by Kit Alloway
Besides, Josh was Feodor’s in a way she had never been Will’s, maybe not even in a romantic sense, but in some deeper, more thorough way. Feodor and his memories had changed who she was, and Will didn’t know her anymore. He didn’t trust her.
Will had overheard them talking in the office earlier. They’d been speaking Polish, and very quickly, as if they had so much to say to each other.
Will didn’t have anything left to say to Josh. He didn’t even know what he was doing in this house anymore, except that Whim and Deloise and his adopted parents had all insisted he stay, and since he wasn’t eighteen yet, he didn’t really have a choice.
Now, as Josh fumbled with her sheets of copper in the doorway, Will just stared at her and said nothing. He pinched his lips shut against the desire to say, I’m sorry. I take it all back.
“Sorry,” she babbled. “I was just going to— I can come back later.”
“It’s fine,” Will told her, his voice cracking. “Do what you need to do.”
She set the sheets of copper against the wall and closed the apartment door behind her. Still not looking at him, she said, “About … I was … hoping, I guess…”
So we’re back to this, Will thought, remembering how difficult she had found it to talk to him when they first met.
“I didn’t mean to…”
Back then, he would have helped her, coaxed her into finding the words she needed, reassured her that whatever she felt was okay. The urge to do so was still strong in him, as was the desire to hold her close and reassure her without words.
He didn’t have the strength to do either.
Finally, Josh just muttered, “Sorry,” again, and fled to Whim’s room with her copper.
As soon as she disappeared, another round of guilt hit him. He knew what it must have taken for her to even try to start a conversation about the way things had ended.
I should have helped her. She was trying so hard.
But he was afraid that one forgiveness would lead to another, and by tomorrow he’d be neck-deep in nightmares and danger and science he didn’t understand. Being alone was so much easier and less frightening. He turned up the volume on the television.
“And it’s official!” Myssa declared. “Peregrine Borgenicht and his Lodestone Party have been voted in as the permanent form of government for the dream walkers of North America!”
Lime-green confetti rained down on the stage, and the station cut to a shot of dream walkers celebrating at the Dashiel Winters Building in Braxton.
Will leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes, and the cheers filled his ears.
“Long live Peregrine Borgenicht!”
Thirty−two
Josh, Whim, and Feodor broke into the nursing home at two in the morning, crawling through a window in the accounting office and taking the equipment elevator up to the third floor, which was useful because they had a lot of equipment. Besides the copper cage, Feodor required various osmium plates, a wealth of crystals and magnets, a massive negative ion generator, a water pump with ten yards of tubing, and five gallons of seawater. Not to mention the canister containing Winsor’s soul.
“If we get caught,” Whim whispered to Josh as they rode the elevator up, “what do you imagine the nurses will think we’re doing?”
She shushed him.
In the relative safety of Winsor’s room, they got to work.
Despite the fact that they were—hopefully—about to restore her soul, Josh still felt sick when she looked at Winsor, and even sicker when she had to remove her friend’s blankets and stretch her out, corpselike, on the bed. Feodor said to take off her pajamas, but Whim glared at him and he admitted that rolling up her sleeves and pajama pants would do.
Josh and Whim wrapped Winsor’s body in plastic tubing and turned the pump on so that the seawater circulated around her. The thought had crossed Josh’s mind that this might all be an elaborate ploy to kill Winsor, and she was sure Whim had thought the same thing, but to what end? Feodor had nothing to gain from her death and everything to gain from creating goodwill with his captors. So Josh didn’t protest when Feodor put an oxygen mask on Winsor’s face and connected it to the negative ion generator.
They spent the next hour attaching crystals and magnets to the cage, using a roll of copper wire.
“This is too weird,” Whim said, his voice low. “Is this even going to work?”
“Feodor says it will,” Josh told him.
“But don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”
There are so many things I don’t remember.
The memory of how Will had stared at her that day in the living room came back full force, filling her with shame and sadness. The expression on his face had been so closed to her. She’d desperately wanted to remind him of his promise to love her no matter what she had to do, but his stillness and silence had made it more than clear that he no longer cared about keeping his promises to her.
“No,” she told Whim. “I don’t remember.”
They went back to work.
But as Josh attached crystals to the cage, she kept recalling their first encounter with Feodor and how physically damaged they had been when it was over. This time, she and Will were physically whole, but she felt that they had lost even more.
Maybe if they saved Winsor and got Haley back, things would get better.
When the crystals and magnets were in place, Feodor said they had to wait half an hour.
“For what?” Whim demanded.
“To prepare her body. If she is not prepared to receive her soul, it will flee.”
They waited a terse half hour. Whim played Yahtzee on his phone, but Josh just leaned against the wall with her arms crossed over her broken heart and waited.
“If I may ask,” Feodor said softly to her as time dragged by, “have you attempted to open an archway since we returned from the Hidden Kingdom?”
“No.” She hadn’t even thought about it.
“A most interesting ability,” he mused. “And one I have never seen before.”
“Well, don’t get too excited. It seems to be all I’m capable of.”
She hadn’t told him about the egg, or the visions, or the little voice inside her that had woken up and whispered, even now, You have to follow it. She hadn’t told anyone except to say that in the moment she was near death, she had tapped into her True Dream Walker powers briefly and healed Feodor and Katia.
“Oh, but I am excited,” Feodor said. “And I believe this ability might mean a great deal.”
Josh looked at him. He sat in the rocking chair but didn’t rock, and even in the meager light of the parking lot lamp beyond the window, she could see his bemused smile.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever broken Stellanor’s First Rule of dream walking?”
Josh shivered.
“How the hell did you figure that out?” Whim asked, getting up from the floor.
Feodor shrugged. “I read it in a very old prophecy regarding the True Dream Walker.”
“I’ve never heard that,” Josh said.
He smiled coyly. “I expect I know quite a bit that you do not.”
That was true. But …
“If I’m the True Dream Walker, then why is opening archways the only thing I can do?”
“Just because you haven’t been trained to use your abilities does not mean they don’t exist.”
Josh’s heartbeat quickened in spite of her mind’s warning not to trust him.
“And I suppose you could train me,” she said.
“I could,” Feodor agreed.
Her first thought was that Will would never forgive her, but Will would probably never forgive her anyway.
Her second thought was of Haley.
“Nothing is more important than getting Haley back,” she said, which was almost true. It was true enough.
As Feodor opened his small mouth to respond, Winsor gasped.
Whim shot across the room, and Josh and Feodor followed hi
m to the bedside. Beneath her eyelids, Winsor’s eyes darted around. Her fingers twitched.
“Quickly,” Feodor said. “Remove the oxygen mask tubing from the ion generator and connect it to the outgoing valve on the canister, but don’t open it! Reconnect the ion generator to the ingoing valve.”
Whim and Josh worked on the tubing, Whim’s hands shaking with excitement.
“Josh, place the small osmium plate in her mouth.”
“What if she chokes on it?” Whim asked.
“She won’t choke. Turn off the water pump. Whim, open the ingoing valve.”
“What about the outgoing valve?”
“Not yet. With alacrity, Josh!”
Whim leaned over the bed to turn off the pump while Josh secured the plate in Winsor’s mouth.
“Open the outgoing valve!” Feodor cried. “Now, now!”
Whim spun the valve handle on the canister. “It’s open!”
He stepped back from the bed, and they all stared silently at Winsor.
She began to cough.
Her jaws moved, slowly at first, then faster, trying to force the plate out. Josh reached in to help her, and she retrieved the plate just as the door blew open and a nurse came in. She flicked on the overhead light and everyone froze except Winsor, who continued to cough. “What’s going on in—”
She stopped short when she saw Winsor in the cage. “Mary mother of Jesus!”
Winsor’s eyes opened, and they were blue again, blue and clear and alive.
“Winsor?” Whim asked. He yanked the cage off the bed and clasped her face in his hands.
“She’s awake,” the nurse said with a gasp. “Dr. Guyer!”
She went running down the hallway, shouting for the doctor.
“You did it,” Whim said to Feodor, his expression awed.
Feodor crossed his arms over his chest and smiled smugly. “I believe the appropriate expression is, I told you so.”
She’s back, Josh thought, and she felt a sweet, tiny glimmer of hope. We saved her.
“Winny?” Whim asked. “Can you hear me?”
Winsor coughed again, and she looked at Whim with terror in her blue eyes.
“Say something,” Whim said.
Winsor opened her mouth, lips trembling, and screamed.
“SAAAAAM!”
Thirty−three
The second time they entered Death, Mirren brought three silver coins with which to pay the boatman.
He took them and grunted, as he had the first time, but Mirren thought his grunt sounded less cranky than before.
She sat beside Feodor in the boat, and Josh sat across from them. Mirren thought Josh’s eyes were still pink rimmed from crying and she never seemed fully present, but she looked a little lighter since they’d restored the souls in the canister to their bodies.
Well, three of the four. One soul’s body had already died, so they were bringing that soul with them to Death.
Josh said Winsor had woken up screaming for someone named Sam and that one of the souls in the canister had belonged to a young man named Sam. Even Feodor didn’t seem sure what to make of that.
In gratitude to Feodor for restoring Winsor’s soul, Whim agreed to break back into Death instead of shooting him in the face, and they’d all driven out to Iph National Forest to perform the singing bowl ritual again. Will had played his bowls but refused to enter Death, and Feodor had played Haley’s part.
Mirren was jittery with the anticipation of seeing him. Yes, she’d lost the election; yes, she’d had to retreat to the Hidden Kingdom; but at least she could have Haley back.
The excitement made her talkative, and she asked Feodor something she had been wondering about since their first visit to the afterlife.
“Feodor,” she said, “the gods of the underworld called you by a name, inumen. What does it mean?”
He smiled enigmatically. She didn’t know if he found amusement in her question or in his answer.
“It means clown,” he said.
For some reason, the answer made her nervous.
Inside the temple, the lords of Death shone brighter than ever. Haley wasn’t there; Mirren had thought he would be, that he would anticipate their return.
“Your Highnesses,” Mirren said, falling into a deep curtsy. “We have returned the inumen and wish to exchange him for the hostage.”
One of the gods rose to circle Feodor, examining him.
“Tell us your name,” it said, “and die.”
Feodor, who had not bowed to the gods, said, “I propose a new arrangement.”
“Arrangement?” asked one of the seated gods. “Do you treat Death so callously?”
“Wait,” Josh said, her eyes flashing with alarm.
Feodor ignored her. “While I was in the World, not only did I help these children stop a powerful evil, but I restored three souls to the bodies from which I had taken them, and I have brought you a fourth.”
“What are you doing?” Josh asked. “Feodor, stop.”
Mirren’s pulse began to pound.
“Before I died,” Feodor continued, “I trapped more than sixty souls in a pocket universe. When my universe collapsed, those souls, rightfully dead, were lost in the Dream. If you allow me to remain alive, I will bring those souls to you.”
“No,” Josh said. “No.”
“Where is Haley?” Mirren asked desperately. She felt dizzy and sick, and she grabbed hold of Feodor’s arm, but she couldn’t stop him from speaking.
“Without my help, those souls will remain trapped in the Dream forever,” Feodor warned.
“His name is Feodor Kajażkołski!” Josh shouted, but to no effect.
The golden beings conferred. Josh grabbed Feodor and spun him to face her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Feodor gave one of his light little shrugs, but then he fondly touched Josh’s cheek. “Silly American child. Do you think the dead can be dropped off like a package on a doorstep?” He made a tsk tsk sound. “We are each on a journey.”
Josh stared at him wordlessly.
We all started to trust him, Mirren realized. With his soft accent and his good manners and the way he helped Winsor. We forgot who he is.
“Please,” she begged him as the tears ran down her face. “We need Haley back. Please don’t do this.”
“Ah, Kapuścisko. Such a sweet boy.”
“He can’t survive here!” Mirren cried.
“No one can,” Feodor said shrewdly.
The lords of Death returned to their thrones.
“Every month, on the night of the new moon, you must return, bringing with you three souls,” the central figure said. “If you fail to do so, we will come for you.”
“What about our friend?” Josh asked. “The hostage?”
“He will remain a hostage, so that you might remember that the inumen is your charge to control.”
Mirren couldn’t repress a cry.
“Please,” Josh begged. “Please. Return our friend. I’ll stay in his place.”
“The bargain is struck,” the golden figure said.
For the second time, Mirren found herself sitting on the forest floor, crying.
* * *
That night she lay in Haley’s bed, wrapped in the familiar sights of his things, unable to sleep. Wearing the sweater he had given her, she wandered aimlessly around the room for a while, looking through old photos, shamelessly going through his drawers. In the closet, she found a classical guitar, and she sat on the bed for a while, strumming it. But the guitar sounded like she felt, discordant and sad, as if they had both given up on Haley’s return.
Finally, she put the guitar away and got back into bed, pulling the comforter around her. She pressed her face into his pillow and pretended it was his shoulder.
As her hand slid beneath the pillow, she touched something smooth and cool.
She pulled out a page torn from a steno pad and folded into quarters. With frantic fingers, she opened it.
Mirren,
Build the Royal Trimidion.
Epilogue
On the far side of the temple of the golden beings, Haley stood among the masses of the dead and trembled. He longed for a cardigan to wrap around himself, some small protection from the needy eyes of the souls that wandered to and fro, staring at him with a depth of hunger their physical bodies had never known.
He slid down against the side of the temple and stayed there, curled in a ball, for hours. Although they’d broken into Death in the middle of the night, the sun had been high in the sky here. Now it began to set, and Haley watched his last measure of comfort vanish beyond the horizon. His muscles ached from shaking. He felt as if his moment of bravery had emptied him of all courage, and as night crept over the land of the dead, he gave himself over to helplessness.
I’m never going home. I’ll never see Mirren again. I’ll never see Mom again, or Will, or Whim. I’m going to die here, alone.
Finally he began to cry, pressing his hot face against his knees, cursing himself and his gallant stupidity. Some of the dead paused to watch—their expressions confused, as if they were witnessing a ritual they only dimly remembered—but after a time, Haley became aware of a figure standing over him, waiting with his arms crossed and his foot tapping.
Haley raised his throbbing head. Against the blazing sunset, he could only make out dark hair and a familiar figure, and it wasn’t until he caught sight of the stranger’s aura—hot-rod red and cobalt blue—that he realized the stranger wasn’t a stranger at all.
“Hello, little brother,” Ian said, and he grinned.
About the Author
KIT ALLOWAY is an avid quilter who lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with her family and four very small dogs. Visit her Web site at www.kitalloway.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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