Dream Eater

by K. Bird Lincoln

  An urge to explain welled up so thickly inside me it was a pressure in my throat. For so long it had been only me and Dad, with Mom’s suspicions unvoiced, a gentle wall between us and the world. Then Mom died. And Dad’s lucid periods grew further and further apart.

  Standing there, his eyes back to a macchiato brown, Ken’s gaze searched inside me like he wasn’t afraid of what he might find, like he wanted to know. A soggy lump settled under my breastbone—the urge to tell Ken the truth. The whole truth.

  I felt…the opposite of scared.

  Words welled out in a rush.

  “That professor you saved me from yesterday, Dr. Hayk, Dad’s gone to his office.”

  “Because…?”

  What could I tell him? Because Hayk had evil murder dreams and they terrified me? This thin limb I had climbed out on was shaking, threatening to snap off entirely.

  How quickly could the warm interest in his face turn to condescending shock?

  “Because he must have seen some papers from Dr. Hayk I had yesterday. I agreed to translate stuff for Hayk into my father’s Herai dialect, and maybe my father latched onto that.” That was close enough to the truth.

  Ken wasn’t fooled. He arched a devastating eyebrow at me. “Is this some game you’re playing with the new guy in town?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Not what I expected of Herai-san at all.” He lowered his chin to his chest and took a deep breath. “All my instincts are telling me I should walk away.”

  Heat rose to my scalp line. I was such a fool. Marlin always teased me about my unclear boundaries. One close moment in the kitchen over spaghetti sauce, and all of a sudden I had to fight the urge to tell Ken secrets I’d been keeping my whole life.

  No more crazy sniffing and eyes that saw too much. I would find Dad on my own. Safer all around.

  “So why don’t you?” I snapped.

  Ken reached for my hand, but I jerked away. He straightened the entire, long length of himself, and then crowded me so I was trapped between the bus stop bench and his chest.

  “Because I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said in a low, growly voice. “Because you and your father are hard people to leave alone.”

  What the hell does he mean by that?

  “And,” he continued, “because Herai-san is one of only three known Baku left on the Earth, and you are terrified that he’s gone to this professor, Hayk’s, office.”

  I blinked at him.

  “Terrified beyond mere concern over him just getting lost,” said Ken.

  “Baku?” I said, only able to process that one word. I floundered, caught between incredulity-fueled irritation and fear for Dad.

  The shuttle bus pulled up to the stop, and Ken lunged through the open door.

  Words flung themselves against my skull like bluefish in a feeding frenzy. I stood there, staring at the open door. The driver let out an exasperated cough.

  Okay, one step at a time. Get on the bus and then force Ken to explain what he meant by calling Dad a Baku.

  Climbing the bus steps felt like crossing an irrevocable boundary. The annoyed driver gingerly accepted two paper tickets from the little booklet I’d stuffed in my hoodie pocket. He regarded me with all the jaded amusement of Portland bus drivers, as if it wouldn’t surprise him if I suddenly sprouted wings or turned purple. Ken sniffing out Dad’s scent like a bloodhound and calling him ‘Baku’ wouldn’t have made him blink. Like he was a character from that TV show Grimm or something.

  The seats were packed. A group of obvious exchange students, Korean probably, took up the entire back. Ken stood next to a pole attached to the seat of two girls with orange-dyed streaks in their glossy, smooth hair, and matching Coach bags.

  “Tell me about Hayk. Why does the thought of your father with him scare you?”

  I stood facing him, back to the front of the bus, trying not to bump into the Korean girl’s knee. “You said Baku.”

  Ken sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, tousling the brown waves. The girl by the window smiled up at him, and he gave her an answering flash of teeth.

  I cleared my throat as meaningfully as I could. The girl smirked, and then said something in rapid Korean to her companion. They giggled, the sound like a cheese grater on my already frayed nerves.

  “Do you really need me to spell it out?” said Ken. “Focus on telling me what to expect when we reach PCC. Just exactly what kind of danger is Hayk? Is he Kind?”

  Kind? Why the hell does that matter? The bus lurched, and I stumbled forward a little. Ken caught me with a light grip on my shoulders. His eyes went through that transformation, darkening so that iris and pupil were indistinguishable, a pool of intensity that spilled black into the white.

  He wasn’t just crazy. I wasn’t just crazy. Something definitely not normal was happening here.

  “You really don’t know,” he said, his voice husky. “Herai-san truly kept you ignorant?” His hands tightened on my shoulders. “Stupid fool.”

  I gasped. “Let me go.” A squeak more than a command.

  There was no air in the bus. He pulled me closer, only the cold metal of the pole between us. Somewhere far away, the Korean girls giggled again. My whole being was focused on Ken. He didn’t feel safe at all, now; he felt volatile. Energy twisted in the air, like a thunderstorm’s humid electricity before a sudden downpour.

  “Tell. Me. Everything,” he said.

  The bus pulled to a stop in front of the student union, and I was torn from his grasp as the entire group of Korean students rose as one and shoved themselves out of the bus. Caught in the wave, I stumbled down the bus steps, little pricks of energy dancing over my skin.

  Go. Go. Go. Get away. Away from Ken, away from those questions. Answers lay at the bottom of a deep whirlpool of madness, and I had deep scars from crawling my way out of that whirlpool before. Holy crap, all I want to do is go to school and get my degree and live like a normal person.

  Scratch that self-pity whimpering. All I want right now is to find Dad.

  I half-jogged through the bark chipped border of bayberry bushes, uncaring of the thorns snagging my jeans. Down the grassy slope toward the gray, concrete-and-brick buildings blurring into the even grayer Portland spring rains-clouded sky. Past the cafeteria to jump down the steps leading toward the two-story social sciences building. One step toward the lobby and I saw Elise from Kaneko-sensei’s class loitering in front of the glass door, looking my way as if she wanted to snag my attention. Uh-oh, no time for her. Swiveling mid-step, I made for the outside staircase.

  When I reached it, the area was deserted except for Ken, leaning against the door with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “What took you so long?” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. How did he get here first? His features had taken on that feral sharpness from when he’d been sniffing out Dad. Not a happy Ken.

  Too bad.

  “Get out of my way.”

  He straightened up and made an elaborate bow. “After you.” I brushed past him to open the door, and felt his hovering thunderstorm energy flickering at the skin along my arm. A musk, familiar, rose to fill my nose and an acrid tang coated my tongue. For an instant I was crouching on a bed of pine needles, my fingers flexing with the urge to run.

  Ken’s dream.

  I risked a quick glance at his face as I entered the building. His eyes were completely dark, not a bit of white showing.

  Allrighty, then. Whatever it meant that I dreamed others’ fragments, I was sure I was human. What was Ken? And what did it mean, despite his weirdness, that having him at my back felt safer than looking for Dad alone?

  “Your father’s scent is strong here,” said Ken from behind me. I kept up a rapid stride down the hall. It was deserted, most of the frosted glass panes on the office doors showing no light. It was too early for professors to be in their offices. A glimmer of hope. Maybe Hayk wasn’t here. Maybe Dad was already on his way home.

  Hayk’s door
was ajar, light spilling out into the dim hallway.

  I’d gotten this far in a panicked rush, but suddenly the idea of entering Hayk’s lair was a pressure in my chest, forcing me to halt abruptly.

  The dead boy at the bottom of the hole, his curls shiny with blood. The hawk-nosed woman in the hallway. The nauseating mix of cardamom and rotted cantaloupe.

  “It’s okay,” said Ken, still in that husky voice. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  Warmth spread down, unlocking my chest and allowing me to gulp in a deep breath. Just like that, the fragments went out like a match stuck in a glass of water.

  A muffled sob came from inside Hayk’s office. Dad. I stepped through the door. The same, cheap metal desk taunted me amongst luxurious crimson hangings. The ginormous stone pillar loomed against the wall. No Hayk. The sob came again. My dad was crumpled in the corner with his head between his knees.

  “Dad?” I knelt beside him. My palm hovered over his back. A few times in the past when Dad had been in one of his ‘states’ he’d reacted violently when I touched him.

  “Blood…she’s covered in blood,” said Dad. He’d for sure latched on to one of Hayk’s fragments. It would only get worse if I touched him. I settled back on my heels.

  “Dad, you’ve got to get up. We can’t stay here.”

  He lifted his head. His face was mottled in patchy blotches of red, and shiny with tears.

  A painful lump settled in my throat. I hated him like this, hated that I had to see it. Bear it. Torn between wanting to shake him and fold him into my arms, all I could do was kneel there, my fists clenched so tight I was trembling.

  “Who’s covered in blood?” said Ken. His legs, warm and solid, pressed into my back, supporting me.

  “The girl in the hall,” Dad whispered.

  I gasped.

  “The boy in the well.”

  Ken would assume this was dementia talking, but if Hayk overheard…

  “Hayk can’t find us in here,” I said.

  “Hayk’s just a human,” rumbled Ken. He moved around to crouch at Dad’s side, my back chill without his supporting warmth. “No danger to Baku.”

  “Danger, Koi,” said Dad. Shaking hands twisted themselves into my hoodie at the neckline. He stood up, wiry muscles still strong enough to bring me up with him. “Blood, everywhere,” he ran a hand tensed into a claw through my hair, snagging tangles at the back. “Soaked through her blouse, ripped and torn.”

  “Stop,” I hissed. “I’m right here. I’m fine.”

  My father ran a thumb clammy with sweat down the center of my forehead to the bridge of my nose.

  “Koi,” he said, his pupils focusing into black pinpricks. “Still alive.”

  Damn it, he isn’t lucid. Touching him was a necessary risk. I grabbed his wrists and pulled Dad away from the wall.

  “There’s something here,” said Ken, one hand on my shoulder. His musky smell overpowered the dusted, old spice and mold smell of Hayk’s office.

  “Yes, us,” I snapped. “And soon Hayk, too.”

  Ken glared, his lips parted to show those white teeth. His nostrils flared, and his tongue flickered out, tasting the air. He slowly swiveled around. “Something not human or Baku.”

  He took a step toward the stone pillar.

  Ken could stay here and play mystic psycho-dude, but I was getting Dad out of here. I pulled at Dad, but he locked his knees, focused entirely on Ken and the stone.

  “This isn’t just dead rock,” said Ken. His palms hovered just over the surface of the stone, as if it were radiating a heat he could feel. “There’s something here…something that feels like Kind, and doesn’t.”

  “Vishap,” said Dad. “I can’t…I can’t reach the dreams…I can’t protect…” His whole body tensed, and shuddered, and I put an arm around his shoulder to take his weight as his knees buckled.

  “The stone-scent is wrong,” said Ken. “Like strange spices and salt-metallic. Something strong sleeps in this stone. We should leave before it wakes.”

  I gave an exasperated sigh. “Ya think?”

  Ken shook his head, but took Dad’s other arm and tucked it under his own. We pulled Dad away from the stone pillar and turned to leave.

  Hayk stood framed in the doorway, his face a blank mask. It must have been his version of surprise, because a beat later I watched, a sinking feeling in my stomach, as his features flowed into an expression I thought only existed on animated TV shows; evil glee. He even rubbed his hands together.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Ms. Pierce.”

  “Uh, Professor Hayk, ah, hi.”

  Dad mumbled something under his breath in Herai dialect. I couldn’t quite catch the meaning, but Ken gave a slight jerk of his chin in Hayk’s direction.

  “Um, this is my father. I thought he might be able to help with the…uh translations.”

  “Excellent,” said Hayk. He took a step into his office, and reached out like he was going to take my elbow. “Let me just—” he said, and Ken snarled.

  He snarled.

  I scuffled back, Dad’s entire weight on me. Behind us, I heard a shifting sound, like stone foundations settling.

  Ken growled again. Then he flowed in front of me, a shield between us and Hayk. All semblance of normality was in tatters. Ken crouched, one leg back, his body angled sideways, both hands curved into claws at chest-level.

  “And what might you be?” said Hayk. No fear spoiled the rumpled professor vibe. He looked pleased.

  “Leaving,” said Ken hoarsely, his words strangled through a clenched jaw.

  “No, no, you just got here,” Hayk stepped forward, but came to an abrupt halt against Ken’s claw. Claw? God, Ken’s hands weren’t just curved like claws. Quarter inch long, thick nails the color of old ivory extended from his fingertips. Hayk looked down at one claw pressed against his chest and blinked.

  “We are leaving,” Ken repeated.

  “But you haven’t even told me your name,” said Hayk. The way he said name made me shiver, bringing to mind the strange way the room had spun in Kaneko-sensei’s classroom. My mind went on red alert, skin prickling. Heightened awareness chafed against the roughness of Dad’s corduroy shirt and choked on the cardamom stifling the room. Behind us, the stone shifted again. Followed by a loud cracking noise.

  Hayk’s smile deepened, and for an instant he broke away from the staring contest with Ken to glance at the stone pillar. What he saw made him step closer, unmindful of Ken’s claws tearing tiny holes in his shirt.

  Get a grip. I shook my head and eased Dad’s weight against my hip.

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking me ignorant,” Ken said.

  Hayk’s pleased expression faltered for a moment. “Never fear, I do not mistake you, nor Ms. Pierce at all. I am insanely curious who you might be.”

  “The Kitsune will help us, he won’t let you die.” Dad had spoken in Japanese, but not his Herai dialect. His eyes were clear from murky confusion. Ken gave an exasperated huff.

  “Kitsune,” Hayk repeated. His voice pressed in, underlaid with jarring harmonics and weirdly enough, a fiery smell like smoked paprika. “How fascinating.” Shivers ran down my arms and back. “Let me show you something I think you might be interested in here.”

  I blinked furiously, trying to clear away the paprika sting.

  Hayk’s resonant voice continued. “I’m sure you have a-short-time-before—”

  He can’t finish that sentence. “Let’s go,” I broke in, panting with the effort of speaking through the spicy fog. “Come on.”

  Hayk’s words stuttered to a stop, anger breaking through the pleasant mask.

  Ken straightened up. With the flat of his palm he pushed Hayk hard out of the doorway. Hayk banged into the opposite wall with an oomph, breath knocked out of him.

  I dragged Dad by the arm, skin at the back of my neck prickling and goose pimply. We scrambled past Hayk and through the door. I hurried down the s
till deserted hall, sure Hayk was going to charge out of his office any second and tear Dad from my grasp.

  I glanced back once before we turned the corner. Hayk stood outside his office, his gaze hard and hungering.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re a Kitsune?” I said in Japanese. No point in freaking out the taxi driver.

  Dad sat quietly between us in the back seat of the taxi. His eyes were clear, like he was in a lucid patch, but his mouth was a bloodless, white line. Lips pressed tight against words threatening to break free. Or he was going to upchuck.

  I had tried talking to him in Herai dialect. No answer. I needed him more than I ever had in my life, and he was gone. Gone into the dementia fog. Traveling down that thought path only took me into the forest of anger and sadness. Desperate for a distraction, I had turned to confront the craziness that was Ken.

  “The simple answer is yes,” said Ken, replying in the same language.

  “Yes, you’re a red fox?”

  Ken laughed. “You saw the claws.” He lifted one hand and turned it back and forth in front of me. I expected to see it morph into some monstrous, hairy appendage a la American Werewolf in London, but it stayed well-formed, the fingers slender and strong, the forearm lithely muscled. No sign of the ivory claws. Did they retract?

  I tore my eyes away from his hand and looked out the window. I’d always had a thing for hands. Ken had nice hands, strong, long fingers. Claws. Kitsune. If only this was a reality prank show or something.

  “Don’t be willfully obtuse,” said Ken. “You can’t speak Japanese like a native without knowing something of the culture. Obviously not Kitsune, not in the sense of being a red-haired vulpine, but Kitsune in the sense of being an illusionist and shape-shifter.”

  “A were-fox, then?” I had no idea where this giggly voice came from. Maybe it was hysteria. Maybe I was totally flipping out.

  “Yes,” said Ken in English, “on the nights of the full moon I turn all hairy and rummage through people’s garbage cans.”

  Irritation spiked, killing the giggles. “Don’t be condescending.”