“So, how is that possible then?” I asked. “I mean, if it looks like a Dreamstalker, sounds like a Dreamstalker.”
“It’s not a Dreamstalker,” Dia finished, looking up at me as if to further emphasize her point.
“So, what is it?” I insisted.
“I don’t know,” she answered, and there was fear in the dark depths of her eyes. “What I can tell you, though, is that this particular creature, we’ll call him the Dreamstalker for lack of a better title, has really ticked me off.”
“Why’s that?” Knight demanded.
Dia dropped the nail file back into her top desk drawer and glanced up at him. There was no emotion on her face. “Bastard’s responsible for putting sweet ol’ Mrs. Mickelson into a coma.”
“So we’ve heard,” Knight finished and glanced at me, why I wasn’t sure.
Dia turned to face Trey with confusion in her eyes. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome is Knight, and the fairy with the personal vendetta is Dulcie. The only words I’ve heard you say are “shit balls” and I hope that isn’t your name?”
Trey shook his head, a laugh rippling through his stomach like an earthquake. “No, Ma’am,” he started.
“This is Trey, a Regulator from ANC Splendor,” Knight said, offering Trey an apologetic smile for omitting his introduction.
Dia faced Trey and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.” She motioned to the empty seats in the corner of the room, and Trey and I sat down.
I didn’t know what it was but there was something about Dia that made me relax and feel comfortable around her, something intangible but likeable all the same. She was maybe five foot six and her skin was the color of midnight. With her curly, short haircut, you couldn’t help but focus on her dancing eyes and laughing mouth. She was probably in her mid to late twenties if I had to guess and was one of those people who attracted others like magnets—they had this certain je ne sais quoi about them—something that appealed to others. Yep, Dia Robinson had that je ne sais quoi by the boatloads.
“So, what can I help y’all with?” Dia asked like she was getting down to business.
I nodded. “Just tell us everything you know about your Dreamstalker.”
Dia picked up a pencil lying atop her desk and tapped it against her mouth. “When you said this case was personal?”
“I meant I think the Dreamstalker is targeting me personally. I’ve been somehow linked to all the victims so far with the exception of the librarian, Shirley Mickelson.”
“That you know of,” Knight added. “There could be a connection of which you aren’t aware.”
“Yeah, there could be,” I said and then faced Dia again. “Now he’s targeted my best friend and I’ve had enough. We need to crack this case and nail this guy’s ass today.”
Dia laughed—it was a high pitched and pretty sound. “I appreciate your zest, Honey, but it’s not as easy as you think.”
I frowned. “I don’t care about easy. My best friend’s in a coma, and time is a luxury I can’t afford.”
She turned to a bookshelf behind her that was filled with binders. She trailed her index finger along the binding of three then, apparently finding what she was looking for, pulled out one of the binders and opened it. The room was silent as Dia continued perusing whatever was in the binder. Finally, she glanced up at me. “There are only two known Dreamstalkers…”
“Druiva and Trafu are locked up in Banshee prison,” I finished for her. “You didn’t need your binder—I could have told you that.”
Dia smiled and leaned back into her seat. “Can you tell me if there are any junior Dreamstalkers?”
I guessed she meant had either of the somnogobelinae in Banshee Prison spawned offspring. “No, neither has any children—we were pretty thorough with the investigation when Druiva was locked up the first time.”
And it wasn’t like either Dreamstalker was getting any funny business at Banshee—conjugal visits were prohibited.
“So, that’s a dead end?” Dia asked. “Scary thing, then.”
“Why do you say that?” Knight asked.
“It means we’re dealing with something that’s either imitating a Dreamstalker, or there’s more to this story than meets the eye.”
“Imitating a Dreamstalker?” I started, “how would that even be possible?”
Dia shrugged. “Maybe someone is purposely misleading us. How do you know it’s a Dreamstalker we’re dealing with? How rigorously did you test your victims?”
“It can’t be an imitation,” Knight said. “We ran blood tests, brain scans, the whole she-bang. There were no narcotics in the victims’ bloodstreams that might point to this being anything other than a Dreamstalker.”
“Well, then we should continue forward with the assumption that we’re dealing with a Dreamstalker,” Dia said but she clearly wasn’t convinced.
After an impending silence, Knight leaned forward. “What can you tell us, Dia?”
She leaned back into her chair and rocked back and forth a few times. “I can tell you we’re going to need to work together on this case—four heads are better than one. And because of the fact that one of the victims was a citizen of Moon, I need to be involved.”
“We never said we didn’t want your help,” Knight answered.
“Just wanted to make it crystal clear,” Dia said in a serious tone. “Sometimes ANC people come here and ask their questions and try to take over. That won’t fly on my watch.”
“Understood,” I said. “We’ll share freely with you if you do the same with us, and hopefully we can crack this case that much faster.”
Dia faced Knight with a smile. “I like the way she thinks.”
#
It was two a.m. and I’d been awake for twenty four hours now, hyped up on caffeine in fear of going to sleep and possibly witnessing another nightmare concocted by the Dreamstalker. Instead, I planted myself at my desk and forced myself to type the notes on the case so far.
Victims:
Anna Murphy: in my second grade class, located in Splendor
Heather Green: in my second grade class, located in Splendor
Jenny Garrity: my nanny as a child, located in Splendor
Travis Decker: my high school boyfriend, located in Estuary
Shirley Mickelson: librarian, Rio Mesa High School in Moon, is there a connection to me? (Note to self—ask Trey to find out everything there is to know about Shirley Mickelson)
My heart grew heavy as I typed the last name.
Samantha White, witch, employee of the ANC, located in Splendor
I heaved a sigh and glanced at the cursor blinking at me. There was so much going through my head—images of Sam on the hospital cot fought with images of Knight’s still body, beaten to a pulp in his bed. At least that last vision hadn’t been real, I reminded myself—it was just a decoy, a ploy. Knight was safe…at least for now. I walked my empty coffee mug back to the kitchen and refilled it, the beginnings of a caffeine headache already pounding through my temples.
I felt another sob choke my throat and had to swallow it down. Sam was my closest friend. As I’d mentioned earlier, I wasn’t a social person—I didn’t have a legion of friends. I really only had two people I considered at all close to me—Sam and Quillan, my old boss. And due to recent events, I’d had to scratch Quillan off my friend list. The pain was still there and sometimes late at night, I found myself repeatedly wondering how Quillan had become one of the bad guys. How had he deceived everyone, and why had he done it? I couldn’t help but take the betrayal personally—I’d let Quillan get close to me, and the only thing that had encouraged was disappointment and pain.
I took a sip of the coffee but never tasted it. My thoughts were wholly encompassed by the fact that every time I allowed a man to get close to me, somehow I got screwed. And Jack, my ex-boyfriend, had really done a bang up job of it—he was the poster asshole for cheaters. And then Quill…I couldn’t finish the thought. An image of Knight blossomed in my mind’s
eye, and I sighed. I had to build up my defensive wall until it was impossibly high and thick, impenetrable in its dimensions. I wouldn’t allow myself to be disappointed again by a man—I couldn’t allow myself to hurt again, to succumb to that weakness.
I marched back over to my computer and glanced at the word document: my list of victims’ information. I downscreened it, needing another outlet, something else to occupy my thoughts for a moment. I opened up my Yahoo inbox and sorted through the spam emails. The mention of my book, A Vampire and A Gentleman, in one of the subject lines grasped my attention, and I opened the email. It was from Barbara Mandley, a literary agent with Great Fiction Agency—the same agency that had recently asked to review my book.
I read through the email without any emotion and couldn’t even bring myself to get excited by the fact that Barbara said she hadn’t been able to put my book down. She finished the email by stating that she thought my book was “amazing” and she’d be in touch shortly. I closed out of my Yahoo inbox, pondering the fact that I hadn’t written a word since this whole Dreamstalker business had started. I definitely wasn’t going to make my self-imposed deadline of one month or less. But, I couldn’t bring myself to think about it; couldn’t focus on anything but the details of the somnogobelinus case.
I pulled my notes back up on screen and started a new paragraph, trying to recall not only what I already knew about Dreamstalkers, but also what Dia Robinson had told us about the habits and characteristics of the somnogobelinus.
Dia Robinson, Somnogobelinus but not a Dreamstalker, Chief of ANC Headquarters, Moon
Is there a third Dreamstalker? If we know there were no offspring from both Dreamstalkers locked away in Banshee Prison, how are these events even possible? Could another somnogobelinus have taken a dark detour into Dreamstalker territory? Dia insists that it isn’t possible, but is it?
Dreamstalkers are:
1. Driven to feed off the dreams of both humans and Netherworld creatures alike. This is why both Dreamstalkers at Banshee Prison were separated from all other creatures. They were held in solitary confinement, isolated in their cells, the cell walls fortified with four inches of solid steel. Steel prohibits psychic communication and, therefore, could ensure the safety of the other inmates.
2. Dreamstalkers must be within one hundred feet of the creature whose dreams they are attacking. Therefore, the night the Dreamstalker targeted me with scenes of Knight being attacked, it had to have been nearby. Which means it knows where I live. And it revealed Knight’s address to me in sleep which means it also knows where Knight lives. (Dilemma—what to do? Hotel for a while?)
3. Dreamstalkers will return for their victims. They’re like Komodo Dragons who bite their prey and then track them as they die, returning days later to claim their feast. A Dreamstalker really isn’t that different. They strike, sending their victims into comas and days or weeks later, they return to finish the victims off.
1. Our plan: Sit and wait it out. Dia can sense a Dreamstalker but she has to be within one hundred feet of one. Knight, Trey and I will park ourselves next to the victims, looking for any sign of foul play. At the merest indication that something might not be right, we’ll notify Dia and she’ll scout the location, using her somnogobelinus radar to apprehend the offender.
4. Dreamstalkers’ victims appear to be in comas, but they are actually stuck between life and death—trying to defeat the Dreamstalker in their mind. If the Dreamstalker kills them in sleep, they die in life. Heather Green was the first to die—meaning she couldn’t defeat the Dreamstalker in her imagination. The only way to free all of the victims is to kill the Dreamstalker or get it locked up in a steel enforced cell where it can’t control the minds of its victims. (Note to self: my vote is to kill the bastard).
Six
It had been three days that I’d been awake and I’d lost count of how many cups of coffee I’d downed. Even though I’d managed not to fall asleep, I was in a haze—events and days just blending into one lump of time that felt nebulous and indescribable. I stared out the window of my kitchen, not focusing on anything but the black of the night and the way the moonlight danced between the tree branches, rays of light breaking the homogeneity of night.
Sometime during the past three days, I’d managed to visit Sam but each visit yielded the same return—she was still in a coma, hanging onto life and the constant beeping of the monitors still played with my sanity. It had been earlier today that I’d made my customary rounds to Sam’s bedside but the constant hum of life support had acted like the droning of Morpheus, the God of Sleep. I’d nearly collapsed into slumber right on top of Sam and that was when I knew I needed to get out of there, and better still, I needed more coffee, lots more.
I’d also asked Dia to make inquiries to the other somnogobelinae with whom she was familiar, just to ensure her “Dreamstalker radar” wasn’t on the mend. After Dia agreed, albeit none too happily, she announced that her radar was in top performing condition because all her sleep goblin cohorts said they hadn’t been alerted to the creation of any new Dreamstalkers which basically left me right where I’d started.
Knight had been keeping Trey and the other ANC Splendor staff busy with in-depth research into the lives of Druiva and Trafu, the Dreamstalkers in custody at Banshee Prison. They were searching all records, looking for any clues as to relationships that could have yielded progeny. And we’d come up with gaping holes there too—Trafu had been in Netherworld custody for hundreds of years. And I’d learned a little tidbit that hadn’t been pretty—apparently when Netherworld creatures didn’t exercise their libidos, their genitalia did shrivel up and fall off. And, yes, Knight had had a field day with that one—telling me if I truly valued him as a friend and partner, I’d ensure the safety of his male equipment. I’d just told him there were plenty of women who’d be up for the job.
So, Trafu was basically a eunuch and had been for over one hundred years which left Druiva... After much investigation into his roots, we did learn that Druiva had entertained many lovers during his time as a free somnogobelinus but what we hadn’t been counting on was the fact that all of those lovers had been male, obliterating any chance for Druiva juniors.
Yep, I was back to square one. I’d had three days of no sleep and nothing to show for it. The clock had been ticking and urgency had been boiling up within me until it was now overflowing into a broth of panic.
I grabbed the handle of Mr. Coffee and poured myself my nth cup, turning to refill it and start another brew. I brought the mug to my lips and had to force down the sudden overwhelming desire to throw up. My body needed sleep badly—it was as obvious as the fact that I had to force the coffee down my throat, in my feeble effort to compel my body into submission. Gagging, I swallowed four mouthfuls and walked to my desk, needing something to occupy my mind.
I opened the email from Barbara Mandley of Great Fiction Agency and read it again, trying to drum up some excitement about the fact that someone actually liked my book and, from the way it sounded, maybe was going to offer me representation. But, excitement had abandoned me at least two days ago. Now I was like a car coasting on empty, with only a few whiffs of gasoline to keep my engine from dying.
I opened the word document I’d saved as “Book Two Titles” and read through the list of four titles I was proposing for my second book in the Bram “Vampire and a Gentleman” series.
4. Speak vamp to me
5. A Bloodsucker named Raven
6. Vampires don’t leave hickies
7. Don’t invite a vampire in
It was like I was reading the work of someone else. I couldn’t even remember coming up with the titles. And I had to just shake my head in total bewilderment at “Vampires don’t leave hickies.” Hello? What in the hell had I been thinking with that one?
I stared at the blinking cursor and wracked my mind, trying to drum up new titles but each time I attempted to get the creative juices flowing, all I could think about was more coffee and then th
e feelings of nausea weren’t far behind. After a few more minutes of strenuous thinking and even more strenuous gagging, I figured it was fair to admit that nothing creative was going to happen tonight…today…whatever.
The little black cursor continued to blink, as if announcing it wasn’t going to give up, that there was a creative bone in my body somewhere—that my blood hadn’t turned to coffee within my veins. I continued staring at it until it appeared to be getting larger and the blinking more pronounced, more anxious. I could feel myself moving closer to it. My elbows touched the top of the desk and before I knew it, my head was resting on my forearm. The need to close my eyes was pounding through my body—a command coming from Hades only knew where. The desire to see the velvety black of my eyelids was overwhelming, almost as strong as the constant stinging sensation that had been plaguing my eyes for the last two days…and nights. If I just closed my eyes and rested them for a second or two, I’d feel better. I’d still be in control of myself…
#
I opened my eyes and lifted my head off the desk. I’d fallen asleep—who knew for how long. I was suddenly frightened and angry with myself. I’d been incredibly lucky that the Dreamstalker hadn’t realized I was immobilized by sleep and his for the taking. Stupid, I’d been so stupid. I stood up, angst pounding through me and walked my cold cup of coffee to the sink, promptly pouring myself another. I threw my head back and emptied the lukewarm liquid into my mouth, squelching the urge to gag. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
The sudden compulsion to go check on Sam almost blindsided me and before I could even register what I was doing, I had my keys in my hand and I was headed down to the Wrangler which was parked just outside. I glanced up at the dark night sky and even though the thought crossed my mind that visitor’s hours were well over, my feet didn’t slow down.
Before I knew it, I’d unlocked the door and was seated behind the wheel, my hand already turning the keys in the ignition. I put the car into drive and started down the street. The streetlights reflected through my windows and I shielded my eyes against the glare. The momentary thought that I hadn’t buckled up crossed my mind but I couldn’t focus on it. I arrived at the stop sign at the end of the street and had no memory of getting there. All I knew was that the hospital was to the right but for some reason, I turned to the left.
A Tale of Two Goblins: A Paranormal Romance/ Urban Fantasy Page 8