The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  "Good afternoon to you as well."

  She laughed, unwrapping the white paper from the straw and putting it in the chocolatey drink. She took a few sips, and then mischief twinkled in her eyes. "So has Greta got your reservations all set up yet?"

  Malcolm sucked in a breath. "Don't start. Anything happen while I was out?"

  Her shoulder’s shook as she tried to stifle her laughter. “I've been working here for what, four, almost five, years now. You’ve never been on a date. You got to get out there."

  Where had this come from? "My dearest little Debbie, you aren't with me twenty-four seven. You have no idea what I do at night or when I have to take half the day off." He shot her a suggestive look implying he’d had a late night tangled in some woman’s bed. She didn’t look convinced. Something else gleamed in her gaze that he couldn’t quite place.

  "Uh huh. Because men who date have their assistants go to movies with them, or the theater, or to yet another art gallery. Let's not mention all the test drives with new expensive cars you never buy."

  Evading answering, he asked again. "Anything happen this morning?"

  "No, boss man." She pulled apart her fritter, taking small dainty bites. "Pretty steady, had usual sales for a random Tuesday, and a few special orders. The usual complaint about not selling newer books, except for the local authors. What about antique do people not get?"

  He nodded while drinking his tea in three large swallows. "What can I do?"

  Debbie stared at him as if toying with the idea of how best to torture him before deciding to grant him mercy. “We have a few invoices that need your signature. After that, what you can do is march your tired, stinky butt upstairs. Eat this bagel, shower, and sleep the rest of today. You look like shit."

  "Gee thanks."

  She shrugged, handing him the invoices. "Just telling it like it is, boss man. Now get going before your stench scares away my customers."

  "Your customers? I thought it was my store."

  "Yeah well, that was before you were a slacker, and a rich one at that. Some of us mere mortals have to work for a living." She said this as a joke, but Malcolm's heart jumped. Sometimes his young assistant made little comments that suggested she knew he wasn't human.

  "Ha ha ha." He exaggerated each word, then retreated before she could say anything else. He skipped the elevator and jogged up the stairs to his loft above the shops. The foyer opened up to a skylight overhead, allowing the light to cascade to the marble floor mixed with specks of glittering gold and silver. He placed his keys on the end table beside the door and checked his reflection in the mirror. His face had filled in, and the color had returned to his cheeks. In the very early days, he’d often wondered where all the liquid went that he drank since he didn’t go to the bathroom. But in this last century, especially in the last fifty years, human knowledge of anatomy and physiology had expanded greatly, giving him some clues. He now suspected he lost the extra fluid through his sweat and exhalation.

  He lifted one of his pits to his nose and inhaled. Whew, Debbie was right, he really needed a shower. Turning on his heel, he entered his new renovated kitchen with dark cabinets and stainless steel appliances that included a small refrigerator and an even smaller oven and stove. He tossed the bagel in the trash. The kitchen, yet another of his many disguises to seem human, remained empty except for his large collection of vintage wines and exotic coffees. He kept a stash of Mt. Dew and Coke as well. The wine cellar, hidden behind the pantry, held more expensive bottles of wine and a secret entrance to his place. His prize professional espresso and cappuccino maker sat on top of the counter like a trophy. Come on, when the only substance on the whole freaking planet that he could consume were alcohol, coffee, soda, tea, and a few medications, he had to go all out.

  He skipped more coffee and poured himself a shot of Eagle Rare, a seventeen-year-old bourbon whiskey. The leather couch called to him. As he sank into the cushions, he sipped the whiskey and kicked his shoes onto the thick Persian rug, sinking his toes into the fine fabric. Picking up the remote from the couch, Malcolm flipped on the eighty-inch TV for noise, hit the surround sound, turned the volume up high, and found his favorite blues station. The whiskey ran down his throat like fire, warming him, settling the tension from the latest target. Three songs later, he sat the glass on the glossy end table, stood, and stretched. The unpleasant stench of sweat hung around him, and he stripped out of his clothes, tossing them into the washer before heading upstairs, carrying his cell phone. While waiting for the water to warm up, he put his phone on charge and noticed an email from Cos. It piqued his interest, but he chalked it up to the typical notification that his report had been accepted into the database.

  The jets from the top and both sides of his subway-tiled shower rinsed all the dirt and grime away from his body. He switched the setting on the shower heads to massage mode while he sang along with the radio. His headache lingered behind his eyes and the base of his skull. The whiskey helped, but what he really needed to make it disappear was a good long sleep.

  Unlike some of his past calls, last night's would-be disaster wasn’t a major one. Sure, fifty-seven people seemed like a lot, but his recovery would be finished in mere hours. When he had to avert major disasters where literally thousands would’ve died, he would be in bed for a week, barely able to function. At least now he had a safe haven to return to, unlike centuries ago when he’d hole up in the woods for days.

  When so many lives and destinies were affected by something like that, his brain couldn't keep up. After doing this for so long, the real timeline was impossible to keep straight, which is why he’d started collecting books. Whenever he couldn’t remember something, the books told him the truth. This obsession eventually led to opening the bookstore.

  Sure he had enough money that he didn’t have to work, but honestly, with living so long, seeing the world a hundred times over, and buying anything he wanted, he needed something to fill up eternity.

  His collection had grown to such immensity he’d decided to open a store. This one had been in operation for around one hundred years. He'd hire managers to run it when the time came to start a new identity. Once enough time had passed, the newest identity would inherit the Eye of the Beholder from a fictional long-lost uncle or something like that, and then, as far as the world was concerned, the new owner would decide to take a more hands-on approach and run it himself. He’d run the Chicago Eye of the Beholder twice before this current life. He had others in other cities and countries. When he had to move on, he would entrust Debbie with the store and pay her a hefty salary if she wanted it. Otherwise, he’d hire it out.

  Malcolm leaned against the wall under the jets until the knots in his neck eased. After drying off and brushing his teeth, he stood in front of the mirror. Wet hair dripped tiny droplets on his broad shoulders, over his pecks, and down his six-pack and long muscular legs. Nothing lay in between his legs; he was a flesh and blood Ken doll. He huffed, shaking his head at the stupidity of it.

  The long shower had been a risky luxury, and he would love nothing more than to skip clothes altogether, but he had to be prepared to transport to the next target at all times, especially since he didn’t know where he might pop up. He slipped on boxers, navy blue jogging pants, and a white t-shirt. A matching jacket lay on the chair beside his king-sized bed. The essential vials of simple syrup, house keys, wallet with credit cards, driver's license, wet wipes, and passport had been repacked. From the hidden compartment inside his closet, he grabbed more cash to replace what he'd spent and left his cell phone on charge, wanting a full battery. He slid an extra charger and a portable one in his jacket as well.

  With a full mouth yawn and a stretch, he climbed in his bed, scooted under the down blanket, and pressed a button from a remote on his nightstand. The blackout curtains switched on with a low hum, slowly closing and cascading the bedroom into pitch blackness. His slipped into unconsciousness within seconds.

  Much later, he woke up refres
hed. He rolled over in bed and grabbed the cell to check the time. What he saw turned his blood to ice.

  4

  His phone read six emails, all from Cos, and ten missed calls, all from Stephanie. Malcolm sat bolt upright in his bed. "Fuck!"

  The Cos never called, even though the dream thieves all had contact numbers and current addresses listed. For them to be calling meant a target had been missed. He scrambled to a sitting position, feet dangling over the side of his bed. He hit the return call button and waited, tapping his foot fast on the dark hardwood floors as it rang. Stephanie answered on the third ring, “Malcolm?”

  Her normal calm sweet voice was strained, tighter and clipper than her usual slow drawl.

  “Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?” He waited for the words missed target as he began mentally packing his usual supplies, along with an extra change of clothes and secondary identities in case he had to go incognito. He had money in bank accounts across the globe and traveler’s checks here. He would grab what he needed from the hidden safe. He thought all this in the second it took Stephanie to answer. “We have an incident. I need you to come in.”

  “What? Just me?” What the hell was going on?

  “No. I’ve called everyone in,” she said, hesitant to say more.

  “Has there been…I mean…you know…a missed target?” He stood from the bed and flipped the switch on the blackout curtains. His eyes watered as his vision adjusted. He wiped his face and paced around his bedroom, eyeing his black furniture with a bad taste in his mouth.

  “I don’t know.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the freaking Librarian. How could you not know?”

  “Listen Gabriel, I’d rather not get into it now. I’ve called everyone in. What’s going on is new and unprecedented. We all need to be here. Stop asking questions and get on the next plane here!” The phone disconnected in his ear with a clash that only using an old corded phone could make. Damn, how he missed those days.

  Stephanie had never been rude, and something had to have her riled up if she’d used his ancient name. They had all lived thousands of lifetimes with more names. Their ancient names were their true names, though. Like everything about them, the origin of their ancient names and identities remained a mystery. None of them remembered being born or created. None remembered being a child or growing up. Their earliest memories began at the start of humanity, back before they’d begun recording time. One instant they didn’t exist, and the next, like the beat of a heart, there they were with all the memories of history.

  He tossed aside those thoughts and hurried around his room, throwing clothes into his suitcase that was already half full. A dream thief had to be prepared at all times to leave at a moment’s notice and never return. He’d finished in less than ten minutes and grabbed the cell phone. On it he pulled up O’Hare airport again and searched until he found the quickest flight to Rome. It wouldn’t be leaving until eight p.m. tonight, and had one stop in Dublin. He would get there in under thirty hours.

  Malcolm had always considered it a great coincidence that the agency’s headquarters shared the same location as Vatican City. Back before the invention of planes, a trip like this would take months. It would’ve taken a few weeks to a month to get a letter from the Librarian.

  With his bag packed, he called up a taxi and headed downstairs. He checked his watch, 4:45. Debbie would be about finished with closing up for the night.

  She had already swept all the day’s dirt into a little pile, and he guessed she’d disappeared to the back to get a dustpan. Not a speck of dirt or handprint marred the pristine windows or glass door. The store smelled faintly of cleansers mixed with her various incenses she burned religiously throughout the day. He would miss her terribly. The thought came to him out of nowhere. But as she appeared from behind the counter carrying the dustpan, a pang of loneliness hit him. The wide mocking smile faded from her lips when she spotted the suitcase at his feet.

  “Ehh, what’s up doc?” she asked in her finest Bugs Bunny imitation.

  Emotions raged inside him. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to and doubted he would ever set foot in this store again during this lifetime, her lifetime. Debbie would disappear from his life. Sadness and a deep longing snuck up on him. How had he grown to care for the young woman? What an unforgivable stupidity to one as old as he. Caring for a mortal was never a good thing, for anyone. The decision to cut ties and move on had to be done, regardless if he did make it back. This stint in the city had only been ten years, and he could’ve easily have stayed for another ten or twenty without anyone growing suspicious, but he couldn’t start caring about a human. How had he let himself start having feelings for her? It would only get worse if he stayed.

  He gulped, pressing those thoughts away, and found the lie he’d been practicing in his head as soon as Stephanie hung up on him. “My Aunt Patricia had a major stroke last night. I think I told you about being raised in an orphanage. Aunt Patricia is the head nun there. We aren’t really related, but she’s been like a mother to me. Apparently, she listed me as her emergency contact. I’m heading to the airport now. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Are you okay with running things while I’m away?”

  Her face paled at his lie, a hand lifting to her neck. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. I mean some things would need your signature, but don’t worry, I can figure it out.”

  He could see the calculations already running through her head. She knew the ins and outs of the store as well as he did. It would be in good hands. The fondness grew, and he had to shove it way down. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He passed the counter, and for a minute, she looked startled then pleased, as if he would hug her or perhaps kiss her. The happiness faded as he walked around her, and he felt his own disappointment. He wanted to kiss her.

  Yes, it was definitely time to leave.

  He pulled a brown leather briefcase that he kept behind the counter up next to the antique register that dinged whenever it opened. He remembered Debbie’s delight when she had first seen it during her interview. He popped the lock open with a soft clink and opened the case. He brought out the large manila envelope and handed it over to Debbie. “Inside is a power of attorney giving you control over the store. You’re able to sign for purchases and anything else. You have complete access to the store’s accounts. You shouldn’t need me for anything.”

  He held out the envelope, and she eyed it as if it were a poisonous snake ready to strike. An expression he had seen before, but not on her. She could only stare at the envelope for a long, long time. He didn’t try to rush her and instead marveled at her working it out. He could practically see the thoughts flickering through her mind. Still not reaching for the envelope, she met his eyes, hers full of caution, and asked, “Exactly how long are you going to be gone?”

  “I’m not sure. It could be weeks or maybe a month or two.”

  A beep sounded outside the store. They looked at the same time and spotted a cab. His heart sank at having to leave her. He relocked the briefcase and put it up. He put the envelope on the counter. She still wouldn’t take it as she watched him, lips taut in a thin line, eyes glassy. He walked around the counter and grabbed his suitcase. The awkwardness spiked in intensity as he felt her eyes on his back while he walked toward the exit. With his hand on the door, he turned back, and said, “My lawyer’s number is also in the envelope. If you can’t reach me and need anything, he’ll be able to help you.”

  She nodded, folding her arms over her chest, jewelry jingling as she moved. “Hey, boss man?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t help but smile.

  “You are coming back. Aren’t you?”

  The weight of the world rested on his shoulders at all hours of the day, but never had he felt so responsible for the feelings of another. “Of course,” he lied.

  Her expression told him she didn’t believe him, not one little bit.

  “Go
odbye, Debbie.” He walked out the door before he did something stupid. The driver met him outside and put his suitcase in the trunk. He opened the back door and placed one leg inside the cab. The bell chimed on the Eye of the Beholder’s door.

  “Malcolm!” Debbie jogged toward him.

  He halted midway into the cab, frozen in place. She had never called him anything but boss man. She ran straight at him. He stepped out to meet her, and she threw herself into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck. She pulled him into a kiss. The world vanished as her lips met his. Desire unlike he should be able to feel welled up inside and burned deep in his belly. Their breath mingled, and he tasted her sweet tangerine lip gloss mixed with chocolate. Her hair smelled of her incense and sweet floral shampoo. Their mouths opened, tongues caressing and teasing. She moaned against his mouth, and he wanted her. Wanted her with all he had and with parts that he didn’t, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He pulled away, closed his eyes, and touched his forehead to hers. “I can’t,” he whispered, hating everything that he was.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered, thick with emotion. She tried to pull back, but his arms gripped her shoulders, holding her to him.

  “It’s not you. It’s just…” He wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t. She’d never understand.

  The driver cleared his throat, pulling them out of the moment. He let her go, and she eased away from him. He finally looked at her, mouth swollen with their kiss, looking like a lost puppy. It was the first time she looked anything but a hundred percent confident. “I, um, have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”