Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2)

by Su Williams

  He chuckled and kissed my hand again. “Now, close your eyes and relax. Don’t try. The memories will just come.”

  I closed my eyes, took a cleansing breath and cleared my mind, not really expecting anything. Just because Nick and Sabre could memoryprint didn’t mean I could. Nick told me most Caphar only receive a single gift, and Sabre believed my gift was prescience—seeing the future. But, almost instantly, a prick of electricity stabbed my hand and shot up my arm. A brief view of deep green jungle manifested before me, but my eyes shot open in surprise. The smoldering ink of Nick’s eyes and an awed grin took the place of the shuddering emerald.

  “Whoa!”

  That Cheshire cat smile split his face. “I’m impressed. That was incredibly fast. Now, you know how it feels. Just relax and accept the memory.”

  “Okay. Here goes.” I closed my eyes again and released myself to the sultry jungle.

  The jade forest effused around me, stinking of sulfur and rot; like the stink of a truck stop restroom only in the outdoors. Monsoon season brought waters deep into the jungle turning dirt to mud that devoured our boots. I stank of sweat, but taking a shower in this forest was like bathing in a glacier. No hot water. I flipped a small, coarse towel over my camo shoulder and clomped to the wooden foot bridge that ran across the muck. I kept my eyes on the plank of wood before me, trying not to step off into the mire. But a shadow of brown caught my attention, and I cast a look before me. A few dozen feet ahead, toddled the biggest rat I’d ever seen. This thing was the size of a schnauzer; a low-riding, dumpy, ugly ball of fur and teeth. It’s nose twitched at me, its whiskers bobbled with curiosity. My feet cemented to the plank as the rat-hound lumbered forward intent on its course, careless of what lay in its path. I hated rats. And I hated this one more just because of its sheer size. As it plodded toward me, fierce and focused, I had no choice but to step off into the muck to avoid its razor teeth and claws. Command warned us when we arrived in the jungles of Nam, of these creature’s ferocity. My foot sank into the mud with a squishy suck, and cold muddy water dribbled over the tops of my boots. My opponent lumbered past and I stepped back onto the plank leaving blops of mud in my wake. I trudged to the latrine to at least wash my face and freshen my armpits. Light from outside eked up the drain, but as I reached for the spigot, the light eclipsed and the biggest cockroach I’d ever seen scuttled out of the hole. I jerked my hand away despite knowing the creature the size of my hand was harmless. Damn, but they grew their critters big here. I bet the locals would consider this cockroach a delicacy. Him and the rat, too. I let him hurry on his way in hopes his carcass would not be on the next menu.

  My mind flashed to Nick, and the comfort and seclusion of my home. Anxiety still laced through my veins. The pungent odor of sweat lingered in my nostrils.

  “Daddy never told me that story,” I told him. My voice squeaked out, sharp and tinny, like that nasty dog-sized rodent.

  Nick slid closer and wrapped me in his warmth. “You’ll discover much more of your parents as you practice your memoryprinting. Things they would have told you but never got a chance.” Nick was silent a moment, his eyes eluding mine. “Emari? There will be things you learn about your parents that you may not want to know.” Somewhere under all the words, a darker truth smoldered.

  I considered this. Maybe there were things about Nick that he didn’t want me to know; he was definitely keeping a cache of something dark and troubling. Something about his past? About the blood and gore of the death of his family?

  After Nick texted Sabre about my memoryprinting, his gaze followed me as I wandered the house. My fingers grazed every inanimate object. But the images were chaotic, so jumbled and confused that I couldn’t focus on anything specific.

  “Why can’t I read this? It’s all just a scrambled mess,” I whined.

  “Remember, I told you that memories are compartmentalized?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, with a memoryprint, it’s like using a search engine. If you only put in a general term, you get a broad result. If you’re more specific, you yield more specific results. Try focusing on one person in particular that touched the item and even, a specific time.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on the front door. My fingers caressed the thickly varnished grains in the wood. Pulling on recent events, I drew out the memory of Nick repairing the door after Sabre kicked it in. Sabre thought Ivy and I were under attack and stormed the house prepared to find—something ‘bad’ going on inside. At the time, I feared all the silly girly-ness that followed Sabre’s dramatic entry had bored or exasperated Nick. But as I stood, grazing the wood grain with my fingertips, I saw his satisfaction at watching Ivy and me together. He likened our comradery to his relationship with Sabre. His fondness for my beloved friend was self-evident, and the warm encompassing love he felt for me forced my eyes open in search of his face.

  “Thank you for fixing my door, by the way,” I said at random.

  “Sure thing.” His smile tugged my heart. I knew he was aware of what memory I rendered from the door.

  “Will I have perfect recall, too?”

  “You already do. Whatever it is that happens to the brain when you—transform, it cements every memory you’ve ever had, will ever have, into your brain.”

  Drifting like a ghost around my century-old home, I caressed memories from every object and surface. My mother’s cameo hummed from the crystal dish by the door. I pressed the locket to my heart and fought not to let despair pollute the sweet memories this piece held. I didn’t need superpowers to extricate these. My mother, so lovely, so innocent and young. The kiss of roses on her creamy cheeks. Sparkling emeralds danced in her eyes. This was the loveliness my father fell in love with. I felt the close, warm, home, safety, in his heart for her; a comfortable, familiar room he’d made there especially for her. I reached into the glowing silver with a part of me I’d never known existed before—like a quickened piece of my soul.

  My father’s calloused fingers tenderly stroked the locket, suffused it with the power of his love. His smile is born deep within his heart, the smile he desired to bloom in his wife.

  Those fingers caressed my mother’s soft cheek and he planted a kiss as soft as a petal on her blossoming lips. He didn’t tell her he loved her. His touch conveyed his affection. His world is her.

  Her heart fluttered at the tiny box in the palm of her hand, expectation of the gift within. Genuine joy flooded her at the sight of the glimmering locket. Its beauty dazzled in her eyes. Its silent message, a volume of unspoken, unnecessary words. And the love that my father injected in the gift, washed her heart and soul with affection.

  Tears sparkle down my cheeks like the glimmer on the surface of the locket. Such love. Does that exist anymore? Is there love for me of the magnitude that my parents shared? Is Nick ‘the one’? And am I even ready to make that kind of commitment? I’m just barely eighteen. And now—I’ll be eighteen forever.

  “You okay?” Nick asked as he watched me swipe the tears from my eyes.

  “Sure, just…” What do I say? Hey, I’m contemplating whether you and I are together forever? Gees! Forever was never a great plan for me. “It’s nothing. I’m good.” The gentle touch of Nick’s spirit probed at me. “Nick, please don’t. Sometimes, there are things I need to work out in my own head. Okay?”

  “I didn’t mean to push. I just want to help.”

  “I know. But just because you can get in my head, doesn’t mean you should,” I gently scolded. The palisades around his own memories were a testament to that. I thrust the image of his fortress at him.

  Nick cringed. “Is it really like that?” he asked, disbelieving.

  “Yes,” I said quietly, trying to convey understanding. Some memories are just too tender to touch. If anyone understood that, it was me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky with remorse.

  I bristled. Maybe it was time for Nickolas Benedetti to stop being so remorseful.

  “You’re sorry? You’re sorr
y that memories exist inside you that still tear you apart? Or you’re sorry that those memories are so painful that they can’t be shared, even with me? Or is it you’re sorry that those memories…”

  “Emari…don’t,” his voice darkened with warning.

  I padded silently to his side, then bent to kiss his head. “Understand within yourself why you’re sorry, then let me know if you really need to be. Okay?”

  Nick sat stunned. He was accustomed to me being the one who needed a pep talk, not the one giving it. A smile curled his mouth and he grasped my hand as I turned away. “Em,” his voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  I bent over him and kissed his upturned face. “I prefer ‘thanks’ to ‘I’m sorry’ any day,” I whispered.

  He smiled and released me.

  Nick floated silently behind me as I drifted into the kitchen. My fingers lingered on the counters and cabinet doors, the tea canister and the knife block. What was I thinking?! Nick lunged forward as I jerked my hand away, even as the searing electrocutions continued to jolt through my body. My mind is being sucked out. The violent bloody images plunged into me like the blade of the knife. Thomas’ fingers sever from his hand as blood pulses from the stumps. Not so many nights ago, Thomas, the Rephaim set on Nick and Sabre’s destruction, invaded my home and nearly killed us all. Crimson trails spill from the garrote line around Thomas’ neck. His severed head rolls to a stop on my hand, blares images of my parent’s crash—over and over and over again.

  I launched myself against Nick’s chest. His arms engulfed me. He slid us gently to the floor, wrapped both his arms and legs around me in a protective cocoon. My lungs failed with the hiss of hyperventilation. The images of one of the most horrific nights of my life sent my mind and body reeling. Nick brushed my hair out of my face and gently hushed me. “It’s all right, honey. It’s just a memory. Memories can’t hurt you unless you let them.”

  I clung to his arm, tucked myself into his safety, willed myself to calm. “’kay. It’s okay.” I reassured myself.

  “It is okay, Em. I promise. Open your eyes. It will go away faster.”

  With extreme effort, I forced my eyes open.

  “See? Much better. I’m…” He paused and I knew there was an apology stifled in his throat. “Some memories are more potent than others, and right now, you’re more susceptible to them than we would be. All your receptors are new and tender—like a baby’s taste buds. They can taste everything so much better than their parents.”

  “Uh huh.” I curled myself against him and willed each muscle to relax.

  We sat there in the kitchen floor for what seemed like hours. I opened myself to him and allowed the overflow of him to pour into me. He was so patient, so kind, so gentle and loving. I basked in his memories like the sun, absorbed his warmth and confidence. But farther away, somewhere deeper, a place I couldn’t reach, something was painstakingly hidden from me. Hidden for my own sake? Or his? I pressed closer to see what it was, but he sensed my approach to this arcane and heavily fortressed memory.

  “Hey, come on,” he said with strained smile. He stood and pulled me to my feet. “Let’s see what else you can do.” Nick led me to the couch, sat me down, and slid in beside me. “Remember teaching me how to do a distance weave?” Of course I did. I had an eidetic memory now, too. “Let’s try that. You realize though, that once Sabre gets over himself, he’s going to make you into a guinea pig?”

  “Peachy,” I muttered.

  Nick chuckled and tucked a stray copper wisp of hair behind my ear. His eyes locked on mine. “Em? I can’t…”

  I pressed my fingers to his lips. “Hush. Don’t tell me. Let me find it.”

  Nick leaned away, taking the heat of his thoughts with him. He smiled and placed his hands palms up in his lap. I hovered mine just above his, longing to touch him. “No cheating,” he smirked.

  I closed my eyes, concentrated on the remembered sensation of the feel of his skin. My mind found its way into his with ease, such a comfortable familiar place. At first, his anguish over my death bored out my insides and filled them with lead; his rage toward Sabre slashed so deeply inside him, it cut me. And then I found the thing he wanted me to see—the memory of his elation, his relief when breath returned to my body. I smiled, and stroked the memory that sent flutters through my chest. But I wondered at that dark, hard place in Nick’s mind. Wondered what it was he didn’t want me to see. I crawled across the couch to him and climbed into his lap, my knees straddling his thighs. The look that registered on his face was something just shy of fear. I cupped his face between my hands.

  “Nick? Whatever’s wrong, it’ll be okay.” Somehow, now it felt a little more honest. His eyes cringed a little. I pressed my mouth to his and he shuddered beneath me. His hands, hot and passionate, roamed up my back, clasped my neck, pulled me harder against him. His mouth drank me in, as though starving for my touch. His mind spilled into mine, his spirit surged through me like my own life’s blood, hot and fierce, bright and energized—all but that one dark place. With a gasp, he drew away.

  He moved me aside and stood. Sheer panic blazed behind his eyes and I was sure I could hear the thrash of his overheated heart. “You should practice your memoryprinting some more,” he said, succinct, almost angry. When I flinched and pain pinched my eyes, his mouth gaped with an apology. The cogs of anger, remorse—and perhaps fear, minced together behind his eyes. His jaw shut with a snap and he strode away to the kitchen, left me in silence to tend my own wounds.

  Chapter 18 Poison & Wine

  Something was epically wrong and Nick was hiding it from me. Worse, he was hiding from me. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so forceful trying to find the answers to my questions in his mind. Maybe I’d violated some unknown boundary. Violated him. My heart sank like a rock in a pond. To take something against another’s will was like—rape. Had I pressed too hard, been too aggressive? Had I tried to take something from him against his will?

  I shuffled to the kitchen to explain, to apologize, but Nick’s quiet voice greeted me as he murmured into his phone. His head cocked to the side, remorse darkened his eyes as he registered the pain on my face. Shoving off from the counter, he came to me, wrapped an arm around my neck like I was his ‘buddy’ and kissed my forehead.

  With brimming eyes, and canyons creasing my brow, I peered up into his face. “I’m sorry. I…”

  “It’s okay, Em,” he murmured and gave me a squeeze. But, he turned his attention back to his conversation and walked away. My heart was heavier yet than when I entered the room. No, Em. It most certainly is not okay, I told myself.

  I felt lost in my own home, unable to contain this new power and curiosity. Petting Eddyson generally soothed me, but tonight his magic failed me. I left him curled on the couch, nose twitching at fanciful prey, and completely oblivious to my plight. I wandered the living room unearthing the exhilaration of the memories embedded in every surface. My mother’s laugh, my father’s warm hugs, and some deeper and fainter impressions from some ancient day and strangers in my house.

  The house was a 1903 craftsman style bungalow. This twenty-five acre plot was not its original address. Until 1963, the house sat on the lower South Hill in Spokane. The former owners hauled it nearly fifteen miles to this location. And my parents bought it a couple of years ago. With all the renovations we did—new windows, restored wood floors and built-in china hutches—the memories of my parents obscured the remnants left from decades past. My parent’s memories were the only ones I craved.

  A light dusting of snow from the previous night, sparkled outside in the dark like millions of earthbound stars. I wandered back toward my bedroom, thinking it was about time to get ready for bed, but stopped short. Dream Weavers didn’t require the amount of sleep of an average human. With a quiet huff of laughter, I turned and skimmed my fingers across the solid oak frame of the mirror hanging in the hall. I didn’t need any Caphar ability to withdraw the memory of standing before this mirror
with Nick at my Christmas party, as he placed the sparkling ‘Dream On’ pendant around my neck. Now, the grain of the wood glided under my touch as I gazed internally. But the familiar images in my mind faded into something extraordinary.

  My father’s hands pull the mirror from a wall, dislodge the backing, tape something to the back side of the mirror and replace the mat. He lifts the mirror and hangs it back on the wall.

  “What the fu—”. Uh, oops. Return of potty mouth.

  I started to call Nick to help me with the mirror. It would be heavy with the oak frame and antique glass. But hey. Was I an immortal now, or what? They said I’d be strong. Surely I could handle this. I hoisted the mirror off the wall with ease and carried it to the dining room table. Gingerly, I placed it face down and began flipping the side tabs to release the backing. My hands trembled with nervous energy as I lifted the backing away and revealed a yellowed sheet of paper taped to the inside of the glass with dried, cracked masking tape. The paper fairly dropped into my hand when I tucked my nails under it. I unfolded the brittle paper and scanned the image inside.

  “What’ve you got there?” Nick asked. I jumped, startled by his presence. The note from the back of the mirror had thoroughly engrossed my attention.

  I pulled my astonished eyes from the paper. “My father left me a treasure map.”

  * * *

  “That’s the footprint of this house. I’m sure of it.” Nick and I pored over the delicate scrap of paper and tried to make sense of what didn’t seem possible. “But look. This room doesn’t exist. The foundation wall is right there.” I raked my nails through my hair, trying to make sense of this. “I just don’t understand. My parents bought this place a couple of years ago. And this mirror was in their house until—after they died.” I couldn’t bear to part with my parent’s belongings. So most of it sat in boxes and crates in my garage. “But, why would my dad hide it behind the mirror? And when?”