“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said.
“Fine, if it’ll give you peace of mind. Maybe seeing the place will help stop your nightmares. Personally, I think it’s a combination of anxiety and stress. My mom told me she had weird dreams when she was pregnant with me.”
“You told your mom about my dreams?”
“I was worried about you. I think maybe this is happening because you don’t know who the baby’s father is. Your subconscious is telling you something.”
She was about to retort that he wasn’t her mother, but she held her tongue. He was trying to help. For the years they had been housemates, he had been a good friend, and now with her pregnancy, he was attempting to help her. It was cloying and irritating and a kindness she knew better than to rebuff.
How could she tell him that the dreams were more than just irritations? Over the last few weeks, she had filled a journal with them, and unlike ordinary dreams, they were remarkably consistent. The same people and places came to her over and over again, and one of those places was Jackson Square.
She drove to the square, parked and walked out toward the Mississippi River, dark brown under the low yellow lights of the streetlamps. She paused on the pavement, unable to bring herself to move any closer. The water felt like it was pulling her, sucking her down into its depths, closing over her face, filling her nose and mouth with the foul-tasting cold, blocking her ears until all that existed was the freezing water and the dark and the watery sound pounding in her ears. The river enclosed her, like a fist, like a tomb.
A few passersby exclaimed in surprise as a gentle earthquake shook the buildings. St. Louis Cathedral rose over the square, white and old, its clock face ticking away the minutes.
It was a Thursday night and the shops and restaurants were sparsely occupied. The square itself was empty. She headed toward the center, toward the statue of Andrew Jackson seated on his rearing horse.
The cathedral was whole, unlike in her dreams where it was partially destroyed. The river was silent and peaceful, not a place of terror and death. Maybe this was what going crazy felt like, as if reality was disturbed, but only she could see it.
Another earthquake came and she paused, not wanting to lose her balance as the ground moved. Ten yards to her right the air moved, like heat rising off of the pavement in summer. And then there was something else, a black hole opening, like a great wound in the air, and a thing beyond it. A great creature, like a serpent, white and eyeless, appeared, and a strong wind struck her from behind. She almost regained her footing when the wind grew stronger, like a hurricane, and threw her to the ground. She slid forward, toward the thing, and braced herself, digging her toes and fingers into the earth, pressing her body low as bits of loose plant life and garbage flew past her, some of it striking her and clinging to her hair and body.
A man appeared near the rip, in front of the terrifying, hungry white thing which now opened a mouth, a great, wet, red mouth. He was a dark-skinned man with broad shoulders and a sturdy build, like a workman. He spoke a word she could not hear and the white monster vanished, the air ceased to shimmer near it and the terrible wind stopped. The rip was closed and the monster was gone.
Void wyrm.
The word came to her mind then, the word for that terrible thing that pulled the world toward it. And another memory, a man, a small, older white man in a suit. He had something to do with the holes.
The sturdy man was watching her now and she felt a surge of fear, like he was a predatory thing, like he had been looking for her. He walked toward her, not in any hurry, just observing her as she rose and brushed herself off.
Part of her wanted to flee, but the stronger part wanted to know what the monster was and how he had closed the hole. The stronger part won and she looked him in the eye, drawing herself up straight.
“Who are you?” she asked him, then thought of a better question. “What are you?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Chapter 19
Seamus stood at his front door, astonished at the temerity of the woman on his doorstep. For a person of her social standing to call upon him at his Garden District home, his respectable home, was unconscionable.
“Miss Dubois,” he said. “I hardly think—”
“I know that you don’t think, which is why I came,” said Hazel. “You ignored both of the notes I sent,” said Hazel.
“I didn’t think it was appropriate—”
She gave him a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. She had never stood in judgment of him for visiting her establishment, any more than he had been unkind to her for her profession. Both of them understood the world all too well for that. But his friend Oren was upstairs, going through a box of Seamus’s old notes on the peroxide engine, and though Oren knew of Hazel, he hadn’t seen her since she was a young girl. He did not know her occupation.
If it hadn’t been for his long-standing friendship with Hazel, he would have shut the door in her face.
“I suppose it’s best if you come in,” he muttered.
“Right. No sense in letting the neighbors see me.”
She entered and followed him into the front parlor. She was dressed modestly, and if no one recognized her, she could pass for an ordinary middle-class woman. Still, to have a single female caller, one not related to him, might cause tongues to wag.
“You read the notes I sent, I trust?” she said.
“Of course. I was simply surprised that you were suddenly interested in visiting September Wilde. It seemed earlier as though you were reluctant to discuss the dreams.”
“I thought about it, and I changed my mind. It’s simply too coincidental, and these dreams are different than ordinary ones. I remember them too well. They’re too vivid.” She paused. “They keep coming, every night. And they trouble me.”
He knew what she meant.
“Now, why didn’t you answer my letters?” she asked.
“I was considering it. I do plan on visiting this September Wilde at some point.”
“Why not today?”
“I was going to go alone.”
“What about McCullen? Does he have the dreams?”
“No, not like ours. His ideas are as mad as they ever were, but no different than usual. And he says he has been sleeping well.”
“I think we should go today,” she said.
“I’m not sure it would do us any good.”
“And you call yourself a scientist. A man of curiosity and exploration. And yet you hesitate to explore this path and pay a call on the one woman we both know might have answers for us.”
He couldn’t tell her exactly why he didn’t want to visit Miss Wilde. He was curious, true, and he was only moderately concerned with looking like a fool. After all, he and Miss Wilde operated in entirely different social spheres, and she could do him no harm. But what if he learned something about the woman in his dreams? And then there was the machine, the one that let him travel to strange places. The thought of the thing caused a lump to form in his stomach.
But he was, at heart, a scientist. Hazel was right on that point. And a scientist must face facts and evidence, disregarding personal preferences, comfort and expectations. She was now watching him with a steady gaze, waiting in that infuriating way that females had when they knew that you were about to agree with them but wanted to make it seem like it was your own idea.
Oren came downstairs with a box of papers. He stopped at the door, noticing Hazel. Seamus made introductions, hoping that Oren might think this was merely a social call between old friends. He put the box down and took a seat.
“If you won’t go today,” said Hazel to Seamus, “I’ll ask around for her address and go without you. But I’d prefer it if you accompanied me.”
“Go where?” asked Oren.
“Seamus and I are having odd dreams, and we were discussing visiting someone who might know something of it.”
Seamus was surprised at her direct answer, but Oren was his closest friend, and he had no reason to keep anything from him.
“A lady asks you to accompany her on a social call, and you refuse?” said Oren. “Seamus, that’s hardly gentlemanly.”
“I hadn’t exactly refused,” he said, and Hazel stood up, waiting expectantly for him to accompany her. “Very well,” Seamus muttered. “I’ll get my hat.”
Half an hour later, they had obtained Miss Wilde’s address from Mrs. Washington and took a hired carriage. Miss Wilde’s house was a modest and unremarkable home in the middle of an entirely white neighborhood. Seamus rang the bell and a black woman answered. He recognized her immediately from his dreams, with her long face, close-cropped gray hair and silver spectacles.
For an instant, one fleeting instant, he thought she recognized him as well, but then she was looking at him with an expression of polite interest.
“Are you Miss Wilde?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Then you are the woman we are looking to speak with. This is Miss Dubois and Mr. McCullen, and I am Mr. Connor.”
She invited them inside, offered them seats in her front room and without asking, brought them each a thick slice of banana bread with walnuts. At first, Seamus didn’t want it. He wanted answers, not meaningless hospitality. But the banana bread had a lovely aroma, and Hazel seemed to be enjoying hers, so he took a bite. It was every bit as good as it looked, and he immediately felt the tension and anxiety drain from him.
“How can I help you?” asked Miss Wilde, taking a seat across from them.
“I will go directly to the point,” said Seamus. “Miss Dubois and I are having dreams, strange dreams that are the same. And they involve you. Both of us dreamed of you.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met before. Have we?”
A white cat sitting on the windowsill behind Miss Wilde opened its eyes to look at them, then closed them and resumed its silent meditation.
“No, we haven’t. But, the dreams …” He felt ridiculous, and Miss Wilde’s pitying look didn’t help matters. He was at a woman’s house, asking about dreams.
“And you?” she said, looking at Oren.
“I’m curious. That’s all.”
Miss Wilde got a thoughtful look, as if she didn’t entirely believe him.
“You aren’t fooling us,” said Hazel gently. “We know that you know something, Miss Wilde. You’re one of those people who watch. You observe things. And you know things.”
Miss Wilde’s attention was now fixed on Hazel, as if she were the most interesting thing in all of creation.
“We remember people we’ve never met,” said Seamus. “Places we’ve never been. Inventions and machines, strange creatures, all manner of things. And our dreams line up precisely with one another.”
“A coincidence,” said Miss Wilde.
“It’s not, and you know it,” said Hazel. “Now tell us.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“What about the machines?” said Seamus, and Oren perked up. “There were machines that could do amazing things. Powerful machines.”
Miss Wilde glanced at Oren, and Seamus knew he was not mistaken. For an instant, there had been fear in her look.
“Mr. McCullen has been working on one of the machines,” Seamus said. If she was frightened of something, let him use that knowledge. “Both of us have. We’re trying to make one, and we’re getting close. You would be amazed at what we can do. We are just on the verge of it.”
Miss Wilde stood then, and though it was a clear signal that she was dismissing them and ending their visit, he could tell she was internally composing herself. For a black woman to do anything other than be gracious and accommodating to white guests might be dangerous, not only socially, but physically as well if anyone got word of it. He wondered again at her place in this neighborhood, how she stayed without trouble.
“I’m sorry I cannot be of further help,” she said. “But I can pack up some fresh cookies for you to have later.”
The three of them rose, and Oren accepted a stack of cookies tied in a fresh, clean handkerchief. They donned their hats and coats and walked down the street, toward a busier area where they could hire a carriage. They passed an unoccupied house with a low brick wall out front and a decaying swing hanging from a large oak tree.
“Pardon me,” said a woman’s voice, and Seamus turned toward the front yard, but no one was there.
“I’m right here,” she said again, and Hazel was the first to spot her. A white cat, the same one that had been on Miss Wilde’s windowsill, leapt from the yard up onto the wall. “May I have a word?”
“Of course,” said Hazel.
Seamus couldn’t speak, and after a few moments, the shock wore off and he wondered at how easily Hazel had answered the animal, as if she were used to the notion. Oren remained speechless. The cat introduced herself as Pangur Ban.
“I too have had dreams,” said the cat. “And I can tell you that September is a good sort of person. She isn’t trying to be rude to you, though you seem to have upset her greatly. But she is constrained in what she can do and what she can tell you. All of her siblings are, in one way or another. She won’t answer my questions either.”
“What do you know about the dreams?” asked Hazel.
“Little,” said the cat. “As I said, I have had them as well. I thought I was the only one. I too remember machines, and they were important, somehow. They were, I think, dangerous. I think September fears them.”
“They let us travel to other places,” said Seamus. “They made doors. Rips. Did you dream of that?”
“I have. And I also know that there are other kinds of doors, natural and unnatural. September’s siblings cannot all create these rips, but a few of them can.”
“They can make these rips?” asked Oren with a look that Seamus had never seen before. Usually, he was self-assured under stress, or he kept a carefully neutral expression. But now, he was hopeful, desperate even. “And could a person step through one?”
Pangur Ban regarded Oren. “The Twelve are nearly impossible to find. You would have more luck trying to make a rip with your terrible machine.”
“You said Miss Wilde had siblings,” said Seamus. “Are they the Twelve?”
“They are. Some are kind, some cruel. Some are a little of each. September is one of the kind ones. The others you might not wish to meet. But kind or cruel, each can do different things. Some can open and close these rips. One can change people’s moods with music. Another can create small illusions. September herself is excellent at negotiation. You enjoyed the banana bread, I presume? Well, she works through her cooking. She calms people when they’re agitated. That is how she can live in this neighborhood in peace.”
“And the Twelve watch?” asked Hazel. “I knew they were watchers or guardians of some kind. I dreamed that.”
“They are. They are guarding things. When a castle is under attack or when a person guards another person, where do they stand?”
“At the point where the attack might come,” said Oren.
“At the places where an enemy would enter,” said the cat. “The gates, the entrances, the places that are weakest. At the doors. Guards stand at the doors.”
“Then these dreams about going to other worlds, they mean something?” asked Hazel.
“I know they are important, but not how,” said Pangur Ban. “Frankly, the four of us here are very small and weak. We are just little mortal beings, living out our lives. I can’t see why we’re having the dreams when we are so utterly powerless to do anything about them. The world is full of terrible things, and we can do nothing. But I
suppose this world has always been the devil’s playground. We can only make our way as best we can.”
Chapter 20
“I must say, I’m glad you’ve decided not to kill me,” said Yelbeghen.
Astrid shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Of course not. I’m not going to kill a good friend for the Seelie or for anyone else.”
“A good friend?”
“A person. Anyone. Friend or not.”
But as she said it, she felt her skin grow warm and her pulse quicken. He regarded her for a few moments longer than was comfortable.
“You could do it easily. You could just create a Door to death and push me through.”
“Or I could make it under your feet. I think I could even bend it around you if you tried to escape.”
“Indeed,” he said, apparently not too disturbed by the idea. “Both of us could. I couldn’t send you to death, of course, but to somewhere else unpleasant.”
“You won’t.”
“Of course not. I do not delight in death. But I do delight in new things. In fact, I’ve acquired some new fish. Would you like to see them?”
She said she would, and he took her downstairs to the basement, then through a long, concrete tunnel where their footsteps echoed and the walls dripped with condensation. After walking for a few minutes, the tunnel opened up under a giant curved glass dome that rose twelve feet over their heads. They were under water, beneath Yelbeghen’s small lake. Sunlight sparkled down through the green water, creating undulating strings of light on the floor and over both of their faces. Creatures, some ordinary and some strange, swam past. A pair of pale white fish with long filmy tails, like bridal veils, passed, and a group of ducks paddled overhead. One dove down to snatch a beakfull of water plants.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 126