If Souls Can Sleep (The Soul Sleep Cycle Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  “Are you sure this is…hey, wait!” Milton picked up his coat, which Clementine had shrugged off before racing toward the house. By the time he caught up to her, she had already bounded up the steps and was reaching for the door. “Clementine, are you certain this is your house?”

  “Uh-huh.” She fumbled with the knob, and the door creaked open.

  “I think we had better…” Milton swore under his breath as the girl ran into the darkness. He shouldered his way through the entryway. The screen door slammed shut behind him, striking him in the heel.

  Milton took a tentative step deeper into the house and shielded his eyes when an end table lamp erupted in light. Clementine jumped up on a couch that might have been fashionable in the 1970s, crossing her legs under her. She certainly seemed at home in the living room, but he would have liked a little more proof they weren’t breaking and entering.

  Does it even matter anymore? We’ve been wandering in a snowstorm for, what, an hour…two hours?

  “We have to find you some warm clothes and food,” he said quietly. “Are you hungry, Clementine?”

  “I want pizza pie,” she announced, all but bouncing up and down on the couch.

  He flinched and waited for the homeowners—Clementine’s parents or otherwise—to storm down the stairs, baseball bats at the ready. But no one stirred. He decided to explore the first floor before venturing to the second. The lamplight was sufficient enough for him to traverse the adjacent room, a dining room, without his having to find another light switch. At the far end of the dining room, he found a doorway.

  Holding his breath, he turned on the light. A bare light bulb reluctantly blinked to life, casting ghostly reflections across the white tiles surrounding a tub that, strangely, was filled with water. Without knowing quite why, he pulled a rubber duck from the pinkish bathwater.

  “Webster!” Clementine, who had silently sidled up behind him, reached eagerly for the toy. He handed it to her. After kissing the yellow duck on the top of its head, she said, “I got a bad owie, Webster.”

  Before Milton’s eyes, Clementine transformed. Water dripped from her drenched skin and her nightgown. Dark blood plastered her bangs to her forehead, trickling down her face in red stripes. He staggered backward until he hit a towel rack.

  Clementine looked up at him. “Dada was sleeping, and I wanted to play with Webster.”

  Speechless, Milton could only stare at the gruesome spectacle. Meanwhile, the light bulb began to dim until it was almost dead before bursting into new light. At once, the blood evaporated, and Clementine was dry again. Humming pleasantly to herself, she skipped past him and, rubber duck in tow, returned to the couch.

  For several minutes, he remained in the bathroom, watching her from a safe distance. A furtive glance at the bathtub revealed it was empty. Back in the living room, Clementine lay on her back, holding the toy above her head and quacking merrily.

  The same thing happened with DJ on the bus. One moment, the boy was covered in blood, as though he had been shot, and the next, he was fine again. What can it mean?

  Milton knew he should go to Clementine and comfort her. But on the one hand, he was afraid the vision might return, and on the other, he was at a loss for what to say. He decided he must not have any children of his own. Otherwise, he would possess enough parental instincts to know what to do.

  No children…or do I have a son?

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. The conversation replayed in his mind.

  “And you think I should be Odin, rather than you?” the man with gray-green eyes asked.

  “It’s better this way,” Milton said. “Odin was never afraid to get his hands dirty, and before all of this is over, the waters are bound to become murky indeed.”

  Pause. “Who will you be then, Milton?”

  “Borr,” he replied. “Odin’s father.”

  Infuriatingly, the conversation ended there. Milton tried to follow the memory to see where it led, but the trail took him to the familiar mental block. He didn’t bother trying to open the door. He knew it would be locked.

  On his way to the living room—vision or no vision, he had to make sure Clementine was all right—he noticed a couple of grocery bags lying on their sides. Much of their contents had spilled onto the small oval table as well as the floor. He picked up a bunch of bananas teetering near the edge.

  It’s not pizza pie, but it will do…

  “Clementine,” he started to say, but as he drew closer, he saw her eyes were closed. Thumb in mouth, she cradled the rubber duck under one arm.

  Milton covered her with an afghan that had been draped over the back of the couch. The rest of the house needed to be searched. For all he knew, Clementine’s parents were upstairs, asleep.

  But seeing the girl sleeping so comfortably reminded Milton of how exhausted he was. Ignoring his brain’s protests, he sat down at the end of the couch. Almost immediately, his own eyes closed, and he let his thoughts wander.

  To his astonishment, the door in his mind abruptly opened.

  ***

  Milton creeps down the narrow, empty corridor. Every footstep is a sonic boom. The incandescent auxiliary lights above him might as well be searchlights. His eyes dart back and forth at every intersection, expecting to see a stream of agents, side arms drawn, charging toward him to cut off his advance and prevent his escape.

  If caught, he expects to be arrested and locked up for life. Or worse.

  He tries to calm down, calling to mind breathing exercises he learned in some psych class or another, but just shakes his head. Either they’ll catch me and stop me, or they won’t, he thinks. No use giving into panic.

  Filled with a new sense of resolve, Milton quickens his pace, abandoning all pretense of stealth. No one is likely to be working in the labs at this hour anyway. And while it has been months since he has come to this part of the Compound, he has no trouble remembering exactly where the serum is stored.

  He stops outside of his destination and takes a deep breath.

  The door’s translucent window is dark; the room, presumably unoccupied. He allows himself a sigh of relief. If someone had been working late in the lab, he doubts he would have had the courage to come back tomorrow. He knows he has to do this now, before he can talk himself out of it.

  Milton slides his keycard into the narrow slot. His entry into the lab will be documented in a computer somewhere. Questions will come later. But there is no use worrying about it tonight.

  All that matters now is getting his hands on Boden’s serum.

  A blinking green light and a metallic clicking sound inform him the door has unlocked. He enters, turns on the lights. An electric hum fills the room as, one by one, the computers and equipment lining the walls wake from hibernation.

  His eyes linger on a large, padded table at the far end of the lab. He has met several of the test subjects who have lain on the table. Those agents—the valkyries—said the procedure was simple and painless. Milton prays they weren’t lying.

  He approaches a nearby metal cabinet bearing a number pad and punches in his personalized six-digit code. Nothing happens. He tries again, carefully pressing each button in the proper sequence. His failure is reported by a series of agitated beeps. Then a voice.

  “Access to the serum has been upgraded to a higher clearance level.”

  Milton whirls around, sporting, he is certain, a guilty expression. “Earl, I—”

  Boden cuts him off with an upraised hand. “Our last conversation did not sit well with me,” he says. “When I first told you about the successful trials of the formula, you could not contain your disappointment. So I had to wonder why, after disapproving of my objective for so long, you were suddenly so interested in the serum’s specific chemical compounds, observable side-effects, and the number of test trials completed.”

  Milton searches Boden’s face for a sign of what he will do next. The two of them have been colleagues for more than a decade—first at Temple University an
d now at the CIA. They have made many wonderful discoveries together while mapping the more obscure areas of the human brain. But Milton recognizes the pain behind his friend’s gray-green eyes because these are emotions Milton himself has experienced firsthand.

  The anger and hurt from being betrayed.

  Milton scrambles to think of a viable excuse for sneaking into Boden’s lab, but he has never been a good liar.

  “We have always had differing stances on the development of a drug that would grant non-naturals the ability to dream drift,” Boden says, “but I cannot believe that you would risk everything to sabotage my work.”

  Pause. “And did you really think we wouldn’t be able to make more after you disposed of the serum in that safe? Or were you planning to contaminate the supply in order to slow my progress?”

  Seeing the face of Boden—his protégé, the son he never had—contorted in rage breaks Milton’s heart. Before he can explain, Boden continues.

  “In any case, it would be only a matter of time before you were discovered. Did you think they would just let you walk out of here? Project Valhalla owns us. Best you never forget that!”

  Milton takes a step closer, arms extended in a placating gesture. “I didn’t come here to destroy the serum. I came here to steal it,” he confesses.

  Boden recoils in surprise. “Steal it? Whatever for?”

  Milton sighs. “Because I wish to use it.”

  Boden runs a hand across his considerable forehead. “There is no telling what affect the serum will have on a natural.” Pause. “I can’t understand why you would attempt such a thing.”

  “It’s William Marlowe,” Milton says at last. “About a week ago, I came across him and his cohorts—”

  “The Clandestine Order for Psychic Exploration?” Boden interjects, spitting out the words as though they are a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Yes, I believe so, though I recognized only William. They were doing something truly reprehensible, but until I can confirm what I saw, I won’t go into details. Suffice it to say, it has more to do with my earliest hypotheses than our current work.”

  Boden’s brow furrows in confusion, but then his eyes widen as he says, “If souls can sleep…”

  Milton smiles weakly, confirming Boden’s guess. “I’ve tried to contact William through conventional channels, but he won’t respond.” Milton takes another step closer to Boden. “I must stop William, but if I’m going to confront him…and, quite possibly, his allies…then I will need every advantage I can get.”

  Boden shakes his head and frowns. “What of Project Valhalla? You have allies of your own. Why do this alone?”

  Milton sighs. “I had the chance to stop William years ago. He came to me, asking for my help. But I turned my back on him when I might have made a difference. I owe it to William to talk to him, one-on-one, about what I saw before I report it to Project Valhalla. I might even be able to prevent the war for which we all have been preparing.”

  Pause. “From everything you have told me about William Marlowe, I say you owe him nothing. However, you are not the first person to theorize that the serum might enhance a natural’s command of the dreamscape. Yet if you believe you will need an extra…boost when you confront Marlowe, it is all the more reason for you to bring backup. Take Heimdall, at least!”

  Milton crosses his arms. “I won’t needlessly endanger anyone if I don’t have to.”

  “Only yourself,” Boden says, his frown deepening.

  “It is a risk I am willing to take. Please, Earl, do this as a favor to me.”

  Boden remains silent for a long time. “You must swear to me that you will wake up at the first sign of danger, whether from Marlowe or side-effects of the serum.”

  Milton nods. “I swear.”

  Boden pushes past Milton, approaching the locked cabinet. “Get up on the table before I change my mind.”

  Milton doesn’t have to be asked twice. Moments later, Boden, wearing a white lab coat and gloves, stands beside him, holding a syringe filled with a milky white liquid. Some of the agents of Project Valhalla have started calling the serum “mead,” but Milton thinks there’s such a thing as carrying a metaphor too far.

  Boden takes Milton’s arm and rolls up his sleeve. “So much for not getting your hands dirty,” he says, penetrating Milton’s skin with the needle. “Perhaps you should have chosen Odin for your codename after all.”

  The serum spreads like ice water through his veins. Before Milton can say thank you to his dear friend, Boden and the laboratory blur then fade away.

  ***

  The screen door slammed, and Milton jerked upright. Beside him on the couch, Clementine rolled onto her side but did not wake up. He looked at the front door, where the silhouette of a man blocked out the moonlight.

  “Sleeping on the job?” The voice, although somewhat muffled by a peculiar wooden mask, was unmistakably DJ’s. “Some babysitter you are!”

  Chapter 28

  Leah sits on the couch in her apartment, trying to knit, but she doesn’t know what she’s trying to make, and the purple strands of yarn keep unraveling anyway. When she finally throws the needles and skein to the floor, she realizes that her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend?—Aldrich is there too.

  He’s shirtless and holding a bottle of whiskey by its neck.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  Aldrich takes a big gulp of the liquor and smiles handsomely. “I live here now. Did you forget that we got married the day we graduated?”

  Now that he mentions it, Leah remembers a courthouse wedding. They wore their caps and gowns. Aldrich must have been living at his old place all of this time, but now they are a family.

  “But I don’t love you,” she tells him.

  “You don’t have to be in love to make love, baby,” Aldrich replies.

  He pulls her up from the couch, and they lock lips. He’s a better kisser than she remembers. His bare arms and chest are warm under her fingers. He grapples with her shirt and somehow removes both blouse and bra in one move.

  She arcs her back, pressing her breasts into him, exposing her neck, which he devours.

  “Oh, Vincent!” she moans. When she opens her eyes, Aldrich has been replaced by Vincent Cruz. He kisses her harder. The fireplace she didn’t know she had crackles contentedly beside them. She closes her eyes.

  Hot air rushes into her ear as Vincent says, “You and Bella have the same soul, so it’s OK.”

  Satisfied by the explanation, she wraps her arms around him and squeezes his unbelievably muscular body. The light from the fireplace grows so bright all she can see is white through her closed eyelids.

  Someone clears his throat and says, “So sorry to interrupt, Dr. Chedid.”

  ***

  Leah opened her eyes and gasped. Vincent was gone. A man wearing a long, black coat quickly crossed the room. He averted his eyes as he handed her the discarded white blouse. She quickly took it and pulled it over her head.

  “No need to be embarrassed,” the man said. “We cannot control where our dreams will take us…well, most of us can’t.”

  She felt like she had just awakened from a dream, and yet she couldn’t be awake. The fireplace still sat where her television should have been.

  Leah crossed her arms, as though trying to cover up even more. She felt fully exposed under the hard stare of those gray-green eyes. The man smiled diplomatically, but his rigid stance made her own muscles tense.

  “Who are—?” Her breath caught in her throat. “Boden!”

  He nodded. “Please pardon the unconventional means of communication, but I find this way to be more…direct.”

  Leah looked around. It was undeniably her apartment, but so many details were wrong. The carpet was the wrong color, portraits of strangers hung next to those of her family members, and then there was the enormous stone fireplace. “You came to talk to me in a dream?”

  Boden nodded again.

  “How is this even possible?”
she asked.

  “That is a topic for another time. Suffice it to say it is possible, and it is happening to you now. And if you want my help getting Vincent Cruz out of the mental health center, you will answer all of my questions to the best of your ability.”

  Was that a threat?

  Before she could respond, Boden walked to the front door and locked it. The act made her feel far from safe.

  “Dream drifting is more direct than the telephoning, but not necessarily safer,” Boden said, turning back to her. “I have given you no reason to trust me, and for that I apologize. But two people’s lives are in jeopardy, Vincent’s and Milton’s.”

  “Milton Baerwald? The professor?”

  “Yes, the former professor.” Boden took a long look at the dark corners of her apartment before taking a seat in Emira’s chair. “I need you to tell me everything you know about Vincent and his brother, starting with Vincent’s recurring dream. Only then will I answer your questions.”

  Leah considered her options. Sharing Vincent’s medical information was a violation of her code of ethics and the law. However, if Boden really could help Vincent, it seemed like a small sacrifice to make.

  Besides, what alternatives did she have?

  Deep down, she knew the main reason she wanted to give into Boden’s demands was because anyone who had the ability to invade people’s dreams to have a chat also probably could do other, less pleasant things while he was there.

  Leah started at the beginning, telling Boden about the day Vincent walked into the sleep clinic. His face betrayed no emotions whatsoever as he listened to her summation of the past couple of weeks.

  “Vincent said he had The Dream again last night…well, two nights ago…but his message was vague. He was upset. He said Daniel was causing The Dream…and he said something about Clementine, his dead daughter. I honestly don’t know whether he actually went to the hospital to kill his brother,” she concluded.