Riley drummed polished fingernails on the wooden table. She inspected her nails, which she habitually kept short, but manicured. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself.
She concentrated on the color—a light taupe—of her fingernail polish. Her eyes squinted reflexively as she focused on her fingers. Everything else in her direct sight blurred until only the muted color remained in focus. In dreams, she could change everything about her appearance to meet a client’s specific desires. It had taken a few decades of practice, but now she was able to change her hair color, eye color, clothing, accessories, and time with minimal effort. It was an inefficient talent that monopolized energy that could otherwise go towards meeting her monthly quota. As such, she rarely manipulated the realm unless she calculated the waste would benefit her in the end. After witnessing Liliah’s transformation she had to wonder if the same kind of shift could be accomplished outside of dreams and if more than superficial changes were within her abilities.
Her concentration was disrupted when a heavy box was dumped beside her. The table shuddered under its impact.
“You’re thinking awfully hard,” Liliah observed. She brushed her hands together, producing a visible cloud of fine dust. It made Riley question if anyone ever came to the archives.
Riley shook her head with a rough flick. “Sorry. Daydreaming.”
The archivist licked her lips, a hint of amusement touching them. “As if you don’t get enough dreams in your line of work?”
Riley cleared her throat. “Have you always been down here?”
“Since the beginning of time?” Liliah arched an eyebrow. “No. But … I’ll admit it’s been quite a while since I was an active agent like you.”
Riley had more questions, and Liliah had been forthcoming, but she didn’t want to take advantage of the archivist’s kindness by asking too many personal ones.
“So,” Liliah began, “I took the liberty of pulling all of Trusics’s handbooks and newsletters. Well, all of the ones we have here at least.” She slid a finger across the layer of dust on the box and rubbed her fingers together. “But if there was a specific time span you were interested in, I could do an interlibrary loan from one of the other operations. Hopefully, you’ll find something of use. It’s an incomplete archive, unfortunately. Most of the precorporation material was lost or purposefully destroyed to keep our world a secret from the humans.”
Riley stood and removed the lid from the archival box. She flipped her fingertips over the carefully organized folders, each of them labeled with a year. Her eyebrows furrowed. “But some of these go back to the late nineteenth century. Has the network been around for that long?”
“Yes. But Trusics, the corporate form that you know, has only been around since 1990.” The perplexed look on Riley’s face told the archivist all she needed to know. “You really don’t know much about our history, do you?”
Riley shook her head, feeling embarrassed by her ignorance. It had never occurred to her to ask questions like these. Trusics provided her with everything she had ever desired. Who was she to question that or their motives?
Liliah sat on the edge of the reading room table. “The Realm’s United Suc and Inc Communication System”—or Trusics as it’s known as now—is as old as the first printing presses. Obviously, the cubare community has a far more ancient history, but starting around the mid-fifteenth century, our kind began to seek each other out in a more organized fashion. It began modestly as a kind of …” she hesitated, looking for the right word. “Support group.”
“Support group,” Riley repeated. “As in ‘oh woe is me, it’s so hard being immortal?’”
“Where would you be today without your friends?” the archivist asked sharply. “Without a strong support group of allies who knew the exact trials and tribulations that come from being like this?”
Riley held up her hands, properly chastised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean offense. I remember those. It’s just that they’re so different now.”
The woman’s features softened. “Apology accepted. So, as I was saying,” she continued, “around the 1600s, some of the founders were looking for alternate ways to fiscally support themselves that would allow them more time in the dream realm. This became a joint-stock company founded in Great Britain with footholds in the Far East.”
“Which explains how easily Trusics was able to expand globally around the time I was recruited by them,” Riley said, thinking out loud.
Liliah nodded. “They had already sown the seeds centuries earlier.”
Riley ran her fingertips over the tops of the organized folders. “Is there anything that exists from the early period?”
“No. They used a disappearing ink as a precaution, in case the newsletters fell into the wrong hands.”
Riley knew by now not to mock the other woman, so she kept her snarky comments to herself. “Then what?” she asked, eagerly leaning in. Her curiosity was like a dam, weakened from the strength of a flash flood. Now that the first questions had been asked, she could hardly hold back the deluge.
“Well, the company earned more and more money, eventually branching out to a small line of chain stores.” Liliah fished a worn folder from the archival box and produced a newsletter dated from the early 1800s. “Word spread that if you were in need of reliable work that afforded you enough time to access the dream realm, this was the place to seek employment.”
“I worked for one of those cubare retail chains in New York before our current employer.” Riley’s eyes roamed over the artifact. “Honestly, this is amazing. I can’t believe someone kept this for so long.”
Liliah made a humming noise of agreement before carefully refiling the newsletter. “Then the wars came,” she recited. “A century of death that affected the cubare population, as well as the humans. So starting in the 1950s, recruitment picked up.” She tilted her head to the side, inspecting Riley. “When did you become a succubus?”
“Not long after that,” Riley admitted.
Liliah chuckled. “Ah yes. One of the Baby-Boomer succubi.”
Riley had never heard herself referred to in such a manner—most of her friends were younger cubare like herself—so she didn’t know if she should be offended or not. She was also tempted to ask Liliah when she had become a succubus, but she had already sensed that the archivist was far older than herself.
“Then came the Internet and everything changed. But you probably already know about that.”
Riley nodded.
“Thus ends storytime.” Liliah looked around the empty room. “You’re welcome to look through these files until the end of the workday. I usually close up shop around 4 p.m., so give me a call on that phone over there if you’re finished for the day or if you’d like to look at some more boxes.”
Riley stood up. “Thank you, Liliah. You’ve been extremely accommodating.”
Liliah flashed a brilliant smile, all even, white teeth. “Glad to have the company.”
Riley pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She fished out the first folder from the archival box. “Well, here goes nothing,” she said and began to read.
Hours later, Riley still had not discovered anything of use. The newsletters might have served as a touchpoint for the cubare community since the invention of the printing press, but so far Riley hadn’t stumbled upon anything more interesting than a recipe for bacon-wrapped jalapeño poppers. A digital archive would be far more helpful. She could research phrases like “lucid dreamer” and “injuries that manifested in the real world” without alerting anyone in her company to the irregularity of her latest mark.
Riley rubbed roughly at her face. The small print was starting to affect her; the tiny black words blurred together, causing her eyes to strain. She stood and stretched her arms above her, enjoying the delicious pull at the base of her spine. Oxygen to the brain wasn’t going to be enough if she wanted to soldier through more archival material for the rest of the day. She was going to need a caffeine drip.
The cardboard cup dropped out of the beverage dispensary. Riley pressed the button for a coffee, black, but nothing happened. There was a mechanical buzzing noise, but no liquid was produced. Riley hit the side of the machine, and the hot liquid finally poured out.
“No beverages by the books, okay?” Liliah had returned with another archival box. As soon as Riley finished skimming through one archival box, Liliah unearthed another for her. It was like an unending conveyor belt of useless information.
Riley smiled sheepishly at the archivist. “Sorry. I’ll dump it out.”
Liliah set down the box on the long research table. “It’s not that good of coffee anyway.”
“I’m sure I’ve had worse,” Riley said with a laugh.
“I’m sure you have. How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
Liliah produced a sympathetic smile. “You know you don’t have to get through all these files today. It’s an archive. We’re not going anywhere. And it’s not like you’re getting any older, either.”
“I know,” Riley nodded, looking blearily at the new stack of boxes Liliah had brought down. “But I want to try to get through as much material today since I’m already here.”
“Are you sure there isn’t something specific I can help you find?” Liliah offered. “It would probably be a lot more efficient that way. I know these files pretty well.”
It was tempting to ask the archivist what she knew about lucid dreamers. But just as she hadn’t turned in the paperwork that would have blacklisted Morgan and shut off Riley’s access, she kept this to herself.
“Nothing specific.” Riley puffed out a sigh. “Guess I’d better get back to it.”
Liliah nodded. “I’m here if you need me.”
Riley tossed back the coffee and made a face. The liquid was so thick it was practically chewable. Ready to renew her search, she settled back down at the research table. The folder in front of her was dated from the 1930s. It contained mostly newsletters from the precorporate cubare support group. If Riley hadn’t been so concerned about her latest mark, she might have actually enjoyed the glimpse into the past. There were entire columns about fiscally surviving the Great Depression and rally cries to step up efforts in giving the human race an escape from their own dire realities. She hadn’t been particularly fond of history when she’d been a human, but having befriended cubare who’d experienced the actual events firsthand made the subject come alive like no high school textbook could.
She continued to scan the newsletters, still not finding anything of particular import to her research goals. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed at her lower back. She was stiffening up from sitting still for so long. If she was lucky, maybe one of her marks would dream up a spa retreat for them that night.
She sighed heavily and returned the 1930s folder to the box. Routinely she grabbed for the next folder which corresponded with the next decade. She was getting closer to World War II, when James had been turned. The years that produced her closest friends were of personal interest, but she doubted if there was anything in these boxes that would answer her questions. Once she got into a rhythm recognizing patterns of columns and sticking to headlines and subheadings, she moved quickly through the material. The 1940s folders revealed nothing helpful, although she had discovered some touching letters from the cubare about loved ones lost to the war. As mentioned in Liliah’s history lesson, the World Wars had devastated both humans and cubare. She slipped the last folder for the 1940s back into its original box.
Her watch indicated it was close to the end of Liliah’s work day. She could stop for the day, empty-handed, or hope that the 1950s would shed some light on her mystery mark.
“Might as well,” she grumbled to herself.
The newsletters from the 1950s were printed in color. The format was visibly different from previous decades, and the paper had a glossy feel. Also new was a monthly column that resembled a “Dear Abby” format. Both succubi and incubi wrote in with questions as varied as how to slow down time in the dream realm to making the perfect meatloaf. One headline from the Question and Answer column screamed out at Riley: “Lucid Dreamers. They Exist. Don’t Freak Out!”
Riley suddenly became alert; her previous despondent fog scattered. She bent her head close to the paper and eagerly devoured the first glimmer of helpful text.
Dear Dream Whisperer,
Last night I encountered a mark who seemed to know exactly who I was—or should I say—was aware of my presence. While she didn’t come right out and name me as an incubus, she knew that she was dreaming. The energy was great, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to avoid her in the future. Did I do something wrong? Should I be worried if this happens again?
Looking forward to your answer,
Concerned ‘Cubi
Riley’s hands practically shook with excitement and she continued to read. It sounded exactly like Morgan, although they’d never had sex, so she didn’t know the quality of that particular mark’s energy. The response was printed below.
What you encountered is what we refer to as a Lucid—someone who is aware of his or her dream and tends to have control of the environment as such. Lucid dreamers are rare (yours personally has never encountered one), but if you find yourself in this situation again, do not fret. Your natural charms will take over. Lucids are not immune to our kind. Did you notice that as the dream progressed, the mark settled into her role? Lucids will fall into their dreams and fantasy like the rest of the dreamers. Take charge, Concerned ‘Cubi.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Liliah’s voice rang out.
Riley looked up sharply from the newsletter, eyes wide. The archivist had reappeared. She now wore a jacket and had a purse slung over her shoulder.
“The archives are now closed for the day. We’ll open up again at 9 a.m. tomorrow.”
Riley snapped the folder shut and stood up. “Do you need to reshelve these or can I keep them here on the table for when I come back?” She was partially afraid that if she left the folder in the archives, it might not be there when she returned. It was a ludicrous fear, she knew. There was no conspiracy; Trusics had no reason to suspect anything was off with its star employee.
Liliah frowned. “I have to return them to the stacks. They’re stored in an environmentally-controlled room so the newsletters don’t fall apart. Unlike us, these materials tend to fade with age.”
Riley nodded her understanding. “But I can come back, right, and pick up where I left off?”
“Of course,” Liliah confirmed. She set her bag on the table so she could begin the task of reshelving the archival boxes. “When can I expect you?”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
CHAPTER NINE
September
“Oh, God. I’m so hungry.” Riley slumped down in an empty chair at their usual table. She slid her sunglasses up to her forehead and rubbed at her eyes. The dark circles beneath her normally vibrant irises were enough to make themselves present.
“Was that Henry who dropped you off?” James questioned, craning his neck to look at the city streetscape. “I hope our favorite cabbie is doing well. Last time I spoke to him his daughter was heading to college.”
“Where the hell is your car?” Heather added. “What’s wrong with it now?”
“It wouldn’t start.” Riley shrugged. “I didn’t have time to look it over this morning, but I’ll fix it soon.”
“Use your money, and buy a new car before I buy you one,” Heather threatened.
“Don’t you dare.” Riley frowned. “It’s not that I can’t buy something new, but I like my car and I can damn well fix it.”
“Stubborn mule,” Heather said under her breath loudly enough for Riley to hear. She waved at their usual waitress. “Let’s get some food in you. You’re looking a little … famished.” The cringe on her face was apparent. “We weren’t sure if you were going to make it today, otherwise James would have ordered for you.”
“Thanks, H,
” Riley grumbled. “Is ‘famished’ your new way of telling me I look like crap?”
“Maybe.” Heather spoke into her coffee cup. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”
Riley hesitated. “What makes you say that?”
Heather stirred more sugar into her black coffee. “I can see the gears in your head turning.” She offered her drink to Riley, who simply waved it off. “More often than usual.”
If there was one person Riley could trust enough to confide in, it would be Heather. “There’s a girl,” she admitted.
“Sounds juicy.” Heather scooted her chair closer. “Work or real life?”
“Work. And she’s driving me crazy. I’m not getting anything from her.”
Heather’s refined features furrowed. “I’m not following.”
“I’ve visited her a few times, and we still haven’t had sex.”
“What?” The attention of the table turned to the both of them.
Riley scolded her friend. “Keep it down. It’s … complicated.”
“Sweetie, what we do is anything but complicated.” Holding up her hand, she began counting off on her fingers. “We show up, we sex it up, and we get out of there.”
Riley pushed the salt and pepper shakers around on the tabletop. “She’s different.”
“What’s going on with you, Riles?” Heather relaxed into her chair but the tension radiated off her posture. “You’re starting to worry me.”
“I’m fine,” Riley insisted with a shake of her head. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Are you not meeting your quota because of this girl?” Heather asked, worried.
“No, I am. I’m meeting it just fine.”
“Then why the dark circles under your eyes?” Heather prodded. “Or is this some new vampire-chic look I’m not hip to?”
“I’ve just been staying a little too long with her.”
“Stop doing that.” Heather’s tone was severe.
“But—”
Drained: The Lucid Page 10