Dreamweaver

by C. S. Friedman

  I guess there were worse things than having the dead protect you.

  5

  LURAY

  VIRGINIA PRIME

  ISAAC

  THE HOUSE WAS SILENT.

  The street was silent.

  The breaking of glass was sudden and loud, and it resonated in the darkness, filling the world with sound. For a moment Isaac stood frozen at the back door of the house, as wary of the approach of neighbors as a deer would be of predators. But either the locals hadn’t heard the noise, or they didn’t care. Good enough.

  Wrapping his arm in a stolen shirt, he reached in through the broken window on the door, released the guard chain, and opened the deadlock. The knob itself wasn’t locked.

  And he was in.

  He took a moment to breathe deeply, steadying his nerves. Not that he lacked for experience in petty theft; in the two years he’d lived on his own, he’d learned to lift what he needed from unsuspecting marks as casually and callously as one plucked an apple from a tree. And once he’d joined the gang in the Warrens he was expected to contribute to the common good, so he’d become adept at lifting goods from a vendor’s cart without drawing the eye, or snatching purses in broad daylight from people so distracted that they didn’t even know what happened until he was long gone. He’d had a few close calls, true, but had never been caught. Now, however, the Guild’s mark of shame changed everything. He was far too conspicuous to lose himself in a crowd, before or after a crime. And if word reached the Shadows that a pale, thin teenager with their mark emblazoned on his forehead was causing trouble, they might rethink their decision to spare his life.

  So now he was a true shadow, a thief who struck in the depths of night, claiming for his booty things that no other thief would value, with a few expensive items thrown in to muddy the trail.

  He strained his necromantic senses to see if the ghost of Jacob was still with him. Of course it was. The broken spirit was bound to him now, though whether by its own choice or the Shadows’ misapplied ritual, Isaac didn’t know. And he didn’t care. The fragmented wraith, invisible to mortal eyes, was a constant companion. Sometimes Isaac thought Jacob’s company was the only thing that kept him sane.

  “Keep watch?” he whispered.

  He sensed, rather than heard, the affirmation. Yes.

  The first room he came to was the kitchen, which was his main objective. He opened his backpack on the counter and then began to rummage through shelves and cabinets, seeking whatever non-perishable goods he could find. As usual, he didn’t take everything. From a row of canned vegetables he chose half a dozen items; from a collection of canned fruit preserves, half a dozen more. There was dried fruit in wax paper bags, so he claimed a few of those, and packages of nuts as well. He never took an item that there was only one of, since the family would be likely to detect such a loss sooner. He wanted the pantry to look as normal as possible, so that while the owners of the house might sense that something was amiss, the exact pattern of his predation wouldn’t be obvious.

  Perhaps that was a pointless conceit. Perhaps if his Guild heard that there was someone stealing food from residential neighborhoods, they wouldn’t care who was behind it. Or maybe they would even be pleased if they knew. Maybe they would laugh into the sleeves of their long grey robes, knowing that the mark of humiliation they had branded him with had turned him into a desperate scavenger. Regardless, if news got out that local houses were being burglarized for food, people might start locking their pantries, and while that wouldn’t keep him out, it would certainly slow him down. Something to be avoided if at all possible.

  Quietly he padded up the stairs to the bedrooms. He’d watched the owners leave the house earlier, from the cover of a wooded area behind the property, so he knew that he had time to look around. In one bedroom he found clothing that was approximately his size, so he took a few items, including a rare and precious find: a down-filled winter jacket. He checked that one off his mental list of things he had to find before the weather turned cold. Then he took some jewelry from the master bedroom, and a pair of silver candlesticks as well. Such valuables were of little use to him—even the local fences would shun a boy with the mark of shame branded on his forehead—but they would help make his visit look like a normal robbery.

  As if that matters to anyone, he thought bitterly. Was pragmatism his true motive, or just pride? Stealing silver was a respectable pastime for thieves, while stealing common food was just . . . well, pitiful.

  It was while he was heading toward the last room upstairs that he heard—or rather, felt—Jacob’s alarm. He turned back just in time to see a dark, four legged shape racing up the staircase toward him. It was sleek and black and silent, a true hunter, not barking in rage like a common house dog would do, but with a guard dog’s perfect clarity of purpose, giving its prey no warning. How had Isaac missed its presence when he’d first cased the house? Stumbling backward, he fumbled to open the nearest door, and for one terrifying moment thought he wouldn’t reach cover in time. But then Jacob’s chill presence manifested in front of him and the dog pulled up short, growling low in its throat. All animals instinctively feared the dead, but some were more resistant to that fear than others; this one, tasked to guard its master’s territory, quickly regained focus. Even as Isaac backed into a bedroom it leapt through the space that Jacob occupied, coming straight for him.

  Isaac slammed the door shut just in time. The dog hit the barrier so hard that the two small shelves flanking the door were shaken, and the glass animals on them went tumbling to the floor. As they shattered on the hardwood the dog began to bark furiously. Isaac looked desperately around the room for a weapon, but he had taken shelter in a little girl’s room, and saw only plush stuffed animals and small toys. Nothing that would help him fend off an animal as large and as vicious as this one. And there were only two exits: the door he had come in through and a small window over the dresser. He had no way to fight, and nowhere to run.

  What? Jacob asked. The ghost was in the room now, and the tang of its fear was so sharp in the air that Isaac could taste it. Whatwhatwhat?

  Barking wildly, the dog threw itself at the door again and again and again. Surely neighbors would hear the ruckus soon. Surely there would come a point at which someone in a neighboring house would look out their window to see what was going on. If Isaac tried to climb down from the window now he would be plainly visible in the moonlight.

  But what other option did he have?

  Opening the window, he stuck his head out to take stock of his situation. The drop to the ground was formidable, but there was a drain pipe nearby, affixed to the house with metal braces; if he could swing over to it he might be able to work his way down safely.

  Another glass figurine fell and shattered.

  As he climbed through the small window, his backpack got stuck. He knew that he should leave it behind at that point, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the precious supplies inside. So with a heave of his shoulder he jerked it through. The sudden shift in weight threw him off balance, and he grabbed hold of the drain pipe just in time to save himself from a nasty fall. The thin metal tubing swayed ominously as he shifted his full weight to one of its braces, pressing his toes against the edge of the metal strap that fastened the pipe to the building.

  People! The ghost’s frantic tone cut through the crisp night air like a razor. Danger!

  Heat pounding, Isaac tried to swallow his fear and focus on the task at hand. Now that the window was open the dog’s barking could be heard throughout the neighborhood, and between its barks Isaac could hear human voices approaching, as locals responded to the disturbance. Focus. Focus. He gripped the drainpipe between his knees and tried to slide himself down as he would a fireman’s pole, grasping at any protrusions he could use to control the descent. But then his hand slipped from a brace and he fell back, the ground rushing furiously up at him as he tried to twist h
is body in midair to get his feet under him. But it was too late, there was too little space, too little time—

  He landed on his back; the pain of the impact was blinding. For a moment he just lay there, afraid to try to move, lest he find out that he couldn’t. But the voices were rapidly growing louder, and he didn’t have the luxury of a leisurely recovery. With a groan he tried to roll over, and to his relief found that his body still worked, though it hurt like hell. The stolen jacket, stuffed into his backpack like a bolster, had saved him from crippling injury, but not from the bruising edges of the cans and candlesticks packed beneath it. He got to his feet and started to lope toward the nearest cover, a thickly forested strip between two rows of houses. He’d scoped it out before attempting the break-in, and knew that it led to a place of safety—assuming he could get there in time.

  He could hear people behind him now, their voices rising as they spotted him and began the chase in earnest. Limping slightly as he ran—he must have twisted his ankle during the fall—he felt a raw and terrible fear grip his heart. The mark on his forehead set him apart from the laws that would protect a normal thief; if these people caught him they could do anything they wanted to him, with no fear of legal ramification. He was the outsider, the alien, the reject.

  He was prey.

  He made it to the cover of the trees before they caught up with him, but with barely yards to spare. Even as he stumbled into the shadows he could hear men breaking through the brush behind him. His only hope lay in getting to the Warrens before they caught him, to lose himself in the twisting network of tunnels where none of them would know how to navigate. He’d cased the route before, so he knew how to get there. But it was getting harder and harder to stay ahead of the pursuit. Each step jarred his back and ankle, fostering fresh waves of pain. Maybe he had broken something.

  “Can you do anything?” he gasped. “Anything!”

  He couldn’t hear ghosts while he was focused on other things, so he had no idea if Jacob responded. But a moment later, a cold, unnatural wind swept past him. The trees overhead began to rustle, and he heard an animal screech in terror. He stumbled into a gully and fresh pain shot up his wounded leg, but he had to keep going. Had to. A deer bounded out from cover on one side of him and went running toward his pursuers. Birds launched themselves from nests on all sides of him, filling the air behind him with panicked wings. A wave of skunk-stink filled the air, so putrid and powerful that it nearly felled him; only being upwind of it saved him. Every living thing in the wooded area seemed to be running or flying or scuttling or slithering or leaping, driven by primitive instinct to flee the presence of the ghost that had manifested in front of them. And they were being driven right into the pack of angry humans that was following Isaac.

  He could hear people cursing behind him as they tried to dodge the tsunami of wildlife, branches snapping as some of them lost their footing and fell. With newfound energy Isaac bolted the last few yards to the end of the wooded strip, ignoring the fire of pain in his flesh, fighting to gain enough ground to be able to reach a place of safety. Then the trees gave way to a dirt path that led him to a narrow passage flanked by storage sheds, then to an alley between houses. People were still following, but it sounded like they were no longer right on his heels. If they lost sight of him he might be able to escape.

  He ducked under a poorly balanced pile of abandoned construction materials, crawling on his elbows through a tunnel of rotting planks and rusted pipes, where hopefully no one would think to look for him. He had to shrug off his backpack to make it through, but he dragged it behind him, even though he knew it would slow him down. The pack had protected him when he fell, and it was a lucky token now. When he reached the other end he loped down a short alley, to emerge in a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. Normally he would have stopped to check for observers before heading out into the open, but what difference would it make if anyone was watching? If he hesitated now he was as good as dead.

  Limping more severely now—his injured ankle was threatening to give out completely—he made it to the nearest manhole, knelt down, and managed to pry up the heavy cover. Down into the darkness went the backpack; he heard it land with a splash far below. Quickly he followed it, lowering himself far enough on the utility ladder that he could pull the cover back in place, praying that no one was watching. Then he grasped both sides of the ladder and slid the rest of the way down. At the bottom he hit six inches of water covering a layer of slime and stone, and he slipped and went down hard, pain lancing through his injured back again. For a moment he just sat there in the pitch blackness, filthy water rushing around him on its way to someplace even deeper underground. After two years of living in the Warrens, the setting was strangely comforting.

  Suddenly overhead he heard the muffled sound of feet pounding on earth, then yelling. Someone must have seen him come this way. He should move. He should really move. They might think to look down into the manhole. He shouldn’t stay in this spot, where they would be able to see him. But the fear and pain had taken their toll, and he just sat with his back against the slime-covered wall, his hand on his precious backpack, taking comfort in the sense that Jacob was still with him. That battered, broken soul might just have saved his life.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he thanked the god of thieves and Guild rejects for letting him survive this night. One single night, in an endless stream of deadly nights. This was his life now. This was his forever.

  The world is lifeless, colorless, devoid of any landmarks that might lend it identity. Grey sky bleeds into grey earth, the frigid wind moaning a dirge as it sweeps across fields of stark rock littered with broken bones. The smell of blood is in the air: old blood, stale blood. There’s snow in the distance, not yet visible but nonetheless apparent, as real as the frost on the ground. The warmth of summer is alien to this place, as is the warmth of life.

  Isaac walks. Bone shards crunch beneath his feet as he moves. He’s heading nowhere, leaving nowhere.

  Suddenly he realizes there is a person in the distance.

  No one else belongs in this place. He knows that instinctively, though he doesn’t know the reason for it, and a cold dread overtakes him as the figure approaches. But then the person gets close enough for him to make out who it is, and with that knowledge comes understanding. He’s dreaming. That means the dismal world surrounding him is a thing of his own creation, not real. But the person in front of him is very real, and as he recognizes her his soul is flooded with fear and despair and hope and loneliness and hunger. So much hunger! Is that because of who she is, or would any human presence stir the same response at this point? He’s starved for the company of his own kind.

  Jessica.

  She calls out his name as she approaches, but he can’t bring himself to respond, afraid to make a sound lest the fragile dream shatter like glass. As she approaches he straightens his shoulders and does his best to keep his expression from revealing the storm of emotion inside him. He longs to touch her, to drink in the vibrancy of her life, to draw fresh strength from her soul to replace his own lost vitality. But he doesn’t want her to see that. He doesn’t want her to know how weak he has become, or to realize how much others were able to hurt him. It’s his final fragment of pride.

  “Jeez.” She looks around the landscape as she comes up to him. “You’re not into happy dreams, are you?”

  He forces a half-smile to his face. It feels strained and unnatural. “You only show up for the bad ones.” The words feel strange on his tongue; casual human conversation is an alien thing these days. “Just before this I was hanging out on a tropical beach. Sunlight, surfboards, piña coladas. You would have liked it.”

  “So, who’s that, then?” She points to something past his left shoulder. “A cabana boy?”

  Startled, he turns to look behind him, and sees Jacob standing there. The dead boy’s flesh is as white as chalk, his eyes are black pits of nothi
ngness, and streamers of blood are slowly trickling down his arms, face, and bare torso. Other than that he is motionless, still as only the dead can be still, since they have neither pulse nor living breath to move them.

  “That’s Jacob,” he says, turning back to her. “He’s a soul shard.”

  “Soul shard?”

  “Damaged ghost.” He draws in a deep breath to steady himself, trying not to think about exactly how the boy was damaged. “Parts of his psyche are missing.”

  “Is that what he really looks like?”

  Is it? Isaac’s Gift isn’t strong enough for him to see the dead clearly; what she’s looking at is the product of his imagination, nothing more. “It’s what he looked like when he died.” Memories of the Shadows’ ritual suddenly surge into his head, and he sees Jacob lying on the stone slab again, his terrified eyes fixed on Isaac as he begs silently for help. Isaac curls his hands into fists at his side as he struggles to set those memories aside, to remain in the current moment. Concentrate on Jessica, he tells himself. If you lose focus now, the dream might end and you’ll lose her again . . . perhaps forever. “I guess it’s how I picture him,” he manages.

  “And this?” She points to her forehead. “What’s that about?”

  It takes him a moment to realize what she’s asking. Is the mark of the Guild still on his forehead? If so, does that mean it’s so much a part of his identity now that even in his dreams he can’t envision himself without it? Or did the ritual that applied it do something to his mind, so that even in dreaming he can’t banish it? Either concept is deeply disturbing. “It’s a Guild mark.” He says it quietly, casually, trying to make it sound like it isn’t really important, but he can see from her expression that she isn’t fooled. “What about the reapers?” he asks, changing the subject. “Are they gone? I can’t imagine you’d come here if they were still hunting you.”