The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  They eased from their embrace and closed the door, each hating they had nothing more they could do for Caelieus. They spent the rest of the night catching up, sleep avoiding both of them. In the morning, after the rest of the dream thieves had reassembled, Aelia broke the news. “I think we should deliver a mortal wound. Let him regenerate.”

  Lother said, “About bloody time. Then we can get back to our lives.”

  Malcolm wanted to hack his head off again. “This is,” he stressed the words as he imagined Lother’s bloody head tumbling, “our lives, asshole. The rest is for show.”

  “Speak for yourself, you fucking prick.”

  Heris tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, her nervous gesture. “But what about the target? Won’t all record of it be lost?”

  “We don’t know if Caelieus had a target. He’s getting worse. He might not survive if we don’t do this.” Nimue, the dark-headed goddess, spoke softly, but her voice was also calculated and regal. Malcolm remembered she was working in Iceland doing innovative scientific research.

  “Wait!” Tiaret leaned forward on her chair, her black skin accentuated with a bright orange blouse. “Are you saying that you think if we don’t force the regeneration he will die? Like forever?”

  “Yes,” Aelia said, face morbid.

  The dream thieves sat in stunned silence, processing an outcome they’d never dreamed possible. It was a little ironic, considering their purpose in life was to steal dreams that changed the world in unimaginable ways. They were the witnesses of an infinite number of possible futures, and death had never occurred to any of them. Malcolm had no doubt that all of them, many, many times had wished for such an outcome, but to think that one of them could really die—never.

  Lysander asked, “Should we allow Caelieus to die? How do we know he would want to be saved?”

  Aelia regarded the group. “I don’t. None of us do. We could make the decision to do nothing and see what happens. If he truly dies, he dies, but either way this has to be put to a vote, and it must be unanimous.”

  The room felt heavy with the silence that followed. Zari spoke first. “Then let’s put it to a vote.”

  Aelia stood up straight as though such a historical event couldn’t take place while slouching. “Okay. All those in favor of doing nothing, and if Caelieus dies, so be it, raise your hand.”

  The decision raced through Malcolm’s mind, like a rat in a maze, calculating every possible turn and outcome. Would he want to die? Would he want a say in his own death? If he’d missed a target, would they be able to stop it or at least lessen the impact? If Caelieus died, then they would be short a man. That thought more than anything gave him pause. If what Aelia said was true, their targets were growing more and more frequent. If they lost one and couldn’t keep up, would someone else, him for instance, end up like Caelieus?

  Humanity’s fate would grow ever bleaker, like a snowball effect, leading to the end, but would it only be the end of the dream thieves or the end of the world? He had spent his long, long life protecting the world. No matter how much they all wished to walk away, leaving the world felt wrong.

  “All those in favor of regeneration?” Zari asked.

  He opened his eyes, not bothering to check how the others voted. He stared straight at Aelia. His gaze penetrated deep and he raised a hand high in the air.

  She bowed her head. “That’s settled. I’m sending Malcolm to Caelieus’ regeneration location. While he is traveling, we’re going to remain here to search the scrolls and ancient records to see if we find anything. By the time Malcolm arrives, if we’ve found nothing, then we’ll force the regeneration, and Malcolm will be there to report back when Caelieus regenerates a few minutes later. Who knows what kind of shape Caelieus will be in when he gets there.”

  No one argued. The matter was settled. The Librarian’s judgement was cast. Malcolm stood from the computer chair and made his way around the room, saying goodbye, giving hugs and kisses on the cheek to all except Lother. They never knew when they would see each other again. Aelia followed him out. He handed her his room key for his hotel.

  Aelia tilted her head to the side in silent question.

  “I already brought my things. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be returning.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She wrapped her slender fingers around the key card to his room. “Your flight is already booked. I arranged it one of the times you made another drink last night. You should be there by this evening. Call when you arrive.”

  “I will,” he said, kissing her on each cheek. Perhaps he would leave Chicago when this mess was finished. He could live another lifetime here, helping with the scrolls and the other ancient texts to get them put in the database. The two of them could see the city again. They could attend plays and movies, share books. Things could be like they used to be. He could get away from the temptation of Debbie, which reminded him, he hadn’t called in to check on the store. He pushed the thought away and whispered in Aelia’s ear. “Was I the only one who voted for regeneration?”

  He felt her smile against his cheek. “No. Unanimous remember?”

  A weight he wasn’t aware of holding before vanished from his shoulders. He squeezed her hand and hailed another cab. He waved goodbye to her. She had changed into a white business suit, hair neat and trim around her chin. He felt homesick leaving her but vowed to be back soon. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes, but that could’ve been from being up all night.

  The cab turned around the fountain, and the Cos and Aelia faded from view. He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw three missed text messages, all from Debbie.

  Are you safe? Call me.

  Helloooo. Still haven’t heard from you. Are you alive or what?

  Seriously, boss man. I’m starting to worry over here. Checking for plane crashes and everything. Listen, I’m sorry for…you know. Call me!

  Cursing himself, while at the same time his heart raced in anticipation, he pressed the button to text back.

  I’m alive. Sorry I missed your texts. Have lots of things going on. Don’t be sorry, ever.

  He hit the send button and slept the rest of the way to the Fiumicin Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. While waiting to board his flight, he hadn’t been able to resist another glass of vino, cherishing each sip.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a text from Debbie.

  Glad you’re alive. Store’s fine. How’s your aunt? And Rome?

  She is the same. I’m going to Chile to get her extended family. They live off one of the more remote islands.

  More traveling? Must be nice, some of us have to work for a living. :P

  He chuckled at the bar and marveled at how commonplace it was to interact with a cell phone in public that no one batted an eye at him laughing while staring at the little black device.

  Perhaps you are due for a company-paid vacation. Maybe to the next auction.

  He recalled her teasing him about attending the various auction to acquire new exotic books.

  Don’t mess with me. Seriously?

  Seriously. Calling for me to board now. I’ll check in when I land.

  He boarded the plane to Santiago de Chile with a layover in Paris. He’d upgraded to first class. Usually he liked being near people, but since this would be his third plane ride in less than a week, and a nineteen-hour trip, he needed a little splurging and legroom. With his pillow and blanket ready, seat belt on, seat and tray table in the upright position, he ignored the attendant doing pre-flight checks. At the last moment, he remembered and pulled his cell from his pocket once again with every intention of putting it on airplane mode, but he spied another message from Debbie. He opened it and read it several times, shock coming off him in waves.

  Have a safe flight. I think I’m in love with you.

  7

  If he was a betting man, he would’ve bet a large fortune that he wouldn’t be able to sleep since reading Debbie’s last message. But after s
everal hours torturing himself over this strange situation he’d landed himself in, again, he finally dozed off during the third in-flight movie. He awoke as his body sensed the descent of the plane. He yawned, wiping drool from his beard, and stretched. Twilight crept along the horizon in Chile, the bright orange hues of the sun breaking over the clouds as they landed. He rubbed his ears as they popped, a forceful thing that was never comfortable, but at least he could hear again. As he left the runway, a tall, thin man with thick curly hair and a goatee stood with “Malcolm Jones” emblazoned on a white card in large thick black letters. His suitcase firm in his grip, Malcolm approached the man. “I’m Malcolm Jones.”

  The man wore a freshly pressed black suit, white shirt, and black tie accessorized by a bored expression. He nodded and tucked the sign in between his body and left arm. He waved with his right arm as he turned. “Right this way, sir.”

  Malcolm followed. “Where are we going?”

  The man turned, furrowing his brow as if he thought Malcolm was an idiot. “We’re heading to your private charter. It has been prepped and fueled. We were instructed to be ready to leave as soon as you landed to head to the Hanga Roa airport on Rapa Nui.”

  He sighed long and deep, letting it come out slow. God how he wished this mess could be over so he could go home, sleep in his own bed, shower, and run his bookstore. Stephanie must want this over with as soon as possible, too. “Very well. After you.”

  The man never gave his name but led Malcolm through the airport, bustling at this odd hour with people. Dogs barked in crates, children cried, adults talked on their cell phones, and there were lines everywhere—lines to get past security, lines for the many food establishments, and lines to board different flights. Every few seconds, an overhead message broadcasted which section would be boarding next or which flight was arriving on which gate. Malcolm found airports to be a constantly changing, bustling of activity no matter the day. In a lot of ways, airports reminded Malcolm of human existence. People came and went, and only a very precious few would leave any kind of lasting mark upon the world. If you blinked, you would never see a person who walked right in front of you. Even living this long, there were billions upon billions of humans he would never know existed.

  Going to the very back of the terminal and through a set of doors, Mr. Personality power-walked without looking back or slowing, completely confident Malcolm followed right behind him. They descended a steep row of metal stairs leading to the concrete pavement. His private charter was little more than a car that could fly. The man took his bag and jogged up the three stairs. He went through the narrow doorway, stooping to avoid hitting his head. Malcolm had to practically crawl to his seat. The small plane boasted a meager twelve seats. He was the only passenger.

  The seatbelt clicked, after a fashion, and Malcolm didn’t feel the least bit safe. Never mind if the plane crashed, his body would disintegrate into dust, and he would regenerate in Cairo. No, it was the terrifying plunge to his soon-to-be death that he would like to avoid at all costs. No matter how long he had been alive, the fear of death never lessened. That deep-rooted fight to survive kicked in, and he flailed around like any mortal. Each time he’d received a fatal wound, it had been horrendous and unforgettable.

  The little plane took off with a buzz, and every tiny disturbance in the atmosphere jolted Malcolm like a rag doll. He cried out more than once on that long five-hour ride traveling the 1,100 miles from Santiago to Rapa Nui.

  How the first inhabitants had gotten to the island remained a mystery. Nothing had been recorded until around 800 AD, but Malcolm knew better. As Caelieus’s regeneration spot, it had been closer to the beginning of AD at least. Maybe BC? Malcolm couldn’t be sure.

  Like mortals, the dream thieves’ memories faded. After living millennia and the incorporation of many more memories of different timelines, they couldn’t be expected to recall everything, but none remembered anything before AD. As curious as that was, it still left no clue as to who sent them their targets.

  The wanna-be plane landed, rumbling and bouncing down the runway, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the hell ride ended. He wiped the sweat of his brow and looked forward to a glass of tea to calm the nausea. After the engine stopped, he waited until the pilot gave him the go-ahead to move. Malcolm grabbed his suitcase and hit his head climbing down the stairs of the plane. The pilot, right on his heels, said, “Mr. Jones. I have a message for you.”

  Malcolm stopped, turning back to the dark-skinned man with pilots’ wings on the stark blue uniform. The man’s attire surprised him; he’d half expected the man to be dressed in khakis and an island t-shirt. Before Malcolm could answer him back in Spanish, the man switched to English. “My apologies, sir. You’re American. I have a message for you.”

  Malcolm eyed the man, a little shocked at being mistaken for American. Sure he lived there now, but his olive skin and slight non-descript accent threw everyone off. Who, he wondered, would’ve left him a message? Malcolm answered back in Spanish, eyebrow raising in challenge. “What’s the message?”

  The pilot looked equally startled and muttered to himself in the Rapanui language, also known as Pascuan, the local language at Easter Island, “Cocky rich bastard!” All the while smiling and bowing, before continuing in Spanish, “Yes sir. I am to point you to the front desk. Your employer has already arranged a private car for you to visit the island. They’ve put together a packet for you with your hotel information, rental car, and maps of the island.”

  Malcolm nodded then said in Pascuan, “Thank you. I’ll see to that right away.”

  The man’s eye widened, pushing his thick bushy eyebrows until they faded into his hairline. Malcolm ignored the quick apologizes shouted at his back. It really shouldn’t, but that little exchange gave him stark satisfaction.

  Who was the cocky bastard now?

  The weather on Rapa Nui was a warm seventy-two degrees. Through Stephanie’s assistance, he swept through security at the Mataveri Airport in no time. With a map and rental car keys in hand, he tossed his suitcase on the passenger side. Inside the vehicle, he placed the envelope with the information about his room at the Altiplanico. The hotel featured classic Rapa Nui architecture overlooking the sea. Altiplanico offered rooms with private terraces and free Wi-Fi centrally located to all the common areas in Easter Island. It had a pool, and Anakena Beach was only a fifteen-minute drive away. Or so the pamphlet told him.

  Malcolm enjoyed the scenic route, despite the late model sedan rental car. She was no Cayman or any of Malcolm’s usual modes of transportation. He rolled the window down and enjoyed the breeze blowing in the car, relishing in the salty smell of the sea, which one could never escape on an island. Large, rolling hills covered in fine grass filled the stunning island. Happily, the sedan did have a built-in navigation system, and he made it to the hotel in the fifteen minutes promised on the quick internet search he’d made on his phone upon leaving the airport. He had ignored the extensive text messages left by Debbie. Of course she would be freaking out after admitting via text she was falling in love with him. Pesky thoughts of her kept cropping up in his mind and wouldn’t go away.

  Perhaps he should disappear like he’d been planning, then have his lawyers draw up papers telling her that he’d have to stay in Rome. He’d make her the manager with a considerable raise, benefits, and a pension. Whenever she wanted out, he’d hire someone else, like he’d done in his dozens of other stores, and that would be that. But with the technology of today, social media, etc., it wasn’t as easy as that. He’d have to go back, face her, and say goodbye.

  He wondered if perhaps he could convince Stephanie or Zari to pretend they’d met on this little trip, or had gone to the same orphanage, and reunited, fell in love, and rapidly married. It would hurt Debbie, but it would be better than her finding out the truth or going through what his wife had went through.

  He shoved those memories away hard as he pulled in the hotel and checked in. He found his room and f
reshened up. The room featured the promised private terrace, extensive bathroom, and bedroom decorated with parquet floors and gabled roofs. A large window overlooked the luscious sea, now dark.

  He sent Stephanie a quick text telling her he’d arrived and the local time, just after midnight, and instructed her to have Caelieus regenerate in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, Malcolm fell into bed, hoping for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Seven hours later, after grabbing a quick ten-minute shower, a change of clothes, and sliding into the car, his cell rang. Stephanie’s name blazed bright on the screen. The ring felt accusatory like she knew he had been side-tracked from his mission to freshen up.

  He slammed the car door closed before sliding the green phone icon on the screen to answer. “Hey. I’m on the island. Heading to his spot now.”

  “Good.” Her voice sounded strange.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Don’t you think I’d have said so if we did.”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Stephanie had always been the calm one; she almost never got snarky. He smiled inwardly at Debbie’s twenty-first century wordage sneaking into his brain. “Sorry. How is he?”

  He heard more sobs while Aelia paused as if gathering her thoughts. “Getting worse. I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

  “Who’s going to do it?” Delivering the killing blow, forcing a regeneration, wouldn’t be easy.

  “It’ll have to be me.”

  He tried to make sense of her words. Will have to be me. Why? Because she was the Librarian, their current leader? Or had there been a vote? He couldn’t figure it out. “Why you?”