The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  The Dream Thief

  Hands of Time: Book One

  Leann M. Rettell

  to Nicholas, Katie, and Nathan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Falstaff Books

  About the Author

  Also by Leann M. Rettell

  1

  The Kennedy Expressway stretched out in the distance: open, empty, inviting. Malcolm Jones slid his new toy—a brand new, cherry red Porsche Cayman—easily into fourth gear. Her engine purred around him, and the speedometer rounded the hundred mph mark. At four-thirty a.m., only a few tractor trailers made up the traffic on the interstate near Chicago. Instead of being annoyed with him flying by, they honked at the vehicle’s beauty. Malcolm smiled, happy for once to be alive, a hard feat for an immortal. After a while, eternity was boring.

  The internal alarm blared inside Malcolm’s head. Not an actual sound, but an overwhelming sense of doom followed by gut-wrenching nausea. He groaned as his mood plummeted, his breathing picked up, and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his temple. “Shit!"

  He gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckled left hand, and his other hand downshifted and maneuvered the car over four lanes. He pulled into the median, slammed the car into park, and removed the keys from the ignition. The alarm pulsed fast in time with his racing heartbeat. He wished he had time to get to a parking garage, but he couldn’t delay this urgent call. The alarm screamed, marking this as one of those last minute, close-to-dawn nasties that had always been hard as hell, and worse if something went wrong.

  If the alarm wasn’t about to split his head in two, his only thought would’ve been that his prize car wouldn’t be there when he returned. Malcolm closed his eyes, pulling from reality to that singular place deep inside his mind. In the span of a heartbeat, Malcolm felt himself yanked inward, like being deflated and folded, reminding him of a blow-up mattress. One second, he was seated in his car on the side of the highway, and in the next, he opened his eyes and staring into an Elsa Frozen nightlight. Usually he arrived in pitch blackness and wasted precious seconds while his eyes adjusted.

  The bedroom, from what he could make out in the semidarkness, had been painted pink and covered in pictures and posters of ballerinas and Disney princesses. Several containers overflowed with toys that were meant to thwart the onslaught of total chaos but failed miserably. He spun, looking for his target, attempting to avoid the landmines of Legos and miniature figurines littering the floor.

  The target let out a soft snore before rubbing her tiny nose. He reached her side, staring down at the small sleeping girl, amazed, as always, when the source of another would-be catastrophe was a child. The alarm spiked in intensity, and Malcolm swayed, narrowly avoiding falling to his knees. With swift silent movements, he placed the palm of his hand on the little girl's forehead. The place deep inside took over, almost as if being switched on with the push of a button. Their minds connected, and his power drew out the girl's dream piece by piece. Flashes of it flickered in Malcolm’s peripheral vision, but he ignored them, focusing on the job at hand. The whole picture would come together soon. Again and again he pulled, removing any traces of her dream until he owned every piece. With a click heard only within Malcolm's head, they disconnected.

  The darkness outside the window faded as the sun drew ever nearer. An alarm, this one real, sounded in another room, breaking the silence. The girl’s breathing varied, but she didn't wake. Her parents in the next room did.

  Malcolm couldn’t do anything to stop the pain rising in his skull. He had to get out of there before it came. A door clicked open down the hall, and he jumped from one open area of carpet to the next, reaching the window. Footsteps passed by the child's doorway and sounded as if they retreated downstairs.

  Weighing his options, Malcolm peered through the window at the ever-lightening sky. A porch roof stretched out from him, giving him the option to jump from the edge as a means of escape. He could sprain an ankle, but it would heal quickly enough. He might be seen, but most people would be getting ready for work at this time of day. On the other hand, he could try to sneak downstairs, pass her parents, and escape through the backdoor. But if they saw him, that would mean a fight along with horrible memories and a lost feeling of safety for this family. He didn’t want that. Now that he’d stolen the dream, the girl wouldn’t become any more harmful to humanity than any regular little girl.

  He could hide, hoping no one found him, and leave when the family left. No one would be the wiser. Surveying the neighborhood beyond the window, he saw a long row of huge modern brick houses, all at least two or three stories high with large yards, and new construction going on at the end of the street. It was a rich, new neighborhood with young families moving in. There was a high chance the mom stayed home to raise the child. That was a rarity in this modern era, which meant he had no clue if or when he could sneak away. He would have to jump.

  The girl stirred. He ducked down, but she rolled over, away from the window. Above her bed, white letters spelled out her name: Natalie. Pictures of the pretty young girl covered her dresser. In almost all of them, she sat atop various horses, some pinned with prize-winning blue ribbons. He’d saved her from whatever awful fate that dream would’ve caused.

  The pain hit then, like a blade ripping through his head. He couldn’t hesitate any longer. He unlocked the window, happy to discover the old-fashioned kind instead of the over-the-top childproof kind, lifted it, did the same with the screen, and slipped out. His hands shook as he fought to maintain focus. Blood dripped down his nose as if a faucet had been turned on. He replaced the screen and window, careful not to get blood anywhere, and walked to the edge of the porch. He leaned over the edge of the roof, spying a pickup truck parked beside the right edge. He jumped off the roof into the truck bed, and then he rolled over the side in seconds with only minimal noise. The neighborhood remained empty, but as the sky overhead brightened, the onslaught of commuters would start. Before he left the girl’s driveway, he turned and inspected the license plate. Louisiana. At least this time he was still in the States.

  The pain skyrocketed, climbing higher and higher until he could give in to the future, the memories vying for his attention. Blood flowed down his nostrils against the pressure building with each breath. He pinched his nose hard, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but if he didn’t get somewhere safe soon, the images would come regardless. It never did him any good if it went unannounced. The last time, he’d awoken in the back of an ambulance and tried his best to convince them to let him leave. He’d had to shove the EMS guy backward and launch himself out of a moving vehicle, but he’d gotten away.

  Try having to explain self-healing and lack of genitalia of any kind to a random ER doctor. Not his idea of a good time.

  The work crews hadn’t set up yet, but the telltale signs of new construction leapt out at him from every street he jogged along. Some homes were only frames while others awaited fresh brick. After three minutes of jogging, he at last reached the entrance to the subdivision. He scrambled behi
nd the large brick wall that likely showcased the neighborhood’s name. Leaning his back against the wall, Malcolm sank down to the ground, not caring about the scratches along the black leather jacket or the small scratches on his back from where he shirt rode up. They’d heal. His only care had been to get well hidden. Finally, he could let go.

  Opening his mind, the images poured forward in an untold number of flashes. Image after image flashed, making no sense, but each new picture prodded at the raging pain as his brain attempted to accommodate both the old and new timelines that had changed forever because of him.

  Faster and faster, like a strobe light, the images came, taking the nonsense and putting it together. Instead of getting better, the blood flowed faster as his ears rang—high pitched and piercing. He let his eyes drift close as the bushes vanished, and his vision ceased to function. He hated this part. No matter how many targets or millennia, this part never got any easier. Sometimes it would last less than a minute, while others, like this one, went on and on and on.

  Natalie’s story finally came together. The pain at the peak hit a vast decrescendo and plummeted into near nothingness. He jerked as a sudden lightness and the feeling of falling filled him before he stood in the shadows of the dream observing Natalie laughing, her blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, blue eyes alight with happiness. She rode on a sparkling white horse, galloping across a vast span of bluish-green grass. The sky overhead stretched a sapphire blue in all directions without a cloud in the sky. As with dreams, Natalie blinked, and the sky ripped into a flash of lightning and a roar of thunder. The white mare startled, throwing Natalie from its back. She yelled and landed hard in the dirt. The horse turned on her, snarling and stomping. She pushed backward, scrambling away from the beast’s trampling legs. She blinked again, and the horse transformed, growing long white thin leathery wings. The tail morphed into something snake-like with a rattle at the end. The horse’s legs extended and doubled in size with razor-sharp claws a foot long. The mare’s beautiful face ripped into pieces as fangs burst through its lips, dripping with blood. Instead of a whinny, the monster roared, staring with obsidian eyes. Natalie scrambled to her feet and ran, screaming as the monster took flight in fast pursuit. It gained on her and swooped down. She tripped and flipped on her back, unable to move, but waiting for the demon to devour her. At the last second, the scene melted, and Natalie bolted upright in her bedroom, a scream tearing from her lips. Her parent’s alarm went off at the same time. That’s how close he’d been to missing the dream.

  He blinked, and now Natalie stood clad in leggings, boots, and a riding hat crying hysterically as her mother tried to convince her to get on a large brown horse. “But Natalie, you’ve always loved the horses. What’s wrong with you?”

  Natalie couldn’t tell her. Her young mind couldn’t put together the dream and new fear of horses. The next scenes came fast, Natalie around seven years old, screaming and running from a pony at another child’s birthday party. Now thirteen, shaking her head at her friend’s as they waved her to join them on a carousel. In another flash, Natalie was all grown up, looking maybe eighteen or nineteen, and walked into a brick house with loud music filled to the brim with dancing young adults. A frat party. Her first. The thought came to Malcolm out of nowhere. She followed her new sorority sister inside. Natalie danced with at least three different boys, took four shots, drank two beers, and shared a joint. She sat on the couch, head fuzzy when one guy asked, “Do you want to really fly?”

  “No, I’m not feeling good,” she said, but then her friend appeared.

  “Come on Nat. It’ll be great.” She took a long tube, bent her head, and sniffed a white powder deep in her nose. She passed Natalie the tube. After hesitating, Natalie did the same. She sat back and breathed as the effects took over. Her head swam, and she closed her eyes to keep the room from moving.

  The guy beside her laughed. “You’re riding the white horse now.”

  Natalie’s eyes flew open. “What?”

  He gestured to the powder. The powder she’d put inside herself. “The white horse. The only way to fly.”

  She bolted to her feet, running to the bathroom as the guy and her friend laughed. She slammed the door behind her, locked it, and then blew her nose. It didn’t help, and she curled herself in a ball, lying in a fetal position on the floor, quivering. The drugs soared in her bloodstream, bringing back all the childhood terror of the dream. Someone banged on the door and she screamed again, cowering lower.

  After a while the pounding grew louder, people needing to use the restroom demanded she come out, but to her, they were nothing more than a horde of demons come to take her soul, dragging it to hell. Finally, one young man used a key, and she blasted from the room, knocking the man with the key into the wall. She didn’t see people anymore, but instead evil devils with leathery skin and red irises. A part of her wanted to run from the house, but another couldn’t let the monsters go. She would stop them. She ran to the kitchen, grabbing three bottles of liquor. She avoided eye contact and made her way to every door and window in the house, locking each exit, leaving a trail of liquor behind her. No one paid her any attention. With the front door the only exit remaining unlocked, she grabbed a discard paper towel and stuffed it into the last bottle. She lit it, raising the bottle high in the air. “Go to hell!”

  The lit bottle flung from her hand, slamming against the wall, and it burst into flames. She yanked the door shut behind her and used the key she had found hanging beside the door to set the deadbolt. Within minutes, flames tore through the house, blocking every way out. She backed away with a smile plastered on her face as the demons died. The screams inside faded away to the sound of sirens. Next, a police officer shoved Natalie, in handcuffs, inside the back of the police cruiser. Malcolm looked down at a newspaper article with the headline that read:

  Young Arsonist Sentenced to Life in Prison after being Convicted of 57 Counts of First-Degree Murder.

  2

  Malcolm slammed back in this new reality, chill bumps running along his arms. He sucked in a greedy breath, back pressed against the brick wall, as the neighborhood returned into focus. A dull ache rounded over his temples as he reoriented himself away from yet another set of realities that would never be. Memories settled like rocks in the bottom of a river. They fought to find a place in his mind. Memories of not only what had really happened, but also the endless possibilities that had been avoided because of one little girl. Humans had no idea how real the butterfly effect could be. His head would ache for days with the occasional nose bleeds, but he would adjust, like the countless other times. Only the nose bleeds didn’t heal instantaneously like other injuries.

  Reaching in his side pocket, he removed his cell phone and pulled up an internet GPS with maps to figure out his exact location in Louisiana. New Orleans.

  He blew out a breath, relieved he hadn’t traveled across the Pacific again. Sure he loved Paris, but the time jump gave him the worst jet lag.

  He searched for taxi companies and decided on Chalmette Taxi Service since they had the best reviews. He gave the polite woman on the phone the closest intersection.

  While waiting, he called up his assistant. Debbie answered on the first ring. “What’s up, boss man?”

  He smiled, despite how much his head throbbed. “Hey, I’m not going to be in until either later today or tomorrow. Something’s come up.”

  “Sure thing. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, nothing major. I had to go out of town in a hurry.”

  “Okay, slacker. I’ll take care of it. I’ll be expecting my usual bonus. You know you could’ve texted me.”

  He rolled his eyes. He’d gotten the idiotic cell phone at her insistence, but he hadn’t picked up the habit of texting yet. Not that he would ever tell her, but the tiny gadget had turned out to be a lifesaver after targets like these. He used to have to wander around and buy a local map, lest he appear crazy asking some random stranger where he was. If finding
a map failed, hailing a cab to the airport also worked.

  “Yeah I know. Venti mocha frappe next time I see you, and as for the texting,” he smiled at the sigh on the other end of the line. “Maybe next time. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  Chuckling, he pulled up Juan Ortega. The phone rang only twice. “Ortega Towing. We haul your rump anywhere from East to West.”

  “Hey Juan. It’s Malcolm.” He wondered how his buddy ever got any business with a slogan like that.

  A bustle of laughter interrupted him. “Mr. Jones, what did you leave behind today?”

  Classic Juan with his feigned act of professionalism and side of mockery. “Actually, it’s the latest Porsche Cayman.”

  Juan let out a long whistle. “Where is she?”

  He gave him the location or the best he could with what he could remember of the mile marker and exits.

  “Color?”

  “Ginger.”

  “Ooh, you know I’m a sucker for a redhead. I bet she’s a beauty. Why you keep leaving these luscious babes all over the city? Don’t get you man.”

  “Thought you could use a challenge.”

  Juan huffed, and Malcolm could imagine his shake of the head. “Where you want her?”

  “Your garage. I’ll get her there later.”

  “A prize like that in the common garage. You’re crazy.” He laughed. “Sure thing. It’s your dime. See you later man.”

  Malcolm hit the end button and searched for the nearest airport to book his flight home. That done, he switched on the camera and reversed it to check his reflection. The blood had slowed to the smallest trickle and dried in a dark streak down both sides of his nostrils, going around his mouth with some clotted in his mustache and close-cut beard. Dark circles rimmed his brown eyes and showcased gaunt cheeks that hadn’t been there an hour ago. His brown hair still hung over his ears.