Hopefully, the Weaver didn’t kill anyone else in the meantime.
I worked the ties holding my tunic tight against my chest until I had enough room to stretch the neck of my undershirt down to expose the mark on my breastbone—a navy blue crescent moon, nearly a semicircle, concave up. From the dip flowed a stream of silver and blue that broke off below the hollow of my throat, reaching toward each collarbone, and cascaded down my arms before reaching my fingertips. The epicenter of my power prickled. The starlight offered its strength, and, beneath me, the sand began to hum.
10
Nora
A frenzy charged the community as desperation to find the killer took root. Calls flooded the tip line, a curfew was set in town, and search parties combed through every surrounding park and forest. The one I joined spanned twenty-three people wide, inching across an empty field next to a new cul-de-sac. My mother trudged on my left with hollow eyes and Paul on my right, a line of sweat shining on his brow. Dry grass pricked my shins, the underbrush crunching beneath my sneakers, and I scanned the ground.
It felt like most people were hoping against hope to find some material clue instead of another body. I couldn’t blame them given what had happened lately, and they weren’t wrong thinking the killer had my sister. They were just wrong about what was going to save her.
The sun burned hot at my back, and the string holding the Sandman’s bag chaffed against my sweaty neck. The bag itself clung to the skin beneath my shirt. I almost left it home, but the thought of ever taking it off sent my heart racing. It was proof—hard, undeniable proof—that none of this was in my head. Each painful rub of the knot against my skin was a reminder. All the murders they blamed on some mystery psychopath, the suicide they were now blaming on drugs—it was all the Weaver.
And he had my sister.
Cold fury swept up my body, starting at my feet, and turned my heart to ice. Images of a blood-soaked living room wavered in my mind. I slammed a lid over those haunted thoughts to focus on the one person I still had a chance of saving. My sister needed me—both here and in the other world. That was all that mattered. So, today I would search for where the Weaver hid her body, and tonight, her mind.
I skipped ahead to regain my place in line, fueled by my newfound resolve. I had to believe Katie was more useful to the Weaver alive than she was dead. She was leverage over me. A bargaining chip to get what he wanted. Only this time I knew what would happen if I denied him. Giving him the dream was the last thing I wanted to do, but I wanted my sister alive more.
I balled my hands into fists and glanced over at my mother’s worn face. New lines seemed to appear overnight. Her hair frizzed out of its clip, and she still wore yesterday’s clothes. She was so focused, so determined, I wasn’t sure how to approach her. I wanted to shout that I would save Katie. That I knew what happened, and it would all be fine. I would make sure it was. But I couldn’t promise any of that. Not really. And if I tried, I would be back in a psychiatrist’s office faster than I could say Sandman.
But, while she watched me before, waiting for something to trigger another episode, she barely looked at me today. I would’ve been grateful under other circumstances, but something told me it wasn’t only because she was worried about Katie’s disappearance. It was that she was afraid to look at me and see the impending break. To her, it wasn’t if I would fall to pieces anymore, it was when.
A police radio crackled from the end of the line where a young officer helped with our efforts. The sound fizzled in my ears, warping into a chant of Dreamer, Dreamer. I shook my head until the imagined voice disappeared, and I concentrated instead on the highway traffic zooming back and forth behind us. I listened for the different sounds the passing cars made and wiped sweat from my brow. Specks of white and grey siding peeked through a copse of trees. The newly built homes around the cul-de-sac had already been searched by the police.
The line narrowed along with the field until we were almost shoulder to shoulder. We continued into the trees. I shivered when the shade cut off the heat from the sun and again when the prickle of watchful eyes crawled across my shoulders. I glanced back but the field was empty save a row of cars parked just off the street. When I turned back, my mother and Paul had closed the gap between them, leaving me behind.
“Dreamer, Dreamer,” whispered a familiar voice. This time there was no mistaking it as the real thing. It was too loud, too focused.
I froze, watching as everyone continued, not noticing I had fallen behind. There hadn’t been time to find out from the Sandman exactly what the Weaver wanted from me or why. Yet, if something was important enough for the Sandman to hide, it was probably better that it stayed put. Especially since the Weaver wanted it badly enough to go on a murder spree. Until I knew, I couldn’t say yes.
But I couldn’t say no either.
A human silhouette appeared between two oak trees and chuckled. “Come closer, my little Sun-Kissed Keeper.”
I looked between him and the safety of my parents and crossed my arms. If I held onto the anger, let it overwhelm the fear, maybe, just maybe, I could walk away from this conversation without agreeing to his demands. The bloody words on Emery’s window flashed through my mind, but I forced myself not to react. Anger. Not fear. I had to hold my ground.
“What do you want, Weaver?” I hissed.
He moved forward, and I got my first true look at my nemesis. His sculpted face was shrouded in black gossamer, his bright gold eyes gleaming. Halfway down his wide, muscular body, the gossamer tangled and cut him off mid-thigh as if he were floating.
He smirked. “Ah, he told you about me then.”
“Give me back my sister, asshole.” I strained to keep my voice low.
He lifted a hand and ran it down the cloth encasing him. Flecks of black and gold thread sparkled around his wrist, stretching up his arm to join his sleeveless shirt. The embroidery there moved among the weave of the fabric. “I’ll give you what you want when you give me what I want. Say yes, and I swear no one else will die for this.”
“For this,” I snapped. He seemed to take pride in slaughtering people, and I imagined someone with that kind of insanity wouldn’t stop. “But they will die, right?”
The Weaver quirked an eyebrow. “I wonder what assets you’re hiding. The Sandman doesn’t strike me as someone that would gravitate toward angry little sprites.” He leaned toward me but came up short as a beam of sunlight broke through the branches. “Make no mistake. I will get the dream that’s locked away in that pretty head of yours, one way or another, and everything will be as it should have been. If you cooperate, I can guarantee your safety.”
He shifted to avoid another line of light and a slow, angry smile spread across my lips. He needed the shadows. I stepped into the sun, lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like confidence. “Like I would trust your word? My safety is guaranteed if I keep the dream hidden, not the other way around.”
Rage flashed across his handsome features, disappearing as fast as it came. “Yours, perhaps.”
“If you—”
“I see you need a little more time to mull things over,” he said in a flat voice. His hand fell away from the gossamer and when he brought it back up, a clump of Katie’s bright pink hair laid across his palm. “Think hard, Dream Keeper, and remember—tick tock.”
Then he was gone.
I stared at the empty space, my heart thundering. He wouldn’t murder Katie yet, but I hadn’t said yes. I didn’t say no either. It was a small victory. Or, it would have been if there wasn’t a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Someone I knew was on the chopping block. A wave of white-hot terror washed over me. Who did I fail this time?
“Mom.” I bolted toward her narrow, hunched back. “Mom, I have to leave.”
She and Paul stopped, the party continuing forward without them. “What do you mean you have to go? What could possibly be more important than finding your sister?”
“Please, Mom, I can’t...” I co
uldn’t watch someone else I loved die. I couldn’t search a field I knew would be empty. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Nora—”
“Let her go, Val,” Paul said. “She’s been through a lot, and she’s running on two hours sleep.”
She held her breath and stared at my chin, refusing to make eye contact. I forced myself not to twitch under the scrutiny. What Paul said was mostly true. I felt everything my mother did—on top of losing Natalie and Emery—but getting two hours of sleep last night would have been a blessing. Even if I wasn’t dealing with my delusions becoming real life, it would be too much for a lot of people. It was too much for me, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to break down. One day I would, but not yet.
“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She pulled me into a careful hug. “Lock all the doors behind you and make sure you turn on the alarm. Do you remember the new code?”
I stepped back and nodded. “Call me if you find anything.”
I barreled through the house to the bathroom attached to my parent’s room. With frequent shift changes at the hospital, both my mother and Paul occasionally took pills to fall asleep. I couldn’t risk being scared into waking up again, even if it was for my own protection. The Sandman was the only one who could give me answers, and I needed them now before anyone else got hurt.
I opened the medicine cabinet with shaking hands to reveal a row of orange prescription bottles. This was wrong. I knew it was, but there was too much on the line to care. I gently twisted each bottle to read the label. Old antibiotics, a few I didn’t recognize, and finally, the one I was looking for. I swallowed hard and shook three white oval pills into my palm. One should do the trick, but if I needed to do this again, I would be ready.
I replaced the bottle exactly in its original spot, closed the cabinet, and hurried into my room to stuff the extra two pills in my sock drawer. The third sat on my palm, heavy with promise. It would give me hours, maybe. If I was lucky. But luck didn’t have much to do with it. Natalie and Emery weren’t lucky. Katie wasn’t.
Hot tears splashed against my forearm before I knew I was crying. Time stopped then. I stared at the droplets as if they were something foreign. I supposed, to me, they were. More fell, scalding my skin. Without me, everyone would all still be alive. Still be here. Safe.
An agonizing sob ripped free of my chest, and I collapsed to the floor. I pressed my fists over my breastbone, praying for something, anything, to ease the sorrow as I curled in on myself. It felt as if my heart was made of tissue paper. Every second I wept disintegrated another piece of it until all that was left was a tattered mess. I laid there in a fetal position until I heaved. Until each breath was an absolute struggle.
And then I cried some more.
I cried until there were no tears left.
Until I was a husk.
Then I sat up, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. I blinked my swollen eyes until the room came back into clear focus, and climbed onto shaky legs. Breathe, I told myself. This wasn’t going to help Katie. When she was home again—when I brought her back—there would be time to grieve. I clutched the pill in my hand tighter, and my stomach lurched.
What if the Weaver showed up again and I was stuck? If I was going to do this, if I was going to put myself at risk, I couldn’t rely solely on the Sandman to protect me. I dropped the third pill into the top drawer and sprinted to the kitchen. A butcher knife was my first choice, but it came with the risk of stabbing myself in my sleep. I needed to think about getting a pocket knife or a taser tomorrow, but for now, I needed something else.
I dabbed at the raw corners of my eyes and stared into the utensil drawer. An apple corer. A cheese grater. A meat mallet.
Two hard knocks rattled the front door, and I jumped. Bile immediately filled my throat. I glared at the shape on the other side of the frosted glass, praying it wasn’t a reporter, or, even worse, one of Natalie’s relatives. Cars filled her driveway next door, spilling out onto the side of the road. I couldn’t face any of them yet, especially not her parents. Not when I was the reason she was dead. Not when I was the only one to survive. To look at them after seeing... I tapped the heel of my hand on my head, fighting against the memory of the blood-soaked carpet beneath my feet. Something tugged in my chest. A threat. The sense of being buried alive.
The knocks came again.
I blinked the bleariness from my eyes again. I had to keep it together. “Coming,” I called, and glanced at the meat mallet again before sliding the drawer shut.
When I cracked the door, my heart lurched. Ben stood on my stoop in khakis and a white dress shirt as if he just came from work. His curly hair drooped, and his eyes lacked a bit of their usual light.
“Hey,” he said, a line forming between his brows. “I was worried when I couldn’t get a hold of you. Are you okay?”
I scowled and drew my phone from my back pocket. Ten texts and two missed phone calls, all from him. He must have heard the news. Who hadn’t? It was all over the television and social media was exploding with goodbye messages to Natalie and Emery. Right alongside them were a dozen different theories on who did it, and I was suspect number one.
“I’m...” Far from okay. But I wasn’t going to say that. Admitting the truth out loud gave it purchase. It locked it into place and made it undeniable.
“Can I come in?” he asked, tugging at a curl near his temple.
I hesitated. I was home alone, for one thing, and about to grill the Sandman for information. But he heard the Weaver at Howell’s. He talked to him in the back room like they knew each other. Whatever he knew, I wanted to know it too.
“I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” he added when I stared silently at him.
“Okay.” I shrugged and moved aside.
Ben stepped into the living room, and I shut the door behind him carefully. My pulse boomed. How did I bring the subject up? He probably wouldn’t admit to anything without proof; maybe not even with actual evidence. I certainly wouldn’t if I were in his shoes. I lifted a hand to my chest to feel the bag of sand tucked safely beneath the fabric.
“So,” he started, gazing down at his shoes.
“So,” I repeated.
“You’re okay then?” he asked, looking me over, then amended, “You’re not hurt?”
I shook my head. The movement sent a heaviness clanking through my skull. It felt as if I could sleep for a week. Despite that, I knew if I saw the nightmares again, answers or no answers, the pill would be the only thing keeping me there. I was out of time to be afraid.
His shoulders slumped forward, and he stuck his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping we could talk.”
My eyes narrowed. I wanted to believe that my friends’ deaths finally pushed him to come clean about whatever he knew, but, to anyone else, showing up with some crazy tale when I was grieving would make him look worse than crazy. It would make him look like an inconsiderate jerk. Treading carefully about this seemed to be an unwritten rule.
“If this is about what happened on the Ferris wheel—”
“Not about that,” he said quietly, his cheeks turning pink.
“Then about the Weaver?” I asked before I could change my mind. There was more to Ben than met the eye, and not only because of the Weaver. He reminded me of the Sandman for a reason. What that reason was, I didn’t know, but there had to be a connection somewhere. “Don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
His eyes widened, his lips parting. “It’s... Yes.”
My breath caught. There were so many things I could ask next. How did he know the Weaver? What were they arguing about? Does he know how to contact him? Would he help me? If the Sandman helped me there, and Ben helped me here, maybe I could save Katie before the Weaver decided he was tired of waiting. I stared into his violet eyes, my heart thudding. How did Ben fit into everything?
I jumped at a another sharp rap on the door.
“Nora, it’s Detective Bell.”
/> I ground my teeth together. “What now?” I told him everything. Twice. More than twice. I glanced at my phone again. My mother hadn’t called which meant Katie was still missing. “One second,” I called.
“What do you know about him?” I asked Ben in a rush.
“The answer to that is a lot longer than we have time for.” Ben motioned to the door. “Should I call your parents?”
“Not yet, but...” I held my phone out to him and eyed Detective Bell’s silhouette through the frosted glass on the door. If he dragged me out of here in handcuffs under some ridiculous pretense, I didn’t want to wait for them to give me my phone call to let them know where I was. “Their numbers are in here, just in case.”
Ben took it and slipped it in his back pocket. “Got it.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” I promised.
He nodded and opened the door. Detective Bell stood on the porch in a mint green shirt with buttons in the wrong holes, his glasses resting on top of his head. An unmarked car idled in the driveway. His bloodshot eyes flicked to Ben. “I see you have company.”
The way he said it grated against me. Like I was using the opportunity of an empty house to have my boyfriend sneak over. As if I would do something like that when my sister was in trouble. As if Ben was my boyfriend.
“Ben stopped by to see if we needed anything,” I said, feigning complacency overtop my annoyance.
He pursed his lips. “There are search parties going on all over town that could use another pair of eyes.”
Ben nodded. “I thought the family might need some groceries or errands done.”
Detective Bell sniffed before turning back to me. “I hate to do this now, but we need you to come down to the station and finish your statement.”
I glared at him. “Did my mom say it was all right?”
“We stopped by the search location you were supposed to be at. She plans to keep looking for your sister but gave us the go-ahead. Your step-father is waiting for us.”
Dream Keeper Page 10