The Dream Travelers Boxed Set #2: Includes 2 Complete Series (9 Books) PLUS Bonus Material

by Sarah Noffke

  “Yes, I think so,” she says, looking at the isolation tank with curiosity. “Is the water cold?” she says to Aiden.

  He shakes his head, pulling the lid up to reveal a tank full of bluish water. “It’s your body’s temperature.”

  “And I’ll float?” Dahlia says, stepping forward and studying the chamber closer.

  “That’s right. The salt creates the perfect level of gravity. All you have to do is meditate and then follow the dream travel protocol that we’ve discussed,” Aiden says.

  She nods, now taking her robe off to reveal a bathing suit which shows just how skinny she’s gotten. And she actually looks excited for the next step, like she’s about to dive into an enchanted lake. “Let’s do this,” Dahlia says. With a grace that I first witnessed twenty-two years ago, she steps up and into the tank, taking Aiden’s hand for support. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she says, tucking down low and sitting at once, her arms swimming around her as she glides back.

  “This isn’t a soak in a hot tub. You have a job to do,” I say, and I know my voice sounds too stern. Everything rests on what happens next. If Dahlia can’t access the dreamscape then I’m uncertain if my plans will work. And if she doesn’t die a Dream Traveler, then I’m doomed.

  “Stop being so grumpy. You’ve got to learn to live a little,” she says, running her hand over the surface of the water.

  “Ha-ha,” I say as I step backward, away. “You know the coordinates?”

  “Only because you won’t stop repeating them,” she says, and her smile is the only thing that has ever fully disoriented me. It makes my heart speed up in my chest.

  “Meet me there in twenty minutes,” I say, trying to make it sound like an inevitable meeting. But it’s not. I might find myself alone in the dreamscape. I might have failed. “Don’t screw anything up, Monkey-Boy. I’m trusting you,” I say to Aiden and turn at once and head to my room to dream travel.

  ***

  The night sky in Nuuk looks like the canvas that a wizard streaked with smoky paint. Plumes of an almost neon green light hover high up in the sky. Effervescent blue has snuck its way into the cascading green, but only in small places. Beside it is a costar of pink, the color of cotton candy. Few things in the world are as mesmerizing as the Aurora Borealis. Scientists believe the phenomenon is a result of protons and hydrogen atoms and electrons and whatnot. These small-minded idiots fail to see that that’s the chemical makeup, but there’s far more to it. I’m comprised of atoms, but that’s not what caused me. That’s not who I am and it definitely doesn’t say anything about my purpose. The Aurora Borealis is proof that other worlds exist. It’s the bleeding over of these other worlds. I know that for certain, but I must admit that I don’t know how many other realms are out there, or if I can get to the right ones.

  I pull my chin down and my eyes away from the light display to find a figure standing fifteen feet away. She looks small with the green hills and stony mountains behind her. And then I realize that I’m rushing, my feet nearly running, having moved without my express permission. Dahlia, or maybe my hallucination of her, doesn’t move. Her hands are by her side, her eyes running over the lake at my back, the lights in the sky, the houses tucked too close together on the banks.

  I slide to a halt just before her. She’s transparent, just as everyone is in dream travel form.

  “Are you real?” I say, looking down at her.

  “I’ve been asking myself that question all my life,” she says, and then giggles, her eyes lit up by the green in the sky.

  “I’m worried that I’ve lost my mind and this is an actual dream or you’re an illusion I’ve created in the dreamscape,” I say, and it’s all true. I don’t trust my experiences anymore. That’s what exhaustion does to a brain.

  She takes a step forward, sliding easily into my arms. “I’m real, Ren Lewis. And I’ve dream traveled for the very first time thanks to you.”

  And she’s right, she is real. I can feel her as only those in the dreamscape can do. It’s not as intimate of a sensation as in the physical realm, but still it’s an unmistakable feeling. And illusions can’t be felt. They aren’t real. I press her to me, relishing in the success. What should have been impossible has just been done. I’ve figured out the process to turn Middlings into Dream Travelers. And if I can achieve that impossible reality, then the rest of my plan should work.

  “I’m not cold,” Dahlia says, stepping back to reveal her body barely covered in the red bathing suit.

  “No, you wouldn’t be,” I say. “We don’t experience the elements in the dreamscape. They pass right through us.” I then extend a hand and summon from the physical realm the robe she’d taken off earlier. Although she can’t be cold, I know that her withered body still makes her self-conscious.

  She eyes the robe and then me, a look of quiet pride on her face. “Well, it appears I’ve yet to see all of your tricks.”

  “Yes, summoning I can only really do in the dreamscape and it’s illegal by Lucidite laws, but I must break those every now and again,” I say, turning her around so her back is pressed into me. I wrap my arms around her from behind and we both look out at the Aurora Borealis.

  “This was the perfect location for my first dream travel experience,” she says.

  It’s true, but of course I didn’t just choose it because it’s an incredible display of lights. There’s meaning behind everything I’m doing lately.

  “Aurora was the Roman goddess of dawn,” I say, my voice automatically going into lecture mode.

  “And Borealis means north wind in Greek,” Dahlia says.

  “You’ve been watching the History Channel, haven’t you?” I say.

  “You forget that I’m formally educated,” she says.

  “I try and forget that you had to settle for that lowly route,” I say.

  “Yes, I wasn’t blessed with the brains you have, but watch out because I’m a Dream Traveler now,” Dahlia says.

  “Yes, you’re almost unstoppable now,” I say, but the sentence almost closes up my throat. Only if she’d been a Dream Traveler earlier or always then Dahlia wouldn’t be dying from a disease I can’t stop.

  “Where are we?” she says, now glancing at the town around us. Little houses painted in various colors sit nestled together on the hills like they are banding together to stay warm.

  “Nuuk,” I say.

  “The capital of Greenland. I never thought I’d see it,” she says, and there’s such delight in her voice.

  “Nuuk means ‘cape’ in Kalaallisut,” I say; this information was actually newly acquired by me.

  “Aw, and what better place to witness the dawning of the north wind than behind a cape,” Dahlia says, snuggling in closer to me. She gets me. Gets that I have pulled the element of symbolism into our lives. Dahlia knows that I’ve found a magic of sorts and plan to unleash it.

  Chapter Eleven

  I nearly step on a crawling, drooling thing when I round into the conference room of the strategic department. It’s a baby I don’t recognize, but I know it belongs to Trent based on its dark skin and wiry black afro. The little brat stops crawling right in front of me, blocking my path to my usual seat at the conference table. With green eyes too large for her tiny face she looks up at me and points.

  “Red!” she says with a giant smile.

  I’m actually impressed that the little shit can use words, since Lucien is older than her and has the vocabulary of a chimp with special needs.

  “Ren,” I correct her. “Learn bloody English. My name is Ren.”

  “Red! Red! Red!” the fucker says.

  I extend my foot and nudge her leg with my calfskin moccasins. “Move or I will step on you.”

  Trent, who had been in a conversation with an agent at the front of the room, looks over. Then he startles, like he just remembered he forgot the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. “Oh, Jaz! Get out of the way!” He rushes over and scoops the thing up into h
is arms, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he says, as he deposits her into a nearby leather chair, where art supplies had previously been set up for her.

  “When the fuck did this place become a nursery?” I say, eyeing the jerk, who immediately grabs a crayon and begins sucking on it.

  “Trey wants us to embrace the family feel. Before, things were divided. No children were really raised at the Institute, but after everything…” Trent trails away because he’s a fucking loser who can’t move on and let the past go.

  “Well, there were good reasons for not raising heathens here. We do have a fucking job to do and how are we supposed to do it if every bloody day is ‘bring your daughter to work’ day?” I say, tossing a finger in the drooling thing’s direction.

  Beside me there’s a cough. I rotate my head slowly and find Adelaide has taken the place next to me.

  “Hi, Pops,” she says, because she knows I hate it when she calls me that.

  I throw my chin up in the air and stare at where the heavens would be if such a thing existed. “Very funny, God.” Then I point a thumb at Adelaide and say to Trent, “Don’t think this proves your fucking case. Although she doesn’t act like it, Adelaide is an adult and I’m not even certain she’s related to me.”

  At this a laugh explodes out of her mouth. “Yeah, whatever you want to tell yourself, Red,” she says, and then takes a seat next to the dumbass who is now coloring on the redwood conference table.

  I return my attention to Trent. “I’ve been out of pocket on other business and need updates on the current cases,” I say, as I take my usual spot at the table, two seats down from the little brats.

  Trent looks all too displeased when he sits in the seat next to me. He then eyes the other two agents in the room, giving them that look. The one that says, “Get out.”

  When they’ve left the area he returns his focus on me. “Other agents don’t get full reports on all the top-level cases, Ren.”

  “I’m not other agents,” I say, clasping my hands over my lap and leaning back. It’s been ages since I’ve sat.

  “You’re also not the head of this department anymore,” Trent says.

  “Can we bypass all this ego bullshit of yours? I don’t have the time and I’m trying to help you save the fucking world from sliding into a canyon of doom,” I say.

  “He has control issues,” Adelaide says from her spot a few chairs away. Apparently she decided to stay and make my life even more hellacious. She’s borrowed one of the brat’s crayons and papers and is drawing a picture, like the child that she is.

  “I’m definitely close to breaking and going on a rampage, so please remember that,” I say to her.

  Trent grabs one of his dreads and pulls at it, but only slightly. It’s a nervous habit he’s recently adopted. “There have been two more wolf massacres,” he says. “That’s your case so I’ll brief you on that, since I know you’ve been busy on other business.”

  “And then you’ll brief me on the other level five cases,” I say.

  “Ren, I really don’t—”

  “Trent, what I think your biggest problem is, besides your hair, is that you fail to see that everything is connected. Usually I could relate level five cases to each other and find a string that connected them. I was able to do that and consolidate my cases. I’ve seen the amount of level five cases that have poured in and I’m betting that they aren’t all unrelated. Why don’t you fill me in and take advantage of my superior knowledge and experience,” I say.

  “Modesty is another of Ren’s strong suits,” Adelaide says, like she’s talking to the drooling child.

  “Yes, fine,” Trent says with a heavy sigh, obviously overly stressed by all the demands of the position. He really has so many shortcomings, and yet he was the best person for the job. “About the wolf case—”

  “Go ahead and call it the werewolf case,” I say.

  “With all due respect—”

  “Don’t use that phrase. It’s a phony phrase that has no meaning. It’s supposed to make someone not feel offended for something that obviously is contradicting their intelligence,” I say, cutting Trent off. “Really, Trent, have I taught you nothing?”

  “I just think it’s a bit early to jump to such a bizarre conclusion,” Trent says.

  “Then don’t. But when I’m right then I’m going to shove it in your face,” I say.

  “How is that different than any other time?” Adelaide says, interrupting us.

  I slowly turn and look at her. “Do you have nothing to do? Isn’t there a level one case that you can go screw up or an underprivileged kid that you can insult or an upper-class college freshman you can give an STD to?” I say to Adelaide.

  “I agree that that’s not the way a father should talk to his little princess,” she says in a baby voice to the kid beside her who is scribbling on paper now. “Your daddies would never talk to you that way because Trent and Joseph have souls.”

  “That’s yet to be determined,” I reply. “Have you really met Joseph?”

  “I have, and I think it’s pretty cool that Jaz has his eyes, but your skin color,” Adelaide says in Trent’s direction. “Pretty cool that you found a donor who looked so much like Joseph.”

  “Oh, we didn’t,” Trent says. “It was my sample we used, but we were able to splice in some of Joseph’s DNA. It’s this new CRISPR technology.”

  “What? That’s a thing? We can do that?” Adelaide says, sounding stunned.

  “Aiden’s lab can. They created the technology. Gene splicing has really come a long way. It’s even rumored that soon they’ll be able to alter existing DNA,” Trent says.

  “If you two dimwits would shut the fuck up for a second about family trees then I’d like to get the information on the latest level five cases,” I say, at my wits’ end with these two fuckers.

  “Well, the most recent one is incredibly peculiar,” Trent says.

  “Stop hanging out with Aiden, who uses superfluous adjectives, and get to the bloody point,” I say.

  “Right. Well, there was a string of robberies at optometrist offices all over the country,” Trent says.

  “Why is that especially peculiar? Did they steal contact lenses?” I say.

  “No, they hacked into the software and stole patient records,” Trent says.

  “And this string of robberies. How long is it actually?” I ask.

  “Over three thousand,” he says.

  “Holy fuck, that’s a lot. This isn’t a common robbery. What’s in those records?” I say.

  “What you’d expect,” Trent says, and now he sounds smug, which I don’t approve of. “Nothing that could point to the purpose behind obtaining hundreds of thousands of patient records nationwide.”

  “I’ll repeat this because you obviously lost your hearing in the Dream Traveler apocalypse,” I say. “What was in the records?”

  “Medical information, vision history, prescriptions, retina scans—”

  “What the fuck did you just say?” I say, cutting him off and a peg falling into place in my cognition.

  “Retina scans…” Trent says, not getting it. That’s why he sucks at this job in comparison to me.

  And then it all connects, like a quilt with patches from different times in history, made by separate people. The new United States President’s words come back to me:

  “Can I still pass the retina scanner security bill?” he had asked me on the night of the election.

  I regarded him blankly, I remember.

  “Why?” I had said.

  “Because I think it will be cool to have to have eye scans to enter all government facilities,” he had said, like a fucking idiot. But now I realize he’s either a part of this conspiracy involving werewolves or he’s a pawn. And I know exactly what’s going to happen next and exactly how to stop it.

  “We need—” I begin, but then I’m cut off by the mobile ringing in my pocket. I retrieve it to realize tha
t my pops, who is staying in the rooming corridor with the rest of us at the Institute and apparently can’t walk down the hallway, is calling me.

  “What?” I growl into the phone.

  “Ren, it’s your pops,” he says.

  “Caller ID is a thing, you know,” I say.

  “It’s Dahlia. Something’s wrong. I mean, more so than usual. She asked for you,” he says.

  And I switch off the mobile and leave without another word.

  Chapter Twelve

  The bedroom I’ve shared with Dahlia now for weeks at the Institute is dark. She always keeps it bright, filled with lights that mimic the sun’s rays. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought of that during my imprisonment at the Institute, which is devoid of windows. And flowers always make the space feel inviting, overshadowing the cold stainless steel walls. This woman found a way to make an underground facility feel like a home. She has done what Dream Travelers blessed with special powers and decades more experience have failed to do. Dahlia brought personality to a steel box of a room. She made me forget where I was, if only briefly. She fooled me every morning into thinking I was awakening to sunlight streaming through open windows. That the garden was on the other side of the double doors, like the one at our house in Santa Monica. She did something I thought I was the only one left alive that could do. Dahlia created an illusion.

  Our room is dark when I enter, and the black makes the space feel too vast, like it doubled inside to accompany the pain. Each night, every morning, each hour of the day, she wears the pain like a solider does a battle scar. Hidden. Buried under clothes. Away from the eyes of everyone. But I feel her pain. It fills the room in the morning, at that raw hour when she’s awoken to remember. To remember that God has cursed her. Cursed her for being a Middling. Cursed her for tirelessly serving his people, by creating an art that no one can touch or replicate.

  Pops doesn’t turn his head as I approach. He only rises from his crouched place close to Dahlia’s side, his hand clasped in hers.