by J M Fraser
Kara’s eyes widened. “Somnium.”
“That’s one word. We’re talking an entire lexicon of the language, which neither one of us could begin to translate when awake. If dreams are real, we’re alive over there. This can’t be over.”
Igor set his martini down. “Conflict. Confusion. This is where Gabriella comes in, no?”
Although the ice had been broken, Kara didn’t run away this time. She stayed put in the booth, smoking for all she was worth. Her cigarette shook in her hand, but she didn’t leave.
Brewster took a deep breath. “The cops came to my house this morning and told me Carla died in a subway accident a year ago.”
“Brewster, I’m so sorry, I—” Kara crinkled her forehead. “Hold on. Did you say a year ago?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you’ve been seeing each other?”
“Yeah.”
She snuffed out her cigarette. “After she died?”
“According to the cops, after I killed her. They think I pushed her in front of the train.”
Kara and Igor exchanged an open-mouthed glance. They turned to him and spoke in perfect harmony. “Why would they think that?”
He’d lost them. Kara seemed ready to bolt again, this time with the trucker fast on her heels.
“I’ve been set up! A week ago, two witnesses dreamed they saw me standing next to Carla on the platform. Somehow those dreams triggered false memories of an actual event.” He spread his hands. “That’s where Gabriella comes in, I think.”
“Gabriella.” Kara spat out the name. “Fallen angels can manipulate dreams in ugly ways. If she’s messing with you and your girlfriend, you both better run for the hills.”
“I can drive you there when I get my goddamn truck back,” Igor said.
She glared at him. “Does this really strike you as the time to crack jokes? Remind me to leave you at home next time.”
“Back up.” Brewster locked eyes with her. “Did you just say Gabriella’s a demon?”
“No. She’s an angel who fell but wishes she hadn’t. That’s what my uncle thinks, anyway. Fallen ones are always trying to win their way back into heaven, and they think nothing of dragging us mortals into their twisted schemes.”
That did sound like a puppet master, all right.
Kara grabbed a pen out of her purse and started scribbling on a napkin. “Henry’s not really my uncle. He’s an extraordinarily old man, and I’m one of many in his long line of begats. Do you follow me?”
“Like a great-granddaughter?”
“Add a few greats.”
Igor pressed his lips together and nodded, in total solidarity with his girlfriend.
And why not? If some people could spill out of their dreams into the wrong time and place, why couldn’t certain uncles with “gifts” live for a century or three? The scribes who wrote the Old Testament probably wouldn’t argue against either count.
Kara slid the napkin across the table. She’d drawn a map of the interstate heading north, a county road in Wisconsin, and an X west of Kenosha labeled Sacred Heart Cemetery. “Henry has always been overly protective of me, so I normally take his warnings with a grain of salt. But he had deep worry in his eyes when he told me to steer clear of Gabriella.”
“But I’m not involving you. I’m just trying to find out how to—”
She flicked her hand at the napkin. “I’m out. If you want to take your problems to Henry, he brings flowers to his late wife Sarah’s grave every morning. That’s the only place I know where to find him.”
“Can this guy help me?”
“What are you trying to do?” she asked.
“Change the past.”
She snatched the napkin back. “Leave the past alone.”
A snippet of hope took a roller-coaster dive through Brewster’s stomach. Kara wouldn’t have admonished him if changing the past was impossible, would she? He grabbed the napkin and shoved it into his pocket. “Look, if he’s the unapproachable type, maybe you guys could come along and—”
Kara shrank away.
“Just to introduce me.”
“Brewster, bad things can happen when Gabriella gets involved. My best place is on the sidelines, keeping a low profile, and making a normal life with Igor.” She turned to the trucker, shrugged, and smiled. “Well, it’s a life, anyway. Visiting Henry would drag me deeper into whatever this is.”
“Okay. You say I’ll find him at that woman’s grave?”
“Every morning.”
But the morning was long gone. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Use the word vagrant when you approach him. That’s our code word.”
“Why?”
“Because if Henry thinks some random stranger is interrupting his visit with Sarah—”
Igor smacked his glass on the table. “Thunder! Bolts of lightning! Witchcraft!”
Kara turned to the trucker, eyes burning with all of the above. “Remind me again why I left a perfectly good boyfriend to take up with the likes of you?”
The trucker flashed an easygoing smile. He took both her hands in his. “Tomorrow is my hedge against boredom. Come, my gypsy, and tell me your future instead of mine. What dreams will flit behind those hazel eyes? What colors will please you as you gaze at the rising moon?”
She softened instantly, caught in the spell of the out-of-context poetry he’d cast on her.
Brewster slid out of the booth. Tomorrow was his hedge against boredom, too. He needed to break a fallen angel’s spell if he ever wanted to gaze at the rising moon with Carla again.
CHAPTER 27
Meanwhile, ninety miles north, in Kenosha
Henry Stoddard trudged across weedy grass into the farthest corner of a forgotten cemetery until he reached the stone that marked his late wife’s grave. A wilted bouquet of roses at his feet sagged over the mouth of a clay vase. He set them afire with a sweep of his arm and watched them burn across the darker colors of the spectrum. The remains drifted away in a puff of green smoke.
He waved again, and fresh flowers burst out of the vase. “Presto, darling.” He bent close enough to take in the fragrance, then straightened and stepped back, gazing at his handiwork and basking in the memories of his finest days with Sarah.
The flowers, of course, were a simple illusion. Who could afford new ones every day? Nevertheless, he knew in his bones she’d been enjoying his ritual of love and remembrance, day after day, month after month, for all of these years. More years than he cared to count or remember.
“I’m sure she does.” The easily recognizable voice came from behind—an annoyance dogging him for centuries. Gabriella came around to face him. The ponytailed, blue-eyed imp of an angel sported her typical plain summer dress, this one a faded green-and-yellow plaid. Innocence served as the perfect camouflage for her duplicitous nature.
“Still,” she added, “Sarah resides in a different realm now, where the concern is for the collective rather than the self. She spreads her love among many.”
Henry clenched his fists. One after another, his darkest emotions roared in his ears like thunder—anger over Gabriella stalking him in his most private of moments, a keen sense of violation she’d pick a thought from his head and turn it on him, and fierce jealousy over the suggestion his Sarah shared with others the love she once held for him alone. He spun around. “Weren’t you angels created to spread joy?”
“How can I? God took my harp away.” She pouted. As if on cue, a gray cloud blotted the sun, casting a long shadow across the graveyard. This wasn’t the contrite Gabriella, the misguided angel who sometimes tracked him down at his castle for consolation and encouragement whenever her schemes went awry. He’d have to deal with the bad side of her personality this day, a mischievous creature who couldn’t resist the urge to create chaos.
“You’ll never get your harp back,” he said.
“I get no appreciation for the good things I do.”
“You only make things worse with all of your medd
ling.” Henry tried to scowl her into humility. He didn’t expect much luck.
She met his comment with stony silence.
He waited for her to make the next move.
A hummingbird fluttered from grave to grave. A crow cawed from a nearby tree. From just beyond the woods at the edge of the cemetery, a steady whoosh of highway traffic marred the atmosphere of forgotten history he enjoyed most about Sarah’s cemetery.
“Let’s not wound each other,” she said finally.
“You started it.”
“I was simply telling you something a friend should tell. We are still friends, aren’t we?”
Friends? He had a bone to pick with her. Kara Danahey tracked him down just the other day with a convoluted story about dreams and schemes, ending with an annoying punch-line—Gabriella. The back of his head tingled. “Stop that.”
She giggled. “What?”
“Stay out of my mind, friend. And tell me what in the world possessed you to bother my Kara.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.” Gabriella took his hand. Her small fingers disappeared within his larger grip, their softness conveying the harmlessness her overall image suggested. Yet, for a moment, his willpower faltered from the strength of that simple touch.
He yanked his hand away, and the urge to do whatever she wanted evaporated. “If you want to take me somewhere, just ask. I’m not in the mood for your rudeness.”
“I want to show you something.”
“Give me a hint.”
“It’s a little beyond the trees.”
“You lead. I’ll follow.”
They headed into a narrow grove not yet flattened to asphalt by the creeping civilization on the other side. The highway noise grew louder, but as they closed in on it, he redefined the sound as rushing water in an area he thought to be dry.
Henry slowed. He didn’t care for surprises at the best of times and certainly none orchestrated by this annoying brat.
“Just a little farther.” She led him deeper into the grove until they reached a clearing.
An unforgettable sight hovered ahead—the curtain of smoke Gabriella dragged to his castle decades ago. The plume roared like a waterfall and rushed almost as fiercely, but from bottom to top instead of top to bottom. Each end curled into itself like the ends of a scroll, one emerging out of nowhere and the other disappearing into the same thin air.
He reached toward it, thought better, pulled away.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “You put your hand through the smoke the day I brought it to you.”
“I did?” Henry shoved his hand into the plume, up to the wrist. Despite its appearance, the smoke was cool to the touch.
“Step through it for me, Henry. Everyone else who tried has been scorched, but you seem fine. It’s God’s will.”
“God’s will?” Henry guffawed. “When have you ever been right about such a thing?”
“Impressive-looking gateway, though, isn’t it?”
An unusual one, to say the least. “Have you considered theater choreography?”
She sighed. “It’s a little late for me to change career paths.”
“A pity. I was hoping to spare the world.”
Gabriella bent to pick a turned dandelion, the type gone puffy white and ready to wreak havoc in a frenzy of procreation. She puffed her cheeks, exhaled, and sent the parachutes scattering. “Sparing the world is a slippery slope. Who knows whether the butterfly effect would create flowers or weeds?”
“Try practicing what you preach.” Henry pressed the palm of his hand deeper into the smoke. A hole opened, parting the column like the Red Sea. He slid his forearm through to the elbow, then shifted around, but he couldn’t see his hand come out the other side. “Happy?”
Gabriella bounced from foot to foot. He’d never seen her so agitated. “I’ll be happy if you step across to the other side,” she said.
“No.”
“Please, Henry. I have a message from God for someone.” She revealed a folded piece of notepaper hidden in her fist.
“Deliver it yourself.”
She stomped her foot like a petulant child. “Don’t you think I would if I could? I can’t get more than a hundred yards beyond this gateway.”
“Pity, that. We’re at an impasse then, aren’t we?” He peered through the roiling cloud at a shadowy landscape on the other side. Intriguing, but not enough for him to risk life and limb. He headed away.
Gabriella came after him, grabbed his sleeve. “Wait. A damsel in distress needs saving, and you’ll just leave?”
“I prefer the damsels who know how to save themselves.” He shrugged her off, took a few more steps.
“Do you still read the Bible, Henry?”
The inexplicable randomness of Gabriella’s question was suspicious enough to stop him. “I’ve been known to riffle through the Psalms.”
“I love Genesis,” she said, “especially the begats.”
He turned to her.
Whatever friendliness she’d been pretending earlier had drained out of her expression, leaving nothing but an ageless stare in its wake.
“You’ve lost me, Gabriella.”
“You know how it goes. Adam begat Seth. Seth begat Enosh. Farther down the line, Irad begat Mehujael. Noah begat Shem, and on the begats progressed from century to century.” Gabriella moved a hand to her chin in mock puzzlement. “Now here’s an interesting question.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Who did Henry Stoddard begat?”
The girl’s babble was taking a bad turn. He caught a whiff of blackmail.
“As I recall,” she continued, “you and Sarah begat a girl named Rachel. She married a man, and they begat Grace. Nearly three centuries of begats continued, until the magical day when one lucky couple begat Kara Danahey.”
“You stay away from her.” He clenched his fists so hard the nails bit into his palms.
Gabriella stared him down during the long, pregnant pause. “You wanted to know why I’ve been mixing her up in things? Leverage, Henry. God’s message must be delivered. Who knows what trouble I might involve Kara in if I don’t get my way?”
He had the urge to grab Gabriella’s ponytail and swing her like an Olympic hammer, but he knew, despite the illusion of her inferior size, he’d fare worse than David without a slingshot against a hundred Goliaths. He needed to come up with a nonviolent way of gaining the upper hand.
“There is no upper hand.”
This annoying creature refused to stay out of his head! “What’s my Kara to you?”
“She’s nothing to me, just a minor character in the opening scene of a play. You’re the messenger I’m looking for.”
Henry tried to think past the red tide of anger threatening to explode his head. Perhaps a favorable bargain could still be struck. “I have it on good authority an angel can never tell a lie. Not even a fallen one.”
Gabriella flashed her sweetest little-girl smile. “This is true.”
“If I do what you ask, will you leave Kara alone and stay out of her life forever?”
“Yes.”
“And all you want me to do is deliver a message to someone.”
“Yes again.”
“Can you assure me I’ll return unscathed and—”
Gabriella laughed. “I’m surprised at you, Henry. I’m sure you’ll be fine on the other side, same as here. Just use your illusions to render yourself invisible until you locate Maynya, let her have the note, and hurry back.”
A hand of smoke curled out of the portal, beckoning him to enter.
“Will I be walking into yesterday, today, or tomorrow?”
She shrugged. “Time waxes and wanes from one dimension to another. A man might dream for a second about living a full day.”
“In English, Gabriella.”
“Sanctimonia and Virtus are approximately today, give or take.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Sarah’s grave. His stomach fluttered.
&nbs
p; “Don’t worry, Henry, you’ll be back tomorrow with fresh flowers.”
“I better be. Where will I find this woman who was so unfortunate to attract your interest?”
“Go west through the woods until you reach a clearing. She’s in the capital’s bridal pool, last I heard. Ask around. It shouldn’t be far.”
“What does she look like?”
Gabriella planted the image of a hauntingly beautiful dark-haired woman in his mind.
“I told you to stay out of there.”
She pouted again. “I’m just being helpful. You did ask.”
He started into the portal.
“You forgot the note!” Gabriella rushed up and handed it to him. “By the way, they don’t speak English over there.”
“I didn’t expect they would.”
“I’m sure you’ll understand a word or two. You still remember some Latin, don’t you?”
CHAPTER 28
Across the portal in Virtus
Maynya trudged up the hill one grueling step at a time, dragging the cross on her shoulder. After twelve long months of harsh captivity, she’d been singled out as the first bride to perform a macabre new wedding ritual.
A woman placed her life in the hands of her husband in marriage. The life-sized crucifix symbolized his right to kill her at will, without reprisal—an overly barbaric notion even for the horrid rulers of Virtus.
A hundred more paces until she’d reach the top. Soldiers would help her plant the cross into the ground, and she’d be done with it. She considered herself lucky, having heard rumors the king suggested far worse when he first came up with this idea. She shuddered. As further evidence of a bride’s willingness to sacrifice for her betrothed, he wanted a hand spiked into the wood. Or a foot. The versions varied. But the king’s advisors had argued a new husband wouldn’t want his bride damaged on such an auspicious day. Or so the story went.
She didn’t doubt such cruelty had been contemplated by this awful ruler.