Dream Eater

by K. Bird Lincoln

  “Destiny. It is in our fate to meet and decide a victor.” Ullikemi’s voice this time.

  “Your mythology,” said Kwaskwi, standing straight as one of the pines, prickling with irritation. “Whoever you are.”

  “Unktehila,” said Hayk, “the horned serpent,” He gave a smile that tried to be sardonic, but his eyes glowed too fierce. “Sisiutl, three-headed serpent. Your mythology, too, Kwaskwi Kwa’yickuc. U’melth. Even in this land of mish-mash beliefs, no Kind escapes human influence.”

  Hayk breathed deeply, gathering air and power, but before he could speak, Ken lunged with his fist, hitting Hayk on the side of the face so hard I heard a muffled crack. Hayk stumbled to the side.

  “Don’t let Hayk speak,” Ken called out, arms raised for another punch.

  Kwaskwi called out in a language I didn’t recognize and the air came alive with beating wings and sharp beaks. Jays showered down from all sides, a cavalcade of dark blue. I ducked, claws tearing at my hair.

  Cacophony. Hayk-Ullikemi shouted muffled syllables, Ken growled, and the sinister laughter of jays prickled over skin like talons.

  Droplets in the air coalesced, and the dark cloud of angry blue unraveled at the edges as their feathers grew water-logged and heavy. Ullikemi pushing back with his power. The jays broke apart, circling, struggling to stay airborne with wings rimed in salt.

  Kwaskwi called out again. Salt-taste and spice faded to the familiar, Portland mossy-damp smell.

  The cloud of attacking birds wheeled apart into two sets of spirals on either side of Hayk. Crumpled, clothes sliced open with hundreds of fine slashes; he backed away down the path toward the zoo parking lot, Ullikemi’s presence barely flickering a faint green in his eyes.

  His throat worked convulsively. Hayk suddenly hunched over, opened his mouth wide, and spewed feathers, blue soaked to black with gruesome, viscous liquid.

  The dragon-Kind had felt so powerful when we stood before the Vishap stone. Did Hayk lose his connection with distance?

  Or had fighting Kwaskwi weakened him?

  Or does eating a waking dream somehow drain a being of their life energy?

  I bit my lower lip. I am not some kind of energy vampire. A spike of pain arched across my temples.

  Ken stalked to the edge of the path. Lithe. Dangerous. Not in the least human. “Leave,” he commanded in growly, alpha-male voice.

  Hayk tried to speak, but choked on more soaked feathers. With a hacking cough, blue and white tufts floated from his mouth. Hayk inhaled, a drowning man’s gasp.

  Ullikemi’s green had entirely drained away, revealing a naked, human expression of surprise, but only for a fleeting instant. Then Hayk’s features curled in on themselves, a bully regrouping. Disdain. Hate. A sick wanting. But all Hayk. No water dragon.

  Something unpleasant gurgled in my belly, a cramp like I’d eaten too many street tacos.

  “You can’t hide from us forever,” said Hayk, his voice plain and raspy without Ullikemi’s harmonics. “You will give Ullikemi the name.”

  “Not today, Professor,” said Kwaskwi. “You’re nothing but a flesh trash bag without your master.”

  Ken took a step forward. “Leave now. Or suffer the consequences.”

  Hayk did not budge. “Your consequences are an empty threat. Kind law hamstrings you quite nicely.”

  “Kind law bends for the Bringer,” growled Ken. “Test me. Please.”

  Hayk grimaced, his hands making fists at his sides. An almost subsonic growl from Ken raised fine hairs along the back of my neck and arms.

  It was clear Hayk regretted not using his silver knife on Ken while he was frozen, but it was also clear in this empty state, without Ullikemi’s presence, that he could barely stand upright. With a choked sound of disgust, Hayk spun on his heel and took off at a brisk walk, while the cawing of the whirling jays overhead mocked his retreat.

  Kwaskwi strode over, hands outstretched like a pro wrestler ready to grab and throw me down like a bag of rice. Just as he closed in, a strange shimmer outlined me in wavery green. As I held up my own hand, palm out, the green flashed to deep blue, and then faded away entirely. The last gasp of Ullikemi’s fragment?

  Kwaskwi halted abruptly. That’s right, punk. I eat dragon energy for breakfast. Dream-eater.

  “Funny way of showing your gratitude,” said Kwaskwi, anger sharpening his words.

  I brushed feathers from my hair. A layer of blue coated the sidewalk and blanketed the brush. Like a thousand birds had suddenly decided to go commando. I glanced at the surrounding pines. Jays settled, jostling on boughs, still fully clothed.

  “Are you purposefully craven?” said Kwaskwi, “or is this some Baku superiority thing?”

  What was he getting all pouty about? Hayk was gone. My head was about to split open, and possibly we were all about to revisit my non-existent breakfast. I would literally kill for a double-shot latte. I gave him my best version of Marlin’s hairy eyeball. “Hayk was going to kill Ken.”

  Kwaskwi turned his head to give a pointed look at Ken, still bristling and ninja-like as he oversaw Hayk’s disappearance into the crowded maze of parked cars. “Hmmm,” he said. “In danger. The Bringer. Yes, I can see now why the big scary human attacking your pet Kitsune made you give up my name.”

  “I said I was sorry,” I said. He needed to give me some space or this simmering feeling would boil over. I had given up his name. When the chips were down, I had squealed like a pig and Kwaskwi was now in danger from Ullikemi. I knew that. But even so, the energy from eating the fragment coursed through me and my hands tightened into fists at my sides. That same power I’d used to toss Ken across my kitchen wanted out, and it didn’t care who I hurt.

  Kwaskwi made a chopping motion with his hand. “You will retrieve your father now,” he said. “All bets are off.”

  Fine with me, jerk.

  Ken kicked at the carpet of blue feathers in front of me and put one hand in the center of my back. His hand was warm through my damp clothes.

  “Our agreement is unbroken,” he said.

  Kwaskwi smiled slowly, those big teeth gleaming a challenge. “Petty human myths haven’t entangled Thunderbird since Lewis and Clark first set their blistered feet at the mouth of the Columbia River. Caution, my furry friend, above all. Our people embrace human society, unlike some,” the heavy emphasis unmistakably directed at Ken.

  The comforting hand on my back became a tense fist.

  Kwaskwi’s lazy mirth evaporated, and he advanced into Ken’s personal space. “But we don’t hand our asses over to humans on a silver platter, either.” Sparks almost flew between the two men.

  “Don’t,” said Ken in a quiet voice. “Herai kept her ignorant. She didn’t understand what Hayk was, or that Ullikemi rode him.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not right. I may not know the rules, but I’m not an idiot. Snitching is snitching.”

  Ken’s jaw tightened. Insistent pressure from his arm urged me closer to his side, as if he could defend me from myself. It was dangerously tempting to let him try. My temples and the base of my neck throbbed like they were keeping time with a Fall Out Boy song.

  This was how I’d felt after throwing Ken across the room into the refrigerator. Was it withdrawal? Did my body crave evil dreams like heroin?

  “Forgive me if your little self-pity wallow doesn’t pluck my heartstrings,” said Kwaskwi. Jays chattered around us, a supporting cast of mirth.

  “Fine. Fly Dad back to us. We’ll get out of your hair.”

  “No mythical bird express this time,” he said.

  “I’ll get a cab to drive us up to Government Camp, then,” I said. “Dad will be off your hands.”

  A light rain pattered down around us, the grove oppressively silent. Where had all the jays gone? The boughs were suddenly bare, and Kwaskwi, despite his smirk, looked as exhausted and battered as Hayk had just as Ullikemi’s glow left him.

  “What do you know of our home?” he said in a qui
et voice. A chill whispered down my spine. I much preferred his mocking tone to this serious one.

  Ken made a low sound in the back of his throat. We were all three balanced on a precarious anger-cliff, one false step would explode any chance we would leave this place without more blood.

  “Lucky guess,” I murmured, trying to make myself small and nondescript like I did in the PCC hallways. “But you have to admit that for a thunder god home, Mount Hood is fairly obvious.”

  Kwaskwi raised empty palms to the sky, cupping his hands so that the rain pooled moisture in his palms. Faintly, the smell of cardamom reached me. Damn. Wasn’t a bad guy supposed to need time to regenerate or whatever after he’d been beaten?

  “That Ulli-whatsis is still with us,” said Kwaskwi. “What is he, anyway? Polynesian?”

  “Middle Eastern,” said Ken. “His human’s a professor at PCC.”

  “Feel free to take offense, but I wouldn’t let you or the Bringer anywhere near my home. I’ll bring the Dream-eater to you.”

  “Neutral territory,” countered Ken.

  “Name your spot,” said Kwaskwi.

  Ken turned to me. Great. A neutral place. Out of the rain, so Ullikemi couldn’t track us. Full of people and places to duck into if Hayk should try to follow.

  I pressed the pads of my thumbs into the back of my neck, trying to relieve the dull ache enough to think. Ibuprofen, ibuprofen, my kingdom for an ibuprofen.

  It was Saturday, wasn’t it? “Saturday Market, under the Burnside Bridge.”

  “You don’t get out much do you?” said Kwaskwi. The smirk took on a cutting, knowing edge.

  “What?”

  “Saturday Market moved to Ankeny Square years ago.”

  I fought a rising blush. Had it really been that long since I was downtown? “The Skidmore Fountain stop is still under the bridge, though, right?” We could ride the Max, out of the rain, get Dad undercover and maybe Ullikemi wouldn’t be able to follow us.

  “Skidmore Fountain it is,” said Kwaskwi.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, the words escaping before I could bite my lip closed.

  Kwaskwi considered me with a calculating expression that jarred with his casual stance. The hesitation I’d seen before when he almost touched me was there, but an instant later it was gone. Pity. That’s what I felt from him. Not a scary dream-eater thing after all.

  Pity was worse than fear. Worse even than anger. You couldn’t recover from pity.

  I turned away before the silence could force some kind word from Kwaskwi I wouldn’t be able to bear. Pain pounded at my temples, the trees and pavement oddly bright and distinct in their colors.

  “Two hours,” said Kwaskwi to Ken. He stuck a hand in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a white rectangle of paper. Flipping the rectangle at Ken, he shoved into the brush with eerie speed. Speed like Ken had shown. Not human speed. Foolish to keep forgetting I wasn’t dealing with humans.

  Yeah. Right. It wasn’t like Ken or Kwaskwi had come with instructions, and even hours spent with the SyFy channel hadn’t prepared me for this. The monsters were real and way too close.

  A brilliant flash of blue and the sudden cry of a jay marked Kwaskwi’s disappearance. Departure, more likely, although I still couldn’t wrap my mind around how a man became a bird. Where did all the mass go? What about his clothes?

  Stop picturing Kwaskwi with no clothes. I had to be more in awe of him, more wary. That went for Ken, too.

  Magic. This is magic.

  But under the pounding of my temples was the same stifling sense of shame that dogged me when Mom died.

  I’d screwed up as a daughter when she needed me most and here was another thing I’d royally screwed up. What a mess. Trying to pawn off my responsibility for Dad had gotten us all in trouble. I should just take Dad and run.

  Except I couldn’t run away with both Dad and Marlin. Where would we go? And I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else but Portland. Just the thought of figuring out new streets, learning how to duck through different crowds made my chest feel hollow inside.

  I realized Ken was standing, waiting, not crowding my space, but not withdrawing his arm, either.

  He held up the white rectangle. A bandage.

  Slowly, as if I were a wild animal he might startle, he ripped open the outer cover and firmly placed the adhesive side of the bandage over my cut cheek.

  Why did he risk himself helping me?

  A suspicion tickling at the back of my mind turned into a full-fledged stream, carving out even more empty space. I wanted to believe the kiss meant he cared about what happened to me, but the practical part of myself that helped me survive all these years knew the truth; Ken had some mission related to Dad.

  What had Kwaskwi called him, “Bringer”? It was pretty certain that name had some ominous meaning.

  The weight and warmth of his arm turned confining and I squirmed away. Frustration and my throbbing temples kept me going, past the bench and down the path back toward the bus stop.

  Two hours. We were meeting Kwaskwi in two hours.

  Time enough to get downtown, maybe get a giant burrito at the food stand at Pioneer Square—my nausea had been replaced by a gnawing emptiness. Hungry. Then…my mind balked at anything past the burrito.

  Ken trailed me down the path. The bus stop was deserted. The drizzle had chased all the delicate tourists indoors, their cars streaked with damp and silence.

  “You were very resourceful,” said Ken. Limbs folded neatly together, he took up little space on the drenched bus stop bench. Making himself non-threatening again. Bastard.

  “Ah, so?” I said doing my best imitation of Dad refusing to discuss.

  “This is all new to you, and your father isn’t here to teach you about—”

  “Dream-eating,” I supplied for him. I picked at the jagged cuticle on my thumb. Kwaskwi had been very hot to get his hands on Dad until Ullikemi had reared Hayk’s ugly head.

  “You came to Portland for Dad.” The ache in my temples lessened a bit with some deep breathing. Maybe I didn’t have to throw anyone across a room, maybe all that pent-up energy could just…dissipate if I gave it a chance.

  “Yes,” said Ken.

  I glared at him, not sure how to follow that up when I’d expected some reasonable-sounding explanation that would exonerate him from all suspicions of selfish motivations.

  I ached for that kind of explanation.

  If he sat there looking so safe and open and rumpled, could I stop myself from wanting some physical, tangible sense of him? A touch of skin. A whiff of that cinnamony kinako scent?

  “To take him back to Japan?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Ken. “He’s been…estranged from the Council for a long time. I had no idea if he would allow me to find him.”

  “But you found me,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I hated everything unsaid behind that one word. “Are you planning to leave after Kwaskwi gives him back?”

  Ken’s posture didn’t change, but his face went sharp, the safe sense of him disappearing into a coiled readiness tensing along shoulders and leg muscles. He’d been projecting Kitsune illusion again, making me want to trust him. Stupid me to keep forgetting what I saw of him wasn’t necessarily real.

  The problem was, it wasn’t just what I saw that made me want to trust him. It was his kinako-scent, and the uncomplicated yearning in his dream fragment, and how, despite everything, I thought he was on my side.

  He ran a hand through his hair, combing out pine needles and making the short, black waves stand almost straight out. “That’s not my plan anymore.”

  But it had been his plan. To take Dad and run.

  I swallowed, trying to shove a big lump of something in my throat back down into my chest. For a moment, I let myself imagine life without Dad. Without the disruption and the guilt whenever I picked him up from the drab Salvation Army Adult daycare. School. A life not wi
thin the walls of my apartment. All seemed possible without Dad and his crumbling mind.

  If I could ignore all the dream eating.

  I coughed, turning away from Ken and hiding my face in the crook of my elbow so he wouldn’t see my wet cheeks.

  “Ullikemi has the thunder god’s scent now. He won’t let Hayk give up,” said Ken. “Bus is coming.”

  I nodded, still coughing, feeling the tips of my ears burning.

  The bus pulled up to the stop, squealing brakes and spray as the big wheels hit puddles collecting in the gutter. Muddy droplets joined the already rain- and mud-streaked pattern on my jeans. I fished out my last two tickets for the driver and plopped my tired bag of bones into a seat in the back.

  Ken joined me, sitting close enough that our legs touched despite the empty seats on either side of us. Damn Kitsune and his lack of bus seat selection etiquette.

  “Kwaskwi will have to be careful when he hands over Dad,” I said, rubbing my temples. Ibuprofen, a burrito, and a ginormous latte. Then life wouldn’t seem so terrible.

  “Not just Kwaskwi,” said Ken.

  “Well I’m sure he isn’t stupid enough to bring Thunderbird this time.”

  Ken put a finger to his lips, his eyebrows drawing together in an adorably cranky way. “Better not to speak that name at all.”

  I gulped air. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, Hayk’s met Kwaskwi. How hard is it to figure out “Thunderbird” after seeing the Native American? Thunder god. Thunder bird?”

  Ken reached an arm around my shoulders, tracing streaks of rain down the window glass with a blunt fingertip. “Naming is important. Trust me.” Looking out the window stretched his neck at an angle, revealing the long, lithe muscles under smooth skin.

  His arm radiated warmth like a heat-pack. It wasn’t even touching me, just resting on the top of the seat, and every square millimeter of skin on my neck tingled at his presence.

  Just an arm. Get over it.

  “Hayk’s a professor,” I said, turning to Ken and surprised heat suffused my cheeks.

  Ken was gazing at me like he had back in my apartment right before things went electric and fluttery. My bottom lip tingled in a way that made me painfully aware of how close we were sitting.