“For what?”
“Who the hell knows? To experiment on us, make us do shit for them. But whatever we can do doesn’t reach its full potential until our eighteenth birthdays, so for now all of those under the legal smoking age seem to be safe. As for the rest of us, well, we’re just waiting our turn. They’ve already taken a few.”
“But make us do what?”
“Did you not hear what I said earlier? I can make people do whatever I want them to. Kira over here can make the landscape move.”
“Just plants,” she corrected him.
“Sure, but once you turn eighteen I bet you could reconstruct an entire land mass if you wanted to.”
“I couldn’t…”
“You could if they were threatening to cut off your fucking fingers.” Victor nodded to an older man in slacks and dress shoes who looked like he’d just come from the office. “Joseph over here speaks goat.”
The old man rubbed his forehead, his British accent bubbling. “I do not speak goat. I am a linguist.”
“What other languages do you speak?” I asked, a little surprised that his ability seemed so ordinary.
But then he said, “All of them. All it takes is hearing one word or even just one syllable in a particular language and I can replicate the nuances of the entire culture. Comes in handy when I’m trying not to be profiled as a tourist.”
“Or when you’re impersonating a drug lord,” Victor said.
“That was in my twenties,” Joseph huffed. “Now I use it only for intellectual purposes and to order take-out when I’m abroad.”
“But every language,” I said. “I mean, there isn’t one you don’t know?”
“Not one.”
“Which includes goat,” Victor said, shifting his attention. “That’s Old Miss Crazy Eyes in the corner…”
“It’s Christine,” the old woman cut in, “and I can speak for myself.” She wore a pair of tattered overalls as if she’d fallen asleep in the middle of gardening, the buckles and baggy pants making her look like a thin reed. She cleared her throat, pensive. “I can make myself weightless. Tends to come on when my blood sugar’s low.”
“Wait,” I said, staring at her. “You can fly?”
“Float,” she corrected. “When it comes to my own body it’s mostly involuntary but I can make other things float too.”
“Other people?” I asked.
“Just once. My husband.” She waved a hand, chasing off the memory. “It didn’t end well.”
“Evan over there can make shit sing.” Victor pointed to a young guy in the corner, barefoot, his brown hair a mess as if he’d been stolen from his bed in the middle of the night.
Evan rolled his eyes but he didn’t elaborate.
“Make shit sing?” I said, trying not to sound as desperately curious as I really was.
The only other Dreamers I’d ever met were Stassi and Sam, their abilities familiar because they were my own. Stassi could navigate the past and I could navigate time in any direction. Sam could manipulate herself in the dreams and I could manipulate the dreams themselves. But all of those things I’d discovered completely by accident, Evan’s ability and even Joseph’s something I never would have even imagined.
“Every living thing has a frequency,” Evan said as he stared at the ceiling, nonchalant. “All it takes is a little tuning and those frequencies become melodies, symphonies.”
“That’s…”
He shrugged. “Useless.”
“I was going to say beautiful.”
He squeezed his toes, probably trying to keep them warm. “Yeah, well I’d much rather be able to float or control trees. I’d even rather speak goat.” He glanced at the boy on the other side of the room who Victor hadn’t exposed yet. “I’d much rather be able to make a flame. Especially right now.”
Victor glanced in the boy’s direction and the tension in the room sharpened. The boy’s cheeks were hard, his eyes even harder as if he was trying to burn a hole right through the floor. His clothes looked dusty, like he’d crawled in from beneath our feet, the dirt blending in with the color of his skin.
“Care to share Sebastian?”
The boy cut his eyes, snakelike, then turned away.
“Sebastian here…” Victor treaded carefully, though his voice was still full of snark. “He can manipulate the elements. He once set his father on fire just for looking at him wrong.” He turned to me. “That means you better stay on his good side, Curly Sue.”
“It’s Sebastían,” the boy corrected, his Spanish inflection harsh.
“Excuse me, your majesty.”
Kira shoved Victor, her voice unsteady as her gaze passed over Sebastían. “Leave him alone.”
Even though she sounded afraid, everyone else keeping a safe distance too, I had to know more. “You can manipulate the elements?” I waited for him to look up but he didn’t. “Have you tried to—?”
“I’ve tried everything,” he said.
“We all have,” Kira added. “Nothing works in here.”
“Room’s got some enchantment on it or something,” Victor said. “None of us can use our abilities.”
“So, what about you?” Kira asked.
“Me?”
Sebastían’s eyes fluxed and it was so clear they were a warning.
I stared past Kira, past everyone, and lied again. “The weather.”
Victor crossed his arms. “Safe choice.”
I tried to keep my face cool. “What else do you know about what they’re doing or where they’ve been taking the others?”
“We know that we’re all dreaming,” Joseph said, “stuck in one actually. As for our bodies…well, we’re not exactly sure where they are.”
“But that could be a good thing, right? If we can just find a way to wake ourselves up then we can get out of here.”
Victor shook his head. “Except we can’t wake up. Didn’t you hear anything we just said?”
Kira moved to stand next to me. “You don’t have to be such a jerk, Victor.”
After a beat of silence I looked around the room, trying to find the right words. “Were you…I mean, was everyone here…attacked? By the shadows?”
“Shadows…” Victor cleared his throat. “Demons. Whatever the hell they are…” His voice dropped. “Those things hunted us down and then they got inside…somehow.”
“I started sleeping a lot more,” Christine added, her voice just as unsettling. “Weeks would go by and I’d feel like I’d just blinked. Then the nightmares started, haunting me whether I was sleeping or awake.”
“Same here.” Victor ran a hand down his face. “Then those shadows drove me out of my fucking mind.”
“So it’s true,” I said. “That’s what the shadows have been trying to do all along.”
It was the Rogues who’d told Roman about the shadows trying to draw the Dreamers into an endless sleep. But whether or not it was to make us easier to kill or easier to control I still wasn’t sure.
Joseph nodded, raking down his grey mustache. “Our minds are obviously our power source. You take control of that and you take control of us.”
“But…” my pulse was in my throat, “what about our bodies?”
“I don’t know,” Joseph said.
Christine squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“God.” I slumped to the floor, so cold that it felt like we weren’t just buried under a block of ice but sitting on one too.
“Not sure God can hear us down here,” Victor said.
“What’s happened to the others?” I asked. “Does anyone know?”
Victor just shrugged, fiddling with his pocket as if he was itching for a cigarette. “They took them and they never came back.”
“Who? What could they do?”
Everyone stared at the floor, another question they didn’t want to answer.
Kira finally spoke. “A little girl.” Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Her name was Sam.”
>
I gripped the floor as the room started to tilt, memories tumbling end over end inside me. Of her body. Of her death. Sam was dead. I’d watched it happen, I’d touched her corpse.
“How?”
Kira took my hand and I realized it was shaking. “Did you know her?”
“She can’t be here.”
Sebastían eyed me, anxious. “Was she your…sister?”
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. She can’t be here. She’s…”
“She’s what?” Victor said.
“She’s dead,” I said. “I watched it happen.”
They all eased back, confused, afraid.
“What does that mean?” Kira said. “If her body’s gone…”
“Then she can’t ever wake up,” Victor finished, his voice an ounce softer than it had been before. I wondered if this was what he looked like when he was afraid.
“Do you think that’s what they want to do with the rest of us?” Kira asked. “To destroy our bodies somehow so we’ll be stuck here forever?”
“Our powers are restricted to when we’re dreaming,” Victor said, “and if we’re always dreaming we’re always…”
“Slaves,” Joseph cut in. “They’re trying to make us slaves.”
“But I still don’t understand why,” Kira said.
“Why not?” Victor kicked at the wall, fear churning to rage. “With us they could take over the whole fucking world if they wanted to. Power. That’s what they want. And if we don’t find a way out of here…” He shook his head. “They’ll get it.”
14
Roman
When we reached Parker’s house the front door was open, music forcing it back on its hinges as people pushed their way inside. We followed the smoke blowing out of the open windows and were struck by the smell of pine, skunks in heat, and chocolate chip cookies. When we stepped inside, some girl, sopping wet and in her bikini, was pulling them out of the oven.
We passed a wooden barrel full of iced beers and I plucked one free, the cold stinging my fingers. Jimmy reached for a coke instead and I wondered what he might think of what I was about to do. But then I downed half my beer in one chug and realized that I didn’t really give a fuck.
“Roman? Is that you?” I felt a hand on me and I spun. Parker was wearing a scuba suit, flippers and all, the girl who’d baked the cookies hanging on his arm.
“Uh…” I ran a hand through my hair, lowering my voice. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Shit, dude!” Parker jumped onto the coffee table, his flippers smashing a tray of brownies. “Everybody!” He flapped his arms, motioning for someone to turn off the stereo. The music died and everyone groaned. “Shut the fuck up!” Parker pointed a finger at me and I sunk against the wall. “Everybody, we have a fucking miracle in our midst. The myth. The man. The fucking legend. Fucking Roman fucking Santillo!”
Everybody stared, erupting in claps and whoops only after Parker took the lead. My cheeks burned, my shirt sticking to me. But then I downed the rest of my beer to a room full of cheers and suddenly I didn’t mind.
A girl in a dress much too short for the weather leaned in. “Roman, I heard about what happened. It’s incredible.”
A guy wearing a giant green afro hung an arm around her shoulder, jabbing his finger at me. “Dude, you’re the fucking man.”
I grinned, stepping past him.
A girl in a dress even shorter than the first handed me another beer. “Congrats, Coma Boy.” Then she winked and turned on her heel.
There were dozens more awkward and brief congratulations like that from people I went to high school with, people I used to play peewee football with, from old neighbors and people whose parents knew my dad, and from total strangers who’d just heard about me on the news. I was man of the hour and every time my hand was empty some girl with smeared makeup would hand me a beer with a wink and a smile.
“Dude, you’re like some kind of celebrity,” Jimmy said when he’d finally caught up with me again.
I’d been passed around Parker’s party like I was on parade and had somehow ended up in the backyard by the pool. “Yeah,” I laughed, taking another swig, “I guess so.”
“Hey, how many is that?” Jimmy asked, nodding to the empty bottle I’d just tossed into the fire pit.
“Not enough.” I pushed past him, reaching for another.
“Whoa, you feeling okay?”
“Jimmy, mind your own fucking business.” I tripped, catching myself on a lounge chair, which was already occupied by two girls sucking marshmallows off of sticks.
“Whatever.” Jimmy waved a hand and headed back inside.
“Are you Roman?” There was a hand on my shoulder, the smell of sugar and pool water by my ear.
I blinked, a girl with two heads coming into focus. “Uh, yeah…”
Her grip tightened and I inched away.
“Roman?” Another voice.
I turned and my head was swimming. I saw blonde hair and week-old eyeliner. Cassie. She yanked me up by the arm, dragging me over folded chairs and trash until we were on the side of the house, hidden by the fence.
I shrugged out of her grasp. “What the hell?”
She crossed her arms. “Are you drunk?”
I cracked the top on the fresh bottle I was holding. “Maybe.”
She rolled her eyes. “Figures.”
“I’m sorry but I really don’t have time for your drunk-shaming right now. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m sort of man of the hour.”
“Oh, trust me…” I’d wandered a bit and Cassie forced me back against the side of the house. “I’ve noticed. Word’s travelled pretty far in the past hour. Which is why Carlisle’s here looking for you right now.”
“Carlisle? Fuck that guy.”
“You don’t get it. He came here to kick your ass in front of everybody. He knows about that night and apparently he’s just been biding his time until you weren’t a vegetable anymore.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t care.” I turned to storm off but she caught me again.
“You should.”
I stopped. “Why are you warning me anyway? Pretty sure you came with him, didn’t you?”
Her cheeks were pink. “We’re…trying to work things out.”
I choked out a laugh that turned into a manic coughing fit. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I stood upright, shaking my head. “No, I should have known. You’ve always been a slut.”
I felt the sting before I even saw it coming. Cassie stood there, chest heaving, hand still raised, and then she stormed off through the backyard. I saw Carlisle with his new lackeys and when she reached them she stopped, pointing to where I was stumbling over a lawn chair.
“Have at him!” she yelled.
People spilled out of the house behind Carlisle. He must have announced my ass kicking like some kind of Saturday Night pay per view. I could tell he was expecting me to run, but unfortunately for him, I was freshly pissed off from just being slapped by his girlfriend, and thanks to all of the alcohol I’d consumed, that rage was now concentrated in my fists.
“Nice to see the old Roman’s back,” he said.
“Looks like you haven’t changed much either. Still can’t fight without your lackeys, can you?”
The one on the left growled as I approached, Carlisle and I almost toe to toe. My body hummed, that inherent charge striking hot. Ever since I’d destroyed that first shadow in Bryn’s dream-state, the urge to incinerate, to annihilate, was like a switch I couldn’t turn off. I’d ignored it for the past few weeks, the sight of Bryn in that hospital bed dulling everything. But I didn’t want to bury it now. I didn’t want to let it simmer or cool or die down. I wanted to let it burn.
I braced myself for what I was about to say, the words the equivalent of the starter bell. Then I leaned in close to Carlisle and said, “It’s not my fault your girlfriend’s a slut.”
I
was on the ground and with one crack of Carlisle’s fist, my drunk numbness evaporated. I caught him in the chest, in the gut, in the chin, and he returned the favor, knocking me in the jaw and digging a knee in my side. But I was stronger than he was and I knew that with just an ounce more tension, my fists a few degrees hotter, I could end him. I could kill him.
My thoughts came like a rolling tide, every horrible one I’d ever had crashing down on me. Do it. Hurt him. Finish him. The words tolled, a promise that once I gave in I’d stop hurting, that I could fill him with my pain and leave it there.
Carlisle got in one good swipe to my face and suddenly all I could see were the indentions of my knuckles on Craig’s gloves; my calloused hands from all those months in the wheelchair; Bryn’s face beneath that streetlight the moment I told her I’d lied; the way she cowered every time I stepped into her hospital room. Carlisle’s weight on me was gravity. He was the wall I’d spent countless hours trying to force my way through. He was Dr. King and his bullshit diagnosis and Dr. Banz and his serum. He was every shadow and every bit of darkness, the one that stole my mother and the one that stole Bryn.
I threw Carlisle onto his back and buried my fists in his ribs until he was writhing and out of breath. I could feel his arms go limp, his fists dull thuds against my chest. I slammed his wrists against the ground. And then I held them there. I didn’t hit him. I just held him. Because I knew that if I kept going I wouldn’t be able to stop. Not this time, not with this riot inside me.
It surged at his proximity and all I wanted was to snuff him out for good. But instead of fighting him, I fought that feeling. I fought it because I knew it was wrong, and even though it felt good, even though I knew hurting him would feel good too, I knew what would happen if I took one more swing. The same thing that had happened when my dad tried to stop me from going upstairs, when my body had retaliated, swinging straight for him. I’d tried to hurt my own father, I almost had, and I hated myself. And if I hurt Carlisle the way I really wanted to, I’d hate myself for that too.
Stop. Breathe.
Carlisle’s eyes seethed, gleaming, waiting for me to finish what I’d started. There was a strange triumph on his face, the anticipation almost igniting a smile. A chill raced up my spine, sobering me, because as I stared into his eyes it wasn’t just anger I saw but wicked joy. A black flame swam across each pupil and then the shadow was gone.
The Girl In Between series: Books 1-4 Page 67