Dream

by Carole Cummings

  Dallin jerked his head back as though struck, eyes gone distant as they peered unseeing at a fissure in the stone to Wil’s left.

  “No, he didn’t push them back.” Low and soft, as though Dallin was talking to himself, thinking aloud. “I’ll bet good money Síofra was siphoning them somehow, just like what that other is doing to the Father, so he could take it, have it all at his disposal, and leave you powerless to fight him.

  “Except you did fight him, every way you could. You must’ve been tapping those powers somehow all these years, using them to survive when you really shouldn’t’ve done—the leaf should’ve killed you before ten years was out. Forced withdrawal from it shouldn’t’ve been possible more than… say twice, maybe, and certainly not however many times they actually did it. And you definitely don’t look your age, let alone like someone addicted to the stuff for fifty years. It must’ve been like some otherworld tug-o’-war—him trying to drag them out of you and you holding on, not even knowing you were holding on…. No wonder it hurt.”

  Dallin puffed out something dazed and…. Wil couldn’t tell. Angry, maybe. Yeah, he thought, definitely really bloody angry, when Dallin turned those dark eyes on Wil, intense.

  “Now tell me I’m wrong.”

  Wil… couldn’t. Stunned and hamstrung by the sudden onslaught of enlightenment, his entire life laid out before him in terms that illuminated and disoriented at the same time.

  “I….” He gagged into silence, just shook his head, mute.

  “You can’t.” That low level of throttled rage was simmering just below Dallin’s words. “Good. So now that you know it, now that you see….” He stood, stepped over, and planted himself in front of Wil. Dallin didn’t stop himself this time but reached out and took hold of Wil’s arms. “Tell me you can’t do it.”

  Wil couldn’t do that either. He didn’t even try.

  Because Dallin kept looking at him like Wil really was astounding. Kept looking at him like he thought Wil really could do anything. Prisoner, prey, addict, renegade, killer, user—that was all Wil had ever been, and yet Dallin looked at him and told him he could step into a task meant for a god and bloody made Wil believe it.

  Didn’t he know they were going to be the end of each other? Why wasn’t he as terrified as Wil was?

  Wil didn’t say any of it. Instead he stared into those simmering coals Dallin had for eyes, saw the tender intensity beneath the fury. Vengeance stifled and left to simmer, biding its time ’til it found the ones who’d hurt the one he cared for.

  Me, Wil thought stupidly. The one he cares for—that’s me.

  Angry and indignant—for Wil—as it had been at the city’s gate.

  Righteous Protector; Remorseless Avenger.

  Warp and weft.

  Wil let himself believe in it, let it enfold him just for a moment, and finally—finally—understood why all this so unnerved him.

  Something he’d never had, that’s what this was, and not something he could tuck away in his pack and clutch to his chest. It could go away or be taken; he could destroy it with his own hands or even a word. He never got to keep anything—it all went away or was stolen, all of it. And he’d never had anything he so badly didn’t want to lose.

  So what was he supposed to do? Refuse it so it wouldn’t hurt when he lost it? Start lamenting now for something he might never have to do?

  Or take hold and thieve whatever small pleasures came his way?

  He had magic in him. All he had to do was find it and use it. Dallin thought Wil could do it, very plainly believed it, and Dallin had never been wrong about anyone, he’d said so.

  The power of a minor god—surely that was enough to change fate?

  Something rose up in Wil, something he recognized, a rebellion that had more than once kept him alive, kept him from letting his mind snap, kept him from giving in when giving in was the only choice. Defiance. A bone-weary fatigue of looking at the world through eyes wild and wary. A fiery desire to take and hold and expose what was him, lay it out plain and say This is what I am; acknowledge it, respect it, or leave me be. A driving need to own control over his own destiny—once and for all.

  Vicious little shit, he told himself resolutely, who never bloody quits. It’s a good thing—he said so.

  He lifted his chin, locked his gaze onto Dallin’s, and took a long, deep breath.

  “All right.” Wil nodded, resolute. “I want you to shave. And then I want to have sex again. And then I want to sleep. And then….” He set his shoulders. “And then we’ll do what you want. We’ll test.”

  HE’D DREAMED alone. Judging by the fact that he wasn’t hanging off the side of the small cot, and the lack of warmth swathed to his skin, Wil guessed he’d slept alone too. At least he woke that way.

  Dallin’s shape had been there, just like always, Watching, but less substantial than that to which Wil had just lately become accustomed. Not sleeping, then.

  Wil had looked for Father, had called out, but only got silence in return. Just as well.

  Wil stretched and loosed a groan, groping blind for the pillow and dragging it over his head. Burrowed deeper into the sheets. He felt… good. Rested. Content.

  It had been slower the second time, more attention spent on exploration and the insistence on feeling every sensation, but no less intense. More of a sharing than a taking. A little more fear inside the pleasure. A tiny smile twitched at the corner of Wil’s mouth. A little bit scary was all right. A little bit scary was… rather nice, actually. Reminded him to keep feeling.

  “Bloody hell.” He smacked himself through the pillow. “Go to bed a man and wake a complete sap. What the fuck?”

  The low murmur of voices dug its way through blankets and pillow, teasing at the edge of Wil’s hearing. Dallin’s voice, and… had to be Calder. Not an argument, which was good—Wil was tired of those. They might need to be careful of Calder, but they needed him nonetheless. They weren’t going to get to Lind without him, not without a big, messy incident. Wouldn’t that be just Wil’s luck?—arriving at the border of a place he’d never wanted to go, only to be shot down for fear of a power he didn’t even know how to use.

  Irony, thy name is… whatever my name is.

  He snorted, then allowed a heavy, satisfied sigh to curl from his chest. He dragged himself up to his elbows, blinking and squinting until the room came into focus. Someone had lit all the lamps in the passageway and the two that framed his doorway. It must be morning. It was hard to tell down here. The only way Wil had kept track that first day was by gauging time by the content of the meals Shaw had brought him. It would be nice to get out of here, breathe clean air, see the sunshine.

  “Aren’t you up yet?” Dallin’s voice, somewhere between teasing and exasperated. What sounded like a muted complaint from Calder, then Dallin again: “He’s not a consumptive foundling, y’know. And no one needs that much sleep.”

  Wil rolled his eyes. In fact, he could’ve done with another several hours, but not because of weariness. It was just nice to have the rare luxury of lounging. Especially considering all the energy he’d expended last night.

  He snorted again, still-bleary gaze catching on the little cupboard that had been beside the bed before they’d moved it. The sardonic curl of his mouth turned to a genuine smile. Dallin had left tea. And what looked like several of those ham rolls Shaw had made the other day and over which Wil had nearly gone into an ecstasy of appreciative scrummy noises that might have embarrassed him if anyone but Shaw had heard them.

  Wil grinned. Breakfast in bed. Well, sort of. Kind of left there going cold, and he’d have to haul his arse up to reach it all. But still.

  “Are you alive down there?”

  Dallin’s voice again, chiding but with a generous ration of good humor beneath it. Wil could almost see the smile Dallin was likely trying to hide from Calder, couldn’t help but answer it with one of his own.

  There it was again. Complete and total sap. One good night and Wil came over al
l wittering idiot. All right, one really good night. But still.

  Wil flopped down to his back and stretched one more time. “Sort of?”

  “Well, get your arse up and moving, yeah? We’ve got work to do.”

  A grumbling sigh gusted from out Wil’s chest. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He peered dubiously at the teapot but more favorably at the food. Probably neither tea nor Dallin’s prodding would be enough to move Wil, but those ham rolls were doing the trick.

  He snatched up pants and trousers from the floor, slid himself into both, and slouched across to his breakfast. He had one roll stuffed half in his mouth, another in his hand, and one arm through the sleeve of his shirt when Dallin’s bulk eclipsed the doorway.

  “Sleep well?” The question was casual, Dallin’s tone mildly curious, his face almost boyish now without that stupid beard. His eyes, though….

  Wil made himself busy hunting for the other sleeve dangling over his shoulder blade and ducked his head to hide the way his cheeks flared pink. His mouth was full, so he only nodded, shot a look sideways… paused. Very consciously not smirking, Wil slowed his movements, stretching more than he needed to, arching his back the slightest bit as he angled his arm into the other sleeve.

  Dallin’s eyes were narrowing, one corner of his mouth curling up. “You,” he said, quiet and a bit hoarse, “are bloody evil.”

  Wil bit away the half of the roll in his mouth so he could grin. He’d been looked at with lust before. He’d never been looked at like that. He might like the chance to get used to it. Which brought to mind this morning’s plans. Surprisingly, the thought failed to mute the grin.

  “Get rid of Calder?”

  “Finally.” Dallin rolled his eyes. “And I’ve asked that he keep Shaw and himself away until we say so. I think it’s best we take care of this ourselves, if we can.”

  Wil had to agree. He didn’t think Calder was a bad man, but he didn’t trust him entirely either. Betrayal wore many faces, in Wil’s experience, and not all of them had evil intent behind them. Sometimes it wore the face of kindness and good intentions.

  He took a sip of his tea. “So what’s the plan?”

  “C’mon down the hall.” Dallin waved behind him. “We can get started while I finish cleaning the guns.”

  Wil nodded. “Be right there.” He set the cup atop the cupboard, and finished buttoning his shirt, made a quick visit to the privy, then grabbed up both plate and cup and headed down the passageway.

  Dallin was crouched on the floor of his room inspecting an array of semiassembled weapons taking up half the floor. Wil decided to forgive the fact that Dallin had apparently ransacked Wil’s room, looking for the other half of the arsenal Wil had stashed in coat pockets and pack, while Wil had been dead to the world. This sight was worth any imagined invasion. Wil remembered the ritual cleaning and checking back in Dudley and breathed an unconscious little sigh. Dallin had said they were leaving tonight, but this confirmed it. Wil had been feeling itchy to move himself—though apparently not as itchy as Dallin—and this spectacle seemed to set nerves Wil hadn’t even known were twitching to rest.

  “Can I help?”

  “D’you remember how to disassemble and clean the shotgun?”

  Wil sat cross-legged on the floor across from Dallin, guns and gun bits splayed between them. He put the plate and cup to the side, and snatched up one of the soft, oily cloths.

  “So… how do we go about all… this?”

  “Here, these need to stay with you.” Dallin handed over the sack of ammunition Wil remembered from the smith’s stall when they’d first arrived. “I’ve kept the knife we bought.”

  That last was somewhat subdued. Wil let it pass without comment. Any conversation involving knives seemed to rest precariously atop a mountain of explosives, and he wasn’t up to treading that carefully just now—not before he’d had at least one cup of tea, anyway. He checked the safety on the rifle, cracked the stock, and emptied the live shells.

  “I think what we need to do first”—Dallin squinted one-eyed through the cylinder of the larger of the two handguns—“is to figure out what you’d like to play with.” He snapped his wrist, clicking the cylinder into the body of the gun, then laid it aside.

  Wil’s eyebrows went up. “Play with?”

  “We already know you can make it rain. We need to perfect that one, but it’s there, you know how to do it, so let’s focus on another. Now, if I had my preference—” Dallin cut himself off. “But this is your preference. What would you like to try?”

  Wil pulled until the forearm snapped out, then set it aside. He didn’t even really have to think about his answer.

  “Fire.”

  Dallin chuckled. “How did I know?”

  “Don’t be jealous, now.” Wil couldn’t help the smirk. “If you’re very good, we’ll drag out what’s lurking in you next.”

  Wil had meant it as a joke, but it made the smile slip from Dallin’s face. He cleared his throat.

  “All right, fire, then.”

  Dallin set aside guns and gun bits, stood, and paced over to his pack. He dug out several thick beeswax candles and lit one from the sconce next to the door.

  Wil had to chuckle. “What don’t you have in there?”

  Dallin merely waved a hand. “Come away from the shells and try to aim… whatever out the door.” He gave Wil a speaking look and jerked his chin at the flame. “Let’s see what you can do with that.”

  “…Do?”

  “Well, yes. Do.” Dallin nodded, encouraging.

  Wil rolled his eyes. Dallin was standing there as though he fully expected Wil to just blink his eyes and make the flame change colors or something. And Wil didn’t even know where to bloody start.

  “I don’t know how to do.”

  “And you won’t unless you give it a try.” Dallin sighed concession. “All right, how did you make it rain?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Wil was getting sincerely narked now. “I was asleep, in case you forgot.” He paused. “D’you think I have to be asleep for it to work?”

  “You weren’t asleep in Old Bridge.”

  Wil looked away. “Well, no, but… I wasn’t exactly—”

  “Ah-ah.” Dallin wagged his finger. “No beating yourself up today. We haven’t the time for it. You weren’t asleep in Old Bridge, and you certainly weren’t asleep in Dudley when you questioned that man. And let’s don’t forget last night at the stable.” The tone was still lightly reproachful about that one. “Think about that and see if they’re the same. That is….” His brow screwed up. “See if they… come from the same place, I suppose.” He paused, groping for the right words, face brightening when he found them. “Take what you did last night and direct it at the flame.”

  Wil blinked, all annoyance leaving him with this new proposal. Again, as it had been in that cell in Dudley, it struck him how Dallin was able to take a concept that seemed so overwhelmingly complex and boil it all down to something as simple and fundamental as breathing. Wil blew out a soft little “Huh” and nodded. “All right, then. Let’s try.”

  Dallin looked surprisingly eager as he waved at the candle. “Right here, then.”

  “Um….” Wil laid aside the pieces of the gun still in his hand and pursed his lips. “D’you think it’s wise to be holding it in your hand?”

  “Oh.” Dallin shot a dubious look at the candle. “Right. Good thinking.” Crouching down in the doorway, he tipped the candle and let a small pool of wax gather on the floor, then set the base of the candle in it. Prudently, he stepped back and came to hunker at Wil’s side. “All right, that’ll do it, then. Go on. Oh, wait.”

  Dallin got up again, and stepped lightly over to the cupboard beside his bed. Wil hadn’t noticed before, but there were three pitchers crowding its top and another four on the floor beside it. The blanket from the bed was in a wet heap right next to it all. Wil raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment when Dallin grabbed up a pitcher and the blanket and resume
d his position beside him.

  “All right, ready now.” Dallin nodded at the candle. “Go on, then.”

  Wil hesitated. Despite the lightness of his mood, the air of potential discovery that had been curling through him since he’d walked into the room, now that it came to it, anxiety was beginning to seep into his nerves.

  “Go on, he says.” Wil could feel the set of his mouth thinning. “If it works, at least I’ll come in handy for campfires.”

  Dallin’s hand landed on Wil’s shoulder, squeezed. Wil wondered if some part of him had grumbled and griped just so that very thing would happen.

  “I’m right here,” Dallin offered, steadfast.

  Wil sucked in a long, deep breath, trying to shake some of the creeping tension out of himself with a full-body shudder, but it was apparently set to hang on for a while. So was that hand.

  He turned to Dallin, a variation of that same childish request he’d made in Dudley on his tongue, but he couldn’t hold it back. “Don’t go away.”

  The eyes said it first—fierce, determined and… just there. And then the words came to reinforce it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Wil didn’t even chastise himself for how heartening it was. He nodded and turned his gaze to the flame.

  It only took a moment for the world to drop away, for Wil to let everything but the candle settle into a fuzzed peripheral haze. Slivers of color and light sang from the flame’s heart, and Wil reached for them, caught them—

  Pushed.

  There was no give. There didn’t have to be. Everything was already wide open, like it had been waiting for him.

  He opened himself wide in return, and let it come.

  Not nearly as intrusive as the other. Not nearly as terrifyingly sensual.

  It was just as greedy and gluttonous. It wanted just as much.

  It was… strange. The same and yet different. There were threads here too—why had Wil never seen that before? why had it never occurred to him to look?—but with a different sort of life inside them. Mindless and primal. Frighteningly empty, and yet with so much strength inside the void.