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

by Sarah Noffke

  “I didn’t want to leave her. That’s the reason I called,” he says, his back to me, his eyes probably somber and on the woman before him.

  “Son, I was afraid if I left her—”

  “Leave,” I say, my voice a hush.

  This does cause him to turn, and just then I catch Dahlia’s face on the other side of him. Her eyes are closed, like an angel napping, rejuvenating for yet another day of creating miracles.

  The expression on Pops’s face feels like a deliberate assault on my resolve in this moment. It says too much. It reeks of an emotion that I should be the only one allowed to feel. And yet, pain connected to the loss of Dahlia isn’t something that I have exclusive rights to. And soon I’ll know that all too well.

  “Give us a moment,” I say to Pops, like I’m asking to have a private consult with Dahlia before she freshens up for dinner.

  He nods, and the hand he claps on my shoulder almost unbuckles my knees. “I’ll be outside, son.”

  When the door clicks shut, I remain standing, staring at the most perfect specimen I’ve ever known. My equal in all the right ways. I’m only superior to Dahlia in my immunity to cancer and still that doesn’t make me better. Cancer probably should have knocked me out years ago, a direct result of my bad attitude and a long list of awful karma. However, I stand, strong enough to face another fifty or sixty years on this earth, and the woman before me lies at the doors of defeat, knocking on the doors, begging to be allowed entry. Just like my mum, but also not like her at all. I don’t forget they will both have died from the same disease. I don’t forget their histories will be so similar. Dying young. Leaving Dream Traveler partners behind. It isn’t coincidence. There is no such thing. It is a game that God plays because he thinks he’s teaching us lessons, making us face demons. But God has no more power over me. This attempt to make me face the pain, experience loss, will be in vain and even he is beginning to know that, I’m certain.

  “Can I ask you for a favor?” Dahlia says, her eyes still closed but a slight smile on her face.

  And the curious grin I release is also accompanied by a sharp brutal pain, which apparently just broke out of the cage where I’d banished it. “You can ask me for almost anything,” I say, taking the seat next to her on the bed, my hand instantly covering hers.

  “Would you be nicer to that man?” she says, and cracks an eye now. And then, as if deciding the light in the room is acceptable, she opens both eyes wide, a smile crossing her expression and then disappearing at once.

  “Why would I do that?” I say.

  “Because your pops is one of the best men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in my almost forty-five years on this planet,” she says.

  I love that we are here, discussing my abusive behavior. That she’s hiding a smile. That I’m hiding everything. And that she’s the only person I can ever have a tender moment with quite like this. Leaving so much unsaid. Saying the things that matter very little. Dahlia is the only woman alive who understands me. She knows I can’t do emotions. Knows that I’m the most unlovable human to exist and yet she loves me in a way I feel I actually deserve and it makes me better.

  “So you summoned me,” I say, pressing a thumb into her palm, which feels like a cold iris petal that’s fallen on the bare ground.

  “Dream traveling did give me a gift,” she says.

  I nod, no real expression on my face. “Yes, I figured it would. Dream traveling is the power that fuels greater aspects of our brains. Can you do something lame like telekinesis?”

  “I think I have a couple of gifts actually,” she says, and now she’s hiding a sneaky expression although it looks strange on her exhausted face, like a cat about to fall asleep.

  “A couple? Are you certain? You’ve only dream traveled a couple of times. That’s not quite enough to bring on more than one gift or even make that one strong.”

  Dahlia bites down on her lip and nods; well, tries to nod. “I have a hunch on the second gift. But the first one is that I can see the future,” she says.

  “Yes, fairly useless gift, as I suspected,” I say.

  She pulls her hand away from mine and goes to slap my arm but the movement isn’t strong or deliberate enough. Her arm just falls like it is weighted and her hand ends up back in mine. Where it belongs.

  “Ren, I’ve seen the end. My end,” Dahlia says, and I know she’s trying to suppress it, but just then the ache in her words comes out like glue spilling over the edges of two pieces being sealed back together.

  “Have you seen anything on a werewolf case though? That’s really what I need details from a clairvoyant on,” I say.

  She doesn’t laugh. I’m sure she wants to. I’m sure she wants to send a quip back in my direction but instead, she turns her head away, throwing her eyes at a darkened corner.

  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she says, and for the first time in all our lives, I feel a pain in her that is too beautiful for words. It’s not the pain of rejection, like I’ve made her feel so many times. It’s not the pain of loss. It’s the pain of having, and realizing this world can gift us in a way that touches our soul. That kind of experience is so perfect that it hurts. It etches itself on our soul like a tattoo. And it hurts so much that it actually feels good.

  “It sounds like you’ve lived an incredibly sheltered life,” I say, gripping her hand firmly.

  And like we aren’t having a conversation her eyes fall shut and her breaths immediately take on a shallow rhythm. I’m willing to stay here for all of eternity and hold her hand. Watch her sleep. But then her eyes flicker, trying several times to open completely. Without her looking at me, I know she feels me there, but I also feel the disorientation in the way she regards the far wall. “Ren,” Dahlia says, and her voice is too quiet. I lean in to hear her. “I know you have all these plans, but just in case—”

  “They will work,” I say, cutting her off. Now I realize what this is about.

  “But if they don’t. I want… I need the opportunity to say—”

  “No,” I say, my voice suddenly loud. “No goodbyes.”

  “But Ren. What you’re trying to do—”

  “Have a little faith in me,” I say, a beautiful irony in my voice.

  “Oh, Ren Lewis,” she says, and now she brings her eyes back to stare at me. They are brimming with tears, casting the blue of her eyes in pools about to overflow. “There’s no one I’ve ever believed in more than you. That’s why I need the chance to tell you one last time that—”

  “Save it, Dahlia,” I say, interrupting the one set of words I can’t hear from her right now. They will jinx everything. “You’ll get another chance. I promise.”

  “Ren, this is the end of my story,” she says, her words slow. And I almost think she’s fallen asleep halfway through the sentence. “This morning,” she says, and then licks her split lips. “I was washing my face and I saw a vision of this moment. You don’t allow me to say goodbye and then…” Dahlia pauses and her eyes don’t seem to see my face, but rather a picture show in her mind. She’s reliving the vision.

  “Ren, I saw you, you just sit here and watch…me…die,” she says, finally completing a sentence that is almost too emotionally and physically taxing for her to finish.

  Her hand feels close to fracturing in mine, but she doesn’t complain about the pressure. I draw in a deep breath and lean close in to her, my nose almost touching hers. “You don’t say goodbye when you know you’re going to see each other again,” I say.

  “But if we don’t…” she says in a tortured whisper.

  “Shhh,” I say and press my lips to hers. She doesn’t kiss me back. She can’t. It’s too much for her. But it’s enough for me. And then I feel her hand brush the stubble of my cheek. Peeling back, I look down at her. A unique peace is on her face as though all burdens we are born with have been washed away in this moment.

  “Ren, you made it all worth it. You made everything
better,” she says, her arm shaking to keep her hand up, pressed to my cheek.

  “You know what I’ve always seen when I’ve looked at you?” she says, her words sluggish, but somehow strong.

  I shake my head against her hand, and it’s enough of a movement that she drops it down to my lap. “Home,” she says simply. “You’re my home,” Dahlia says.

  And then she closes her eyes and I instinctively know that Dahlia won’t open them again in this world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  LA Times

  There have been few losses as great as the one announced today. It came as an incredible shock when the family of Dahlia, the famed singer and musician, released a press statement. Last night, the extraordinarily talented pop star died in her sleep, according to her family who were by her side. This is an extreme blow for fans to digest since no one knew that Dahlia was sick and, more specifically, dying of ovarian cancer. The international star had taken a hiatus from touring to work on a new album, according to the most recent communication from her management. When questioned, they stated that they were also unaware that Dahlia was sick. The family said in their recent statement that Dahlia had asked that the information be kept secret and only her closest relatives and staff were made aware of the condition.

  Now that the world knows of this information, a long and arduous road to healing will have to be discovered and will surely be threaded by millions. Dahlia spent over thirty years making music that was cherished by people young and old. It was music that brought people together and gave them a common interest. She celebrated more than fifty number one hits, most of those staying on the charts for more than fifteen weeks. Dahlia is not a giant star. She’s the top artist of all time with more recordings and more platinum records than any other. On this day a star has fallen, one that will leave a permanent dark place in the sky.

  Vigil service will be held outside of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. The memorial service is closed to the public and the family has asked for the utmost privacy during this time of grieving. Dahlia died at age forty-five and is survived by her parents and her lifelong partner, Ren Lewis.

  ***

  I release Dahlia’s parents with a curt nod after we exit the church. The service wasn’t adequate, but how could it have been? There’s little that can be done to celebrate a life as extraordinary as Dahlia’s. Radio stations all over the country have shut down for the day, taking their own vow of silence, something that’s never been done. People line the streets outside the cathedral, all dressed in black, and most wearing tear-streaked expressions of grief. There has been talk of a memorial statue being erected in the middle of Hollywood. There’s been a lot of talk, but none of it matters. People die. Dahlia has died. There’s nothing that anyone can do to make her life feel as memorable as it should. Well, there is one thing and I’m the only one who can do it.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Bobby, Dahlia’s longtime bodyguard, says as he opens the door to the limo for me. He’s known Dahlia longer than I have. He was there the day she barged into my flat, some twenty-two years ago. This man has spent the better part of his life trying to keep the woman I love safe, alive.

  I extend a hand to the man with a flat nose and red eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, meaning it. He won’t ever see Dahlia again. He soon will be unemployed. Bobby eyes my hand, taken aback by the gesture. Then he takes my hand and shakes it and by reading his thoughts I confirm what I already knew. He is and has always been in love with Dahlia. I can’t blame him. Everyone loved her and most were in love with her. She was the type that drew in people’s attention and then locked it on her forever. There was no escaping her allure.

  I toss a glance at the sea of people at my back. Actually they are everywhere. Thousands of fans have gathered in the street, most of them holding a candle that will burn through the night. Most have flown great distances or traveled from faraway places to be here, close to where Dahlia’s body rests inside the cathedral. I can’t blame these followers for banding together to comfort each other. I climb into the limo and the image of a mother and daughter holding each other while they sob is burned into my vision. The last thing I witnessed on the streets.

  Adelaide is the last one to slide into the car, taking the seat beside me. Her stare on my face feels like a burning ray from the sun. She’s worried. I know it. Everyone in this fucking car is worried about me. They want me to cry. To show an emotion. But Pops, on the other side of the car, is showing enough emotion for all of us. He blows his nose loudly into a handkerchief and then slides the snotty rag into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  No one knows why I’m not upset. Crying. On edge, at the very least. They want me to grieve. I see in their faces that they need me to grieve. And I’m not because I haven’t lost anything I can’t regain, but they don’t know that. They just think that the monster has taken over. That I’ve shoved the pain away. Buried it again, like before with my mum and Jimmy. But I haven’t. Maybe they think I’m in shock. How could I be though? I lay next to this woman every night, watching her wake with less every morning. Slowly I watched Dahlia die.

  “Ren,” Adelaide says, putting her hand on the leather seat between us. “Are you okay?”

  I turn and look at her. “How are your cases going?” I say, like we are discussing show times for a matinee.

  “Son, this isn’t the time,” Pops says, blowing his nose again.

  “Well, I’m fairly busy for the next few weeks, so it’s probably the best time,” I say, watching the monster fiddle with his seat belt. He’s out of the harness in only a few seconds, and my pops, who is now crying again, doesn’t notice.

  “Chick-a-wa!” Lucien says, toddling over in my direction, his hands out.

  “Lucy,” Adelaide says, scooping up the kid. “Give Ren some space.”

  “Can you call him by a proper nickname, like little beast or gigantic mistake?” I say, watching the child reach for me like I’m a chocolate sundae.

  Adelaide allows a small smile, but then tucks her chin into Lucien’s shoulder, where she quickly buries it.

  “Pops!” Lucien says.

  “Ren,” I correct, knowing he’s referring to me.

  “Pops! Pops! Pops!” he repeats.

  “The only word you can say and it’s the wrong one,” I say, shaking my head at him.

  “Pops!” he says, with too much conviction.

  “If I find out you’ve been teaching him this as a joke then I’ll have Dahlia come back and haunt you,” I say to my daughter.

  And this produces a small gasp from my pops. Adelaide pulls up her head and looks at me with glassy eyes. I’ve never seen her cry, didn’t much think she was capable of it. “I’m going to miss her,” she says, and the pain in her words makes me realize how much loss she feels right now.

  “Of course you are,” I say plainly.

  “She was kind of like a mum to me,” Adelaide says, tucking one of Lucien’s red curls behind his ear, like it was bothering him and not her.

  “I’m sure she thought of you fondly as well,” I say, my voice calm, mechanical.

  “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” she admits.

  “Goodbyes are overrated,” I say, knowing that’s absolutely false. Saying that final farewell is a gift for loved ones. When we are robbed of that moment because someone is taken suddenly then we always feel like there’s unfinished business. All goodbyes unsaid reside somewhere and I’m sure it’s a place that reeks of regrets.

  The honking sound emits from the other side of the car again. “Not a better young woman on this earth,” Pops says, and then wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. “Well, ’cept for you, Addy, and your grandmum. Most astonishing women I’ve ever known.”

  “She said the same thing about you before she died,” I tell my pops, and it’s the only gift I can give him.

  The twinkle in his eyes tells me it’s the best gift I’ve could have given him. />
  “She said that?” he says through a chuckle and a sob.

  “She said I should be nice to you,” I admit.

  He waves me off. “You are you and I love you just how you are.”

  “You always did,” I say, and then turn my attention to the scene outside my window. The street leading up to the gated entrance to our home is lined with people holding flowers and posters. The posters read the same thing over and over and over. Hundreds of signs of affection that all say the same thing. They read:

  “We could not have loved her more.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aiden’s face drops with slack when I stroll into his lab. I returned to the Institute straight after the funeral because I don’t have a moment to waste right now. The daft scientist opens his mouth, but I cut him off by holding up my hand.

  “Yes, you’re sorry for my loss. Blah, blah, blah. Can we skip the unpleasantries, because I have work for you and I need it done fast. If it’s not done straightaway then everything I’ve been working towards will be lost,” I say, and watch his expression progress from sympathy to clinical. Good, this isn’t going to be as difficult as I imagined.

  “Uhhh… yeah, sure. I thought we were about wrapped up on projects, but if you need my help then I’m all yours,” Aiden says, that familiar squeak in his voice.

  I tilt my head and give him a mischievous look. “Oh, I bet you wish you were all mine, you pervert,” I say.

  He returns my look with one of amusement. “You never take a break from the jokes, do you? Ren Lewis and his cunning attitude are unstoppable.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Now the work is actually just starting. I need you to create a device for me and it’s going to involve more talent and brain power than I think you possess, but let’s give it a go anyway.” Actually, Aiden is the only human on earth that I think can pull this off, but I’d never tell him that. And still this is a long shot. I shouldn’t have waited until after Dahlia died to turn my attention to this, but I also was overwhelmed with making her into a Dream Traveler.