In Your Dreams

by Gina Ardito

  The doctor sighed again. “Have you discussed this with the baby’s father?”

  “The baby’s father is dead.”

  Oh, hell, no.

  A sharp rap on Xavia’s office door jolted her out of the scene. She looked up to see the alleged father pointing at her lock.

  His muffled voice permeated the wall and window. “I need to talk to you. Open up. It’s important.”

  You’re damn right it’s important, she muttered. Stalking to the door, she flipped the lock and yanked it open. “Get in here. We have to talk.”

  He slipped inside with another figure behind him. “Xavia, I want you to meet—”

  “Noah.” The name erupted from her in a hushed whisper. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she opened her arms as she hurried to embrace the young man whose face had haunted her for eons. “Oh, God, Noah!”

  Her son stood stiff as a two-by-four, hands at his sides, clearly uncomfortable with her unabashed affection. “Umm...hi.”

  “Xavia,” Sean said from behind her. “He’s not Noah. Not anymore. His name is Contel. Contel Morgan.”

  The strange name pierced her joy bubble. She stepped back, shaky and despondent. “Sorry. I...forgot.”

  “It’s okay,” the young man said with a smile so like Noah’s her knees weakened. “I guess I’m a little out of practice at this. I never had a mom who hugged me.”

  That simple confession nearly broke her. “You did,” she insisted, “when you were my son.”

  “Tell me about when I was your son.”

  “I...er...” Sean shuffled his feet, hands in his pockets. “I...think I should get to work on my new cases. I’ll be at my desk if anyone needs me.”

  She barely heard him, barely registered the click of the door as he left. All her focus remained on Noah—Contel. “I loved you so much.”

  “That’s what the cop said.”

  The cop. Sean. The cop who killed her son. Who ruined her life and drove her to the despair that brought her here. “What else did he tell you?” Her words shuddered with her undisguised rage.

  “He told me what happened. About the armed robbery of the liquor store. How he thought Noah had a real gun in the darkness of the alley, and how he accidentally shot him. How he couldn’t live with the guilt. I forgave him.”

  “You did what?”

  “I forgave him. And asked him to forgive me.”

  Umbrage simmered inside her. “For what? He killed you.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “The hell it wasn’t.”

  Contel pulled the chair from the other side of her desk and sat, posture fluid and relaxed. “Well, now, maybe you know something I don’t about what happened to Noah. I can’t say for sure, since my EC didn’t show me that particular life, but judging by my other lives, I’d say I was screwing with him that night. I did a lot of that.”

  “You were a kid. An innocent kid. You didn’t deserve to die.”

  “I was a troublemaker. And a hellraiser. I was definitely high on angel dust; the cop said the autopsy report confirmed that. So chances are good, if I resembled the victim’s description of the armed robber, it’s because I was the armed robber.”

  “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry if that upsets you to hear. But I’ve seen firsthand that I’ve never been a saint.”

  “That doesn’t mean you robbed that store. You were a good, church-going boy. I raised you that way.”

  “I was also a teenager, living in a rough neighborhood, surrounded by poverty and violence, and fucked up on drugs. Sometimes, a kid’s peers have more influence than his mom or the church.” He looked up at her, his eyes eagle-sharp. “You haven’t forgiven him, have you?”

  Shame washed over her. Some church-goer she turned out to be. Her son had to remind her of the grace of forgiveness. “I only found out recently he was the one...” The words rose up in her throat, stayed there.

  “The one who killed your son?”

  She nodded.

  “I guess it came as a shock to you.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  He propped the chair on two legs against the wall, arms folded behind his head. “Tell me about Noah.”

  Limbs shaking, she sank into her office chair. “What do you wanna know?”

  “Everything you wanna tell me.”

  The words poured from her in a flood. Noah as a baby, as a toddler, a child, and a teen. Through the tales, she relived birthdays, holidays, illnesses, injuries, milestones, teachers’ remarks, and achievements: all the precious memories of his lifetime. Noah—Contel—listened intently, laughing with her at some of the more humorous escapades. And as they shared the gamut of emotions the tales evoked, bitterness and anger ebbed away, leaving Xavia cleansed in mind and soul.

  Spent at last, she shuddered and looked this stranger who used to be her son in his solemn eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied and jerked his head out the window. “Thank him. I wouldn’t have come here if he hadn’t insisted.”

  ~~~~

  Sean kept one eye on his board, the other on Xavia’s office window. Curiosity might prod him to check out what was happening in there, but self-preservation advised he was safer to back off and stay out of it. He should probably bury his interest in his new workload. Redoubling his focus, he scrolled through his list of offenders to familiarize himself with each case.

  Ted Cavanaugh, age fifty, had lost his job and his family, thanks to his fondness for online poker. He’d already attempted to hang himself when the bank foreclosed on the family home, but his neighbor had walked in and managed to cut him down before it was too late. Now, Ted huddled in a homeless shelter, contemplating how to try again and whether or not to leave a note this time around. To whom? Should he address it to his ex-wife? Start by saying he didn’t blame her for leaving him? Or maybe he should write directly to his son and daughter. Tell them how sorry he was for losing control, for gambling away their savings, their tuition, their future.

  After spending some time inside the miserable man’s head, Sean waited until Ted fell asleep, then filled his dreams with images of what could be: reuniting with his family, dancing with his daughter on her wedding day, holding his first grandchild.

  “How do I do this?” his subconscious asked.

  “Take responsibility,” Sean told him. “Seek help. Forgive yourself. Be strong. Make amends.”

  Too soon to tell, but the advice seemed to fall on fertile ground. With luck, the ideas would take root, and Ted would follow through. For now, Sean had done what he could and would simply keep an eye on him night after night until he was in a recovery program and safely back with his family.

  Next. Julia Reed, twenty-three, suffered from depression, migraines, and anger issues. The more the people around her advised her to “snap out of it,” or that “lots of people have it much worse,” the more isolated and despondent she became until she attempted suicide—four times already. Sean opted for subliminal messages in her dreams, showing her calling a suicide prevention hotline, receiving help from a competent professional, getting better day by day. He offered her hope, and he watched her grab for it by picking up her cell phone and dialing directory assistance for the number of the suicide prevention hotline.

  And we’re two for two. Maybe. He kept his fingers crossed. He, of all people, knew how easily one could slide from thinking about suicide to committing suicide. Only constant monitoring, lots of reassurance, and the right support could make the difference. And often, no amount of monitoring, reassurance, and support affected the outcome. A person in pain always sought escape. Those who were determined to end it all couldn’t be steered from their course, regardless of promises of a happy future. Sometimes, the pain won.

  He continued through the rest of his new cases, noting which of the offenders would require closer attention than the others. All touched him in some way—how could they not?
But none grabbed his heart the way Isabelle had.

  Sure, she’d been his first, which would explain some of his sentimentality toward her. But Isabelle represented so much more. She was bright, clever, courageous—all the qualities he’d sadly lacked in life. In all his lives.

  If he hadn’t put that gun in his mouth, would he have ever met someone like Isabelle? He considered the past lives Verity had shown him when he first arrived here eons ago.

  In Life One, he’d been Lieutenant Jeremiah DeGraw, of the 16th Regiment New York Volunteer Cavalry during the War Between the States. And now that he thought about that incarnation, he remembered a woman very much like Isabelle: Jeremiah’s sister, Adelia. And Xavia could easily pass as Mabel, the freed slave who hid him in a Virginia farmhouse when he was shot during one particularly ugly skirmish. Mabel had a son, Ezra. It was Ezra who’d found him on the outskirts of the battlefield. Ezra who discovered Jeremiah was still alive when he tried to pick the fallen soldier’s pockets, and a pistol was pointed at his head. Ezra who fetched water when Mabel cleaned the bullet out of Jeremiah’s thigh. Jeremiah was eventually reunited with his unit and was at Garrett’s Farm for the capture of John Wilkes Booth and Daniel Harold. After the war, he returned to his home near Plattsburg to learn Adelia had died in childbirth. Jeremiah never recovered from the loss of his beloved sister. He mourned her until his own death a few years later from consumption.

  Life Two. Ferryboat captain, Adam Moran, died when his ship ran aground and caught fire near Staten Island. He and his ship met their fates in the Arthur Kill Boat Graveyard—along with two passengers. A young black woman named Charlotte and her ten-year-old son, Judah, who may or may not have started the fire onboard, also perished. Captain Moran, at the age of thirty-two, left behind a devastated fiancée, Marie.

  Like snapshots, images flashed in his mind. Isabelle, Xavia, Noah. Adelia, Mabel, Ezra. Marie, Charlotte, Judah. There were others, as well. All part of the same circle. A trinity of souls, intertwined with his, lifetime after lifetime, always intersecting, never fully connecting. Until now.

  A nudge at his shoulder made him flinch, jerking him out of his thoughts. He snapped his head up. Xavia stood above him. A galaxy of stars lit her aura to near-blinding luminescence.

  “Thank you.” Two simple words that held the power of the universe behind them.

  He shrugged. “No big thing.”

  “Yes, it was,” she replied, her voice a low whisper. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ll be in when the Elders discover you reunited me with my son?”

  With a sharp gasp, he feigned outrage, one hand slapped against the center of his chest. “I did no such thing! I introduced you to a young man named Contel. How many times do I have to tell you? He is not Noah, has no memory of ever being Noah.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and quirked a brow at him. “You think the Board will buy that argument?”

  “I think they already did,” he replied and gestured to his clipboard. “If they wanted to haul me in for bringing you two together, they would have done so by now.”

  “You think they know?”

  “I’m guessing they not only know, but approve. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve been reviewing a few things while you were occupied with Contel.” He craned his neck around her slim physique. “By the way, where is the kid?”

  “He got a call for a hunt and had to fly.” She hugged herself like a child. “He said he’ll come back to visit whenever he can.”

  “Good. Keep in mind, I taught him orb ball, too, so when you two run out of things to talk about, you can challenge each other on the court.”

  Her smile reappeared, dazzling and brilliant. “You amaze me.”

  “No.” The last thing he wanted from his boss was hero worship. “I owed you. I can’t take back what happened that night in Bed-Stuy—”

  “Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Don’t go there.”

  “I have to. Like I said, I’ve been doing some thinking and I’ve come to some pretty weird conclusions.”

  “What kind of conclusions?”

  “Think we can talk in your office?”

  “Mi casa, su casa.” She turned, looking at him over one shoulder. “Come on.”

  He grabbed his clipboard, miniaturized it, and shoved it in his pocket before following her.

  “By the way,” she tossed back, “Contel says you promised to show him how to do that.”

  “You know how,” he retorted. “You could’ve shown him.”

  “I could have. But I didn’t promise.”

  Her buoyant laughter confirmed he’d made the right decision in connecting her with Contel. Let the Board come after him. He patted his silent clipboard inside his pocket. Somehow, he didn’t think they would.

  Once inside with the door closed, he asked her, “Have you ever heard the name Mabel Brown?” She shook her head. “How about Charlotte Gaines?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They were important characters in two of my previous lives. I think you were those ladies.”

  To her credit, she didn’t scoff. She sat, indicated he should do the same. Once they were seated across from each other, she steepled her fingers and bounced them against her pursed lips.

  “It makes a ton of sense,” he insisted.

  “How do you figure that?”

  He gave her a brief rundown of the lives he’d viewed with Verity, making a strong case for their connection to her, Contel, and Isabelle.

  “This Mabel and Ezra,” she said when he finished. “What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was only shown their interaction with Jeremiah.”

  “But you have a theory.” She pointed a finger at his face.

  “Yeah. I think...” The words refused to leave his lips, and he cleared his throat, began again. “I think they may have been caught by the Confederacy. In which case, they were probably executed for giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “Making you ultimately responsible for their deaths,” she summed up. “You sure that ain’t just your guilty conscience making shit up?”

  He considered that. “You could be right. I’m speculating, based on what happened at Arthur Kill and in Bed-Stuy. Something keeps bringing us together, culminating in this time around, where we’re all here at this exact moment. Well, all except Isabelle, who’s sort of here while still residing on Earth.”

  “Isabelle!” Xavia leaped to her feet. “Shit. I forgot to tell you about Isabelle.”

  A chill raced through him. At the mention of Isabelle’s name, Xavia’s attitude had flipped from curious to frantic. “Tell me what about Isabelle?”

  Leaning across the desk, she fumbled for her clipboard. “She showed up on my renewed roster when I got back from my meeting with Uriah.”

  “What do you mean she ‘showed up’? What roster?”

  “My newest offenders’ list.” Her screen lit up, and she rolled a finger across the slick surface.

  “That’s impossible.” He waved off her concern. “Isabelle’s fine. She’s great, as a matter of fact. Even Verity said so. She underwent some gamma procedure that stopped the tumor’s progression. She’s staying with Justin and Tony until she recuperates, but she’s—”

  “She’s pregnant, Sean.”

  The chill intensified for a flash, then heated to lightning electric. “That’s not funny, Xavia.”

  “No, it’s not,” she agreed, her expression solemn. “Especially since I think you may be the father.”

  “What the hell are you saying? I can’t possibly be the father.”

  “No? Let’s look at the facts. You told me you two made love. She’s insisting the baby’s father is dead. Face it, Sean. They don’t come much deader than you.”

  He took a shaky breath, then another. “Okay. Say I believe you. Even if it was true, there’s no way Isabelle would commit suicide if she were really pregnant.”

  She sighed. “God, you are the dimmest bulb. By not
terminating the pregnancy, she’s giving the doctors no chance to treat her tumor. They can’t risk harming the fetus. She’s killing herself to save the baby. Which, according to the rules of the Afterlife, is akin to suicide.”

  A black hole rose up inside him, devouring his soul, swirling him in oily pitch. “Oh, Christ. Belle. No. She can’t.”

  “She plans to.”

  “I have to stop her. If I can talk to her, I can get her to see reason.”

  After dropping the clipboard, Xavia grabbed his hand. “Same as before?”

  “Yeah.” He placed his palm flat against her chest, felt the pulse barrel from her source to his need.

  Fully charged, he pictured Isabelle in his mind and projected toward her place on Earth. And hit the wall. He redoubled his efforts, strained against the invisible bonds preventing him from free flight. Nothing. He closed his eyes and pushed all other thoughts away, propelling his cells toward Earth. He didn’t budge.

  “Sean?” Xavia’s prompt forced him to open his eyes.

  “I’m blocked,” he admitted with a sigh of defeat. “Completely, totally blocked.”

  She let out an exasperated whoosh of air. “Great. Now what?”

  “You try.”

  “Me?” she screeched. “Are you crazy?”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “For starters, I wouldn’t know how.”

  “I’ll talk you through it.”

  “Oh, sure. And once I get out there, how do I get back? I was never a bounty hunter. I have no idea how to transport between realms.”

  “You have a better idea on how to stop Isabelle?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She picked up her clipboard. “The old-fashioned way. In her dreams.”