The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  He poured himself another cup of espresso, sipped it, and let it burn his mouth, feeling the tingling sensation as his taste buds healed. “I’m arranging for you to work with her.”

  “Me? I don’t know the first thing about genetics or plants.”

  He waved a hand, dismissing her concerns. “You don’t have to. You’ll be like an intern of sorts, helping with meetings, grabbing coffee, stuff like that. Like a personal assistant. Do whatever is asked of you. But I want you to get the details on each of her experiments. The first thing we have to do is figure out which one it is. Then we have to sabotage her.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” She poured her own cup of espresso, much less than his, and added sugar, frowning when she realized he didn’t have anything else to add.

  “I can’t drink it.”

  She shot him a weird look. He nodded toward her cup, “Cream. Anything with proteins. I can’t drink it. Sorry.”

  Something inside her cup fascinated her, as she stared into the black depths, and he could see her mind working before she sniffed. Her eyes were shiny when she looked back up at him. “You look so different. Fresh shaved, short hair. Or maybe it’s because I know what you are.”

  “And?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, even if it had cream.”

  He set his cup down, maneuvered to her side, took hers, and wrapped his arms around her. She did the same, and he kissed the tip of her nose. “After I pack this place up do you want to stay with me? I have a hotel room in Lombard. Then later, when we’re done, we can decide about the future.”

  The smile that filled her face both warmed and saddened him. “I want to be wherever you are.” She faltered at his expression. “What is it?”

  He pulled away, closing his eyes, “I talk about the future, but I have looked like this since the beginning of time. Sure I can grow a beard, shave, grow my hair long, but I can’t grow old, can’t get sick, or die.”

  “I know.”

  He spun away from her. “But you can, and there is nothing I can do to stop that.”

  “I would rather spend a lifetime with you than alone.”

  “You say that now, but what about in ten years, twenty, when you are getting older and you’re called a cougar.”

  She laughed, but he didn’t. He held up his palm, halting her laughter. “Or later when someone calls me your son and then your grandson. You will wither away, and I will stay the same. You say this now, but every dream thief has tried to do this. Every time it has ended badly.”

  Her face fell, suspicious etched on her face. “Even you?”

  His wife’s face, young and beautiful, appeared in his mind. He nodded.

  “How many?” She asked, her gaze piercing him like a life-line.

  “Only once. It was a long, long time ago, before your great grandmother’s great grandmother was born. I said I would never fall in love again.”

  “Fall in love?”

  He met her eyes, a thousand questions stared back at him. “Yes. I said I would never fall in love again, and I failed. With you.”

  A blush spread across her cheeks, making her more beautiful. “What happened? The other time?” She sat back on the stool, watching him as if she wanted to know but at the same time didn’t.

  The night’s emotional rollercoaster was tiring Malcolm. “It started the same as this. She said she wouldn't care, but she did, later. It got to where she couldn't look at me. I chose, instead of making her hate me more, to let her go. We faked my death, and she, in time, fell in love with a human. She died happy with him.” Even now the bitterness and loss tugged at his heart. No matter how long it had been, the hurt and devastation he felt at her rejection still stung.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He closed his eyes then whispered, “I can’t give you a family.”

  She sucked in air and sat for a few minutes not uttering a sound. How many times had he seen her interact with children in the shop? He didn't have to ask. He knew she wanted a family—one day. That could never happen with him.

  After a minute she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. If we fail at this sabotage, then no one will be having babies. Let’s take life a day at a time. You as much as anyone should know you can’t predict the future.” She pulled out another slice of pizza. “Now why do I have to be her personal assistant and not you?”

  Malcolm tried to adopt her attitude. He sipped his espresso, finishing the last of his cup, caffeine soaring in his veins. “Because I’ve already made contact as an investor. It would look weird if I wanted to work there. But since a certain fake company would like to invest a large sum of money under the stipulation that the CEO’s recently unemployed daughter needs a job… well, that’s plausible. Besides, I got lucky that she didn't recognize me. I don’t want to push it.” He recounted the tale of missing the target, scaring her and her family, not to mention punching her husband.

  “And you had me pick you up? An accessory to a B and E. You’re a very bad influence, boss man.”

  There she was, the ever-joking, want-to-be hippie. He’d missed her and her constant picking on him. She kept him on his toes.

  “Guilty. What’re you going to do about it?”

  She raised an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. “When do I start?”

  “Monday, if I can arrange it.”

  “Tomorrow is Friday. Who’s setting this up?”

  “My lawyer. He’s already on it.” Malcolm snatched his cell phone from the coffee table in the living room and sent him a quick text.

  “Whoa. Texting? Who are you, and where is Malcolm?”

  He grinned. “About that. For now, I’m Barnaby Hart.”

  She stopped short in her pursuit of him. “Barnaby. Are you freaking kidding me? Barnaby. Who comes up with your aliases?” She paused as if something occurred to her. “By the way, what is your name? Cause it can’t really be Malcolm.”

  As always, she amazed him. It had taken his wife seven years before she had thought to ask him that. “Gabriel.”

  With an exacerbated nod, “Gabriel. Sounds angelic. But then again, I guess it is. Did you see dinosaurs when you were a baby?”

  He laughed, full. “I’m not that old, darling. Only came along when the homo sapiens showed up.”

  She laughed too and winked. “This place isn’t packing itself up. I’m going to, um,” she pointed down at her bare legs with a blush, “put some pants on, then get to work.”

  His eyes twinkled and took in her naked legs. She flushed a deeper shade of red but didn’t protest when he crossed the short distance between them and swept her off her feet, carrying her upstairs and laughing as he jostled her.

  A long time later, after he’d explored her body some more, she sat up, pulling the shirt over her head, hanging her feet over the side of the bed.

  “What is it?” He rubbed her arm, but she wouldn’t look at him.

  “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

  Malcolm couldn’t believe he’d forgotten, but then again, this last bit of knowledge might push her over the edge. He braced himself for the rejection. “There is nothing to touch.”

  She stiffened, twisting to look back to him. “What do you mean?”

  He glanced down at his well-worn jeans. “Walking Ken doll here. No parts. Nothing to show.”

  Getting to her feet, she stood in front of him, but he couldn’t look at her. She inched his face up, then pulled him to his feet. She pulled his head down and put her mouth to his. She walked backward, guiding him into the bathroom. She stopped in front of the shower and turned it on.

  “What are you—” he asked, but she stopped him mid-question, putting a finger to his lips. Her gaze fell to his shirt and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth movement. Then she unbuttoned his jeans. He put a hand up to stop her, but her bottom lip stuck out, and he let go. She undid his jeans, moving on to the zipper. Her eyes met his with a question—did she have permission? Something she saw must have encouraged her becaus
e she slid them down over his hips, letting his pants hit the floor. He stepped out of his jeans and waited. Answering the unspoken question, she slipped the tips of her fingers under his boxers. Having only done this only once before, he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as the boxers slid past his hips and down his legs. Looking away, she ran her hands over his back and kissed his chest.

  “Look at me,” she commanded.

  He obeyed, and without hesitation or any hint of reservation, she said, “I love you. Just the way you are.”

  Scooping her up, he stepped into the cascading warm jets, soaking them from head to toe. It was his turn to show her how much he loved her back by washing her long hair, running his fingers through it, massaging her scalp, and then rubbing the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders. She moaned, similar but different from her moans of sexual pleasure. His fingertips skimmed down the length of her back and then between her legs. He rubbed her sweet spot at her apex, placing a hand around her waist to hold her up. She moaned in time with his fingers as they swirled faster and faster in tiny circles. He leaned her back against him so she wouldn’t fall and to free his other hand. He slipped two fingers inside her: wet, warm, and tight. She gasped, and he pushed her further and further until she exploded, quivering around his fingers.

  She sighed. “Quite an appetite you have. Making up for years without?”

  “Something like that.”

  After drying off and dressing, they set to packing up the place. Boxes filled while they talked easily and listened to music like the way they usually worked together in the bookstore. Her incense was the only thing missing.

  It didn’t take as long as he thought it would have. He’d thought he would’ve accumulated more personal belongings in his time there. Then he realized his most prized possessions were in the bookstore and his garage.

  “Oh lord, what’s that grin for?” She paused, her hand clasping a coffee cup wrapped in bubble wrap held suspended above an open box.

  “I’ve got something to show you.”

  The elevator took no time at all.

  The garage opened, lights bright and twinkling like diamonds on his beautiful cars. She gasped, running her finger along the Cayman’s cherry red surface. “O.M.G! Is this the Cayman Porsche?”

  Moving from car to car, she named each one. She knows cars. Who knew? She looked at every car, painting, and precious jewel he owned. “Why didn't you ever show me any of this?”

  He shrugged. This garage was but one of many across the world. He was so used to hiding everything that he never let anyone in.

  “Can I sit in one?”

  He grabbed the keys from the Cayman, anxious to take her out again. “I can do one better.” He tossed her the keys. They rattled as if excited too.

  She snatched them with two hands. “Wait! You mean I can drive it?”

  The door opened with a smooth click, he slid inside, closing the door, waiting. Debbie stood outside, dancing around and whooping like a twelve-year-old. She practically jumped in the car and jammed the keys in the ignition. She turned the engine over with a purr that rumbled beneath him. With ease, Debbie maneuvered the gears, a rarity in this day and age where so many never learned to drive a stick shift. She hit garage door opener and it lifted. “Wow, that has to be the quietest garage door ever.”

  “Cost me a fortune, but I didn't want anyone to know this was down here.”

  Rolling out onto the street, they didn’t meet much traffic, which was not surprising for three in the morning on a Friday. She turned down Lincoln, handing the car like a dream. “So you’re immortal?”

  He cast her a curious sideways glance. “Yes, why? Planning on slamming us into a concrete wall or something?”

  She scoffed. “No. I wondered. Are there other things? Like vampires, werewolves? Ghosts?”

  Chuckling, he answered, “I haven’t met any, but there are a lot of unexplainable things out there. I’ve heard things. Seen some beings that didn’t appear to be quite human, but I didn’t want them to know of my existence and the feeling was mutual.”

  “So, there are supernats?”

  “I think so, but I have no intimate knowledge about them. Dream thieves are here to protect humanity from itself. Our existence is complicated enough without delving into the unnatural or supernatural. Whatever word you choose to use.”

  “But there could be?”

  Malcolm nodded and thought out loud. “I’d guess if we are the check to humanity, then supernats would have their own check as well.”

  “Bummer. I’d had an idea to find one to make me immortal too.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Now there was an idea.

  Cranking up the radio to a level that could rupture an eardrum, Debbie made her way to the Tri-City Tollway and opened his beautiful Cayman up. She shifted gears like a race car driver, jamming to Rhianna’s “Shut Up and Drive” and then Disturbed’s “Down with the Sickness.” Malcolm rode in silence. For a moment, everything was good. He had his woman. He had a plan, and everything was coming together. That’s when the shit hit the fan.

  19

  The internal alarm changed from a low vibration inside Malcolm’s chest to a jackhammer in his skull. A loud pitched whine, like gears grinding to a halt in protest, filled his ears. A few long moments later, he realized the sound was coming from him. He leaned forward, hands gripping his head, while Debbie yelled beside him. He couldn’t comprehend her words. Any sound, even the small ticking of the wristwatch, blared inside his ears like a drum. Every movement felt exaggerated, like the rolling of the sea in a storm, making his stomach churn. The pain spread, first in his skull, then to his ears, face, and nose like a wave of thick oil, spread inch by minuscule inch. What the hell was this?

  Debbie shook his shoulder, her hands like blades. He jerked away. Nothing she said or did made any difference. The pain rolled through him, thrashing like an angry ocean, but he didn’t know how or when he had pissed Poseidon off. His whine transformed into moans, and that hurt too. A new brand of torture began when all the espresso erupted violently from his mouth. Reeking wetness rolled over his shirt. Somehow, he mustered the energy to open the car door and leaned out of the car. At some point, Debbie must’ve pulled over. The bitter smell of wet pavement, old espresso, oil, gasoline, and the sickeningly sweet aroma of funeral flowers mingled with the salty breeze of nearby water. The urge to transport rose in him like bile, but something held him back. A nagging tapping at his back. He forced the pain down, long enough to recognize Debbie tapping him on his neck. Tears streamed down her face, mouth moving, but he couldn’t understand her. He could only mutter before the pain took him again in another wave.

  The pain rose to beyond excruciating, beyond torture, beyond description. Later he would tell Debbie it was like being boiled in hot sauce while getting run over by a big rig and then drowning. He’d had broken bones, had been burned at the stake—Salem was not the place to be during the 1600s—and had been stabbed, shot, and drowned. None of that could compare to this. Nothing made it better, and everything made it worse, noise and silence, movement and stillness. The world faded.

  Minutes, hours, or days later, his eyes crept open. They peeled away from his eyeballs, taking enormous effort. His mouth felt like decade-old sandpaper. His gaze wondered around, realizing somehow he was back in the garage under Eye of the Beholder.

  Debbie slid over to him. “Thank goodness you’re awake.”

  Her normal sweet and light-toned voice rang out like a gong sending throbbing pains to his head. She cringed and whispered, “Sorry. Here. Can you drink?” She held a two-liter coke bottle, filled with clear liquid. “I made your syrup. I had to make a bunch of batches to fill three coke bottles. Took forever, by the way.” The corner of her mouth tilted in a half smile as she brought the bottle to his lips. She tipped it back, letting the sweet liquid fill his mouth. Never had this tasted as good as it did now.

  “I get now why it’s called a reduction.”

  H
e drank and drank. The sugar surged through his system. With each sip, his strength grew, but the aching in his head returned. He hadn’t processed the numbness until the feeling began to return. Now his limbs moved as if lead had been poured in his veins. He reached a hand up to take the now half-empty bottle. “What happened?” His voice caught on every syllable as if he hadn’t spoken in decades.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  His head leaned left and right, taking all his energy to complete the movement. “I mean while I’ve been asleep.” Each word dragged out of him.

  She leaned back, picking up another bottle while encouraging him to finish the first. “You’ve been asleep for about five hours, which felt like an eternity. I mean here you are telling me you’re immortal, and the next thing I know you’re practically dying on me.”

  He raised his eyebrows, acknowledging the irony. Pressure surrounded his nose. Reaching up, he found two cylindrical objects sticking out of his nostrils. Pulling on one, he discovered a blood-soaked bandage.

  “Anyway, I made your syrup, had to change out gauze twice, and replaced the ice packs behind your neck. Otherwise, you’ve been passed out, moaning every so often, but that’s about it.”

  Debbie handed him the second bottle while taking the empty one from his hands. She helped him change out the bandage, not needing to replace it again since the bleeding finally slowed enough to not need it.

  The second bottle lay forgotten on his lap. She took it from him, unscrewed the lid, and put it to his lips. Without another word, he drank. He emptied the bottle quickly.

  “I’m going to get more. I’ll be right back.” She returned with the third bottle and a capful of ibuprofen.

  Malcolm’s strength improved every second. Now he felt more like an elderly man after a week in the ICU, but that was better than a corpse. He opened the third bottle on his own and drank. “Anything else happen?”

  Debbie shrugged. “No, but I’ll tell you what, that Stephanie person is a real bitch.”

  Malcolm let out a laugh before wincing in pain.