinson rounded. “You need to be polite, young lady.”
“Don’t give me that ‘young lady’ bullshit. I’m his sister. Doctors screwing him up.”
I stared, shocked. When had Sissy gotten a mouth?
“Sissy.” Mrs. Dickinson rested her hand on Sissy’s shoulder. She shrugged it off.
“I’m not like the other doctors,” I spoke up. Holding up my laptop case, I took a step forward. “See? I keep my tools in here, magic stuff.”
She laughed. “Yeah, whatever. You lying. Just like ever’-body else. Lying.”
I nodded toward Jeremiah’s room. I could see his door down the hall. A thin line of pale light drifted from the crack at the bottom. “I know it’s been hard for you. I know you feel like you have to protect him.”
“Damn right.”
I inhaled. Not only had she found her mouth, she’d found a filthy set of words to go along with it. Unzipping my case, I pulled out my most important tool.
With Jeremiah, I wasn’t sure this thing would work, but I wouldn’t know for certain until I tried. When I opened the mirror, blue light sparkled, casting the room in a soft glow.
Sissy crossed her arms and sniffed.
What the heck? Has she seen magic before?
Mrs. Dickinson reeled back, grasping the door handle to keep from fa
lling. “Oh, my,” she gasped. “What is that?”
Sissy sneered at her foster mom. “It’s fake—that’s what it is. You know what? Y’all do whatever you like with Jeremiah. As soon as I’m sixteen, I’m out of this place.” Sissy headed down the hall and slammed her bedroom door. The Keep Out sign slammed with it.
Mrs. Dickinson attempted to smile. “She’s had a hard life.”
I clicked my mirror shut. “I know.”
Mrs. Dickinson exhaled, that sound only bone-weary mothers could make. “Well, let me show you to Jeremiah,” she said, attempting a polite tone.
I followed her into his bedroom.
My heart broke the instant I laid eyes on my godson. His pale face peeked from his Sponge Bob blankets. He didn’t smile. I guess I’d never seen him without a smile on his face.
Dark magic. I felt it the instant I saw him. Something evil was at work here, and it was my job to find out what.
I walked to the bed and sat beside him. His eyes cracked open an inch, but he didn’t acknowledge me.
“Hi Jer,” I said and took his hand. “It’s Olive.”
His eyes closed. The unsteady rhythm of his breathing filled the room, and his clammy fingers relaxed in my grip.
What could have caused this?
Mrs. Dickinson stood by the bed. “When did this happen?” I asked her.
“Three days ago,” she replied, her voice weak. “I took him for his checkup with Dr. Hill. We came home, and he collapsed. I called Dr. Hill as soon as it happened, and he told me to bring him back in.” Mrs. Dickinson sighed, staring at the ceiling as if she didn’t want me to see her tears. “Carl is out of town. I had to leave the rest of the kids with Nigel so I could take care of him.”
“Nigel?”
“Nigel Green—Mr. Green—the foster home director. But Sissy refused to leave Jeremiah’s side.” She looked at me, pleading. “He spent two days in the hospital. They ran every test under the sun. Finally, they diagnosed him with depression.” She barked a bitter laugh. “Depression.”
Pausing, she stared at me. “Can you do anything?”
I patted his shoulder, his nightshirt soft under my fingers. Propping my mirror on my knee, I clicked it open and prayed I could help him. The mirror was never intended for children. Visitors to Faythander didn’t struggle with repressed memories until later in life, and I doubted repressed memories were causing Jeremiah to be catatonic.
The fog of Faythander light curled around the mirror’s surface. It touched my skin, warm and full of energy. I spun it around to face Jeremiah. With his face in the mirror, I started the test. If he had traveled to Faythander, he would have been in contact with any number of species. This assessment would prove it.
I took his hand in mine, feeling the familiar, crescent-shaped scar on his wrist from where he’d been bitten by a dog a few years back. Seventeen stitches. He wouldn’t go near dogs anymore. It made me realize how much this little boy had already suffered in his short life.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Dickinson asked.
“If Jeremiah visited Faythander, one of these figurines should trigger his memories.”
“Faythander?”
“Fairy world, sort of.”
“Olive, I know you’ve been doing this for some time, and I know Dr. Hill trusts you. But fairy world?”
“It’s a lot to swallow, I know. But if you think about it, we’ve known about the place for centuries. Dragons, elves, pixies—they surfaced in paintings and writings as soon as humans learned to form words. More people have been there than you realize.”
Mrs. Dickinson stared, unconvinced, but I didn’t expect anything else.
I placed Jeremiah’s hand on the first figure, the dragon. I’d painstakingly detailed the pewter piece and placed an actual dragon scale inside the metal. If Jeremiah had seen dragons, this piece would trigger it.
Jeremiah’s eyes remained closed, unchanged except for a slight twitching behind his eyelids. The dragon didn’t have any effect.
The elf came next. I gently moved Jeremiah’s fingers over it and glanced from his face to the mirror. If he found the right figure, I could usually see the memories come to life in the glass. But Jeremiah’s face remained unchanged, the mirror empty.
Moving his fingers, I tried the Wult next. Wults aren’t really a true Faythander species. They crossed over from Earth almost fourteen hundred years ago. In those days, they were called Vikings.
I pressed Jeremiah’s fingertips to the pewter helmet and animal-skin cloak. The Wult statue had the same results as the last two. Sighing, I wondered if I had lost my touch. Usually, I would have gotten somewhere by now.
I glanced at Mrs. Dickinson. She smiled, but I pegged her as a skeptic. I’m sure she pegged me as a lunatic.
“I’m not sure if he needs this,” she said.
I grinned, trying to exude confidence. “If Jeremiah’s problem has something to do with Faythander magic, this test should pick it up.”
“Even if he’s never been there?”
“Technically, we should be able to find out if magic is at work.” As I glanced at Jeremiah, his eyes fluttered slightly. For some reason, a feeling deep in my gut, I knew something unnatural was at work. I wished I knew what.
We’d made it to the last two statues, the pixie and the goblin. I cringed at the sight of the goblin statue. Myths and legends never portrayed goblins accurately. In books, goblins looked ugly but harmless. Real goblins looked more like zombies, their bodies skeletal and stretched with transparent skin. Instead of mindless killing machines, their magic was incredibly strong, their minds probably more intelligent than the elves.
Though the goblins possessed powerful magic, they hadn’t managed to surpass the dragons. If they had, the sky king—the dragon lord of Faythander—wouldn’t be king anymore. But I knew it was only a matter of time before the goblins found a way to beat him.
I placed Jeremiah’s hand on the pixie statue. Nothing.
Fuzzy hair, like the down of a gosling, poked out from the pixie’s head, and muscles wrapped the warrior statuette’s body. He wore a loincloth and carried a spear. Wings with sharp tips curved from his back. Pixies didn’t resemble their cartoon animations. Most of them were close to seven feet tall. If you ever wondered where a treasure troll’s hairdo came from, just look at a true pixie. I’d never understood how pixies became so warped over time.
My heart gave a fearful flutter as I turned to the last statue. The goblin stared back, challenging. Please don’t let it be the goblins.
I looked at Mrs. Dickinson before moving Jeremiah’s hand. She stared blankly, uncomprehending. If only she realized what I was about to do.
Lifting his fingers, I hesitated before placing them on the goblin. What if goblins were involved? What would happen to him? What would I do? Whatever the outcome, I had to know the truth in order to help him.
I touched his finger to the statuette.
The mirror fogged for half a second, so brief I could have imagined it.
Deathbringer, the mirror whispered.
I shuddered and pulled Jeremiah’s hand away.
If Jeremiah had encountered goblins, the memory would have replayed in the screen. For nothing to appear brought me two conclusions: whoever held Jeremiah’s mind used goblin magic, and they didn’t want to be found.
Dreamthief Page 4