Ren Series Boxed Set (Book 1 - 4)

by Sarah Noffke

  I nod, relieved that he sees the possibility too. “Yes, it would take coming back from the dead, and I’m positive there’s at least two ways of doing that.”

  Chapter Nine

  The squeaking noise and grinding of metal that I’ve come to associate with Trey Underwood tells me that he’s in his office as I near from the empty corridor. Pulling in a deep breath, I stop when I’m framed in the doorway. There are many hardships I’ve endured in my life. I’ve seen tragedies that would dramatically scar another human being. And yet, most of what I’ve experienced doesn’t give me nightmares or color me with fears. However, every time I look at Trey, the Head Official of the Lucidite Institute, the ache of his suffering hits me and that does keep me up at night. It’s a weight I haven’t carried for many people throughout my life, but no one else is like Trey Underwood and deserving of my empathy.

  My eyes prickle when I rest them on Trey. He’s attempting to make a three-point turn, but the wheelchair is stuck in an awkward place between his gigantic desk and the shelves behind it.

  “Honestly, you should just bite the bullet and opt for a smaller desk,” I say, coming around behind him and evening out the chair. It’s such an odd thing to have to do for the man who sits paralyzed, imprisoned in the wheelchair before me.

  Trey looks up at me, his eyes brimming with the pain he refuses to fully accept, but smiles weakly. “Thanks,” he says, taking the wheels and positioning himself into the opening of the desk. His legs rest on the feet of the chair, frail, having lost their muscle mass. Trey was at the center of one of the more bloody battles that happened months ago. The one I refuse to dwell on. The one they are calling the Dream Traveler apocalypse. He survived, which is all that should matter, but when his mobility was stolen it created a trauma so deep inside him. Trey, the most powerful Dream Traveler I’ve ever known, is powerless now. The shock of the events and the tragedy he endured has caused him not to be able to dream travel or use any of his other powers. He is a skeleton of a man, but if anyone will rally then it will be the man sitting behind this desk.

  “You know I’m never getting rid of the desk,” Trey says, sliding his hand across the top of the giant oak desk, like there’s a speck of dust needing to be cleaned.

  He won’t get rid of the intricately carved desk that’s half the size of the room because it belonged to Flynn, his father. This is the same man who created the library which steals the breath of even those who don’t read. Flynn didn’t do anything small; hence, the Lucidite Institute, which is five stories and probably holds more power than the sun.

  “No, it would be practical to opt for a smaller desk. It would be pragmatic. And you would rather hold on to sentimentality at the cost of convenience,” I say, taking the seat on the other side of the desk.

  “There is great power in sentiment,” he says simply, and I have to look away because the warm pain in his green eyes isn’t something I want to witness.

  “Well, the news reporting department might have cost us an advantage on a deadly case that I suspect will be massive and complicated,” I say, casually picking a piece of lint off my trousers.

  From my peripheral I notice Trey drop his chin, a bit of shame starting to lace his face at the edges. In the Dream Traveler apocalypse, the Institute lost most of the news reporters. That was one of the main ways we were put at a disadvantage, because when we couldn’t see the future, then we couldn’t stop it. With only a few reporters, we are seeing fewer events worldwide and what we do see is usually too late to stop, like the massacre of the wolves.

  “Yes, but soon, Roya will be back to reporting and that will help,” Trey says, and the hope he’s injecting into his tone impresses me. This is a man who won’t quit. He’s had more hardships in his life than anyone I know and yet, he never backs down from the dawning day and all the shit it is sure to throw at him.

  “Oh, yeah, in about six fucking months, which does me zero good,” I say, as cranky as ever that we’re at such a disadvantage. “Really, did she have to get herself knocked up right now? Her timing is simply horrid.” Women can’t dream travel after the first trimester of pregnancy usually. And their powers diminish due to this. For the next six months, we’ve lost our best news reporter, which means we’re screwed. All because Aiden and Roya can’t keep their hands off each other.

  Trey almost smiles. I see it in his eyes, but then his stone expression reappears. “You know as well as anyone that pregnancies just happen.”

  And he’s referring to Adelaide, aka my major life mistake.

  “So I haven’t read the report on the case you’re working,” Trey says, indicating the stack of folders on the corner of his desk. The cases just keep coming in and the strategic department keeps failing to successfully complete them. There’s little we can do when we are missing the eyes and ears of our operation.

  “Werewolves,” I say.

  Trey’s forehead lines with deep wrinkles. His eyes turn skinny. And a new stress writes itself on his face. “No,” he says with a hush.

  “It’s only a guess, but you know how reliable my guesses are. I have little information and only the clues from the one case. However, I’m betting that a slew of more evidence will start pouring in and we will be ten steps behind. Hell, by next month we will probably all have our throats ripped out by these beasts,” I say, a hint of a laugh in my voice.

  By Trey’s expression, I know he doesn’t appreciate my attempt at lightness in the face of what is certainly mortal danger.

  “What are you doing to prevent this?” Trey says, sliding his hand into his silver hair and resting it there.

  I push out a giant breath. “Not a bloody thing,” I say.

  He grips his hair now, which pulls his forehead back a bit. “What?”

  “I mean, I have eyes on a few of the packs in the area, but that’s a fairly insignificant attempt at stopping whoever is behind this. I’m keeping my eyes open for clues, but right now I have little to work with. I guess I could put reconnaissance on every single genetic lab in the world, but there’s that whole understaffing problem. So hey, we might have some rabid dog people on our hands soon. I think we should embrace this possible future,” I say, pushing what feels like a weight away from underneath my eyes.

  Trey tilts his head and regards me with a studious expression. “You look tired,” he states.

  “You look old, but you don’t see me pointing it out,” I fire back.

  “How is Dahlia?” he says, that trademark thoughtfulness in his voice. He’s the only person at the Institute who knows about Dahlia’s condition.

  “She’s nearly dead,” I say, my voice cold.

  He blows out a heavy breath. “I’m sor—”

  “Save it. I don’t want your apologies and you know that better than anyone,” I say, cutting him off.

  “Ren, you should realize that allowing sympathy is as much for the people who care about you as it is for you. Not allowing people to be there for you is depriving them of the opportunity to—”

  “I’m not in the fucking mood to care about your feelings on Dahlia’s death. I don’t want your empathy and I don’t give a fuck if that makes you feel left out,” I say, my voice higher all of a sudden.

  Trey pushes back in his chair and regards me with an impassive expression. “I’ve gotten word that you’ve ordered Aiden to exclusively work on projects for you. Do you want to tell me what that’s about?”

  “No, I don’t, but thanks for the opportunity to share,” I say.

  “Is it related to the werewolf case?”

  “No,” I say, now regarding my fingernails, my hand shaking a bit.

  Trey must notice, which pisses me off. “You’re working nonstop, but from what I’ve observed, very little of it is Institute business,” he says.

  “I’ve decided to go into baking. Thinking of opening up a cupcake shop when this bloody Institute explodes or is ravaged by werewolves,” I say.

  “Aiden said you wanted the projects to remain cl
assified,” Trey says.

  “It’s better that way,” I return.

  “I’m not going to push you on this subject right now, but I hope the next time I ask about this project you will divulge real details.”

  I stand and look down at my longtime friend. “Hope is for losers. I want you to have a more determined approach,” I say. “With everything in your life,” I add a beat later.

  Chapter Ten

  “She’s been taking the formula I gave you six times a day?” Aiden says, tapping a pen on the file in his hands.

  “Yes,” I say, because any snarky retort is beyond my efforts presently.

  “And the daily meditations?” he asks, his hands vibrating with nerves. Behind the scientist’s glasses his eyes are bouncing around, from the chart in his hands to fifteen other places in the lab, which is crammed with more equipment than usual.

  “Twice a day, just as you prescribed,” I say, my focus on the room on the other end of the lab.

  Aiden flips erratically through the chart. “Yes, Dahlia shows she’s been successful in self-regulating her brain function. See here,” he says, handing me a piece of paper. There are two figures of her brain. The first is a rainbow of color, meaning brainwaves were fluctuating. The second scan is mostly yellow, which indicates that the numerous neurofeedback sessions were a success.

  “Good,” I say simply, my eyelids feeling close to falling shut. Exhaustion tunnels from my brain down to my core, but I shake it away with a toss of my head.

  Aiden notices the movement and blinks at me dully for a second. His mouth falls open, but I cut him off.

  “Now what is the next step in this sorcery?” I ask.

  He shrugs. The fucker with more education than ninety-nine percent of the population in the history of the world just shrugs. “We have to hope that the drugs have assisted in increasing the function of Dahlia’s parietal lobe.”

  Hope. There’s that bloody word again. People love to hope. They pray and wish and bank on superstition traditions. God-fucking-forbid we actually use reason to decide how the future will turn out.

  “And the isolation tank? What’s that for?” I say, throwing a hand at the giant bathtub-looking thing in the corner. It has a lid, like it’s a pod for hatching humans.

  “My findings indicate that it’s the utmost way to enhance a meditative state, which is our best bet for being successful at this point. I’m certain it will cause Dahlia’s brainwaves to transition until she reaches the right frequency of beta. However, whether she can achieve dream travel is entirely unknown at this point,” Aiden says.

  “Keep your clinical cynicism to yourself,” I say, just as Dahlia exits from the back room. She’s wearing a plush robe and a look that communicates exactly how I feel. Anxious.

  Aiden notices Dahlia from the corner of his vision and then takes a double glance at her. It’s hard for him to look at her. I feel that in the way his eyes pause on her face, which has hollowed out more in the last few weeks. Pale isn’t the right word for her complexion. She’s almost grayish, like the color of an over-boiled egg yolk.

  I extend my hand to her as she nears; her bare feet are probably cold on the tile floor. Dahlia’s hand barely registers in mine, it’s so light and frail. Her wrists are what I notice most about her lately. The bones protrude more there, showing the veins in her arms, which still beat with blood… but not for long.

  Aiden has been threatened not to show sympathy for Dahlia. That was the order when I handed him her file a few weeks ago. First his eyes grew large, his mouth popped open wide. “I didn’t know,” were the first three words out of his mouth.

  “And you will tell no one,” I said. Then I snuck Dahlia into the Institute and every night the three of us have met in the lab, working through the various processes that are supposed to change Dahlia’s brain. It’s strange for her to live here in the Institute, but it’s even stranger that this is where she’ll die. The place where I imprisoned myself away from her for so long. Life isn’t funny with how it connects things. It’s methodical, and has purpose that most don’t see.

  “Are you ready?” I say to Dahlia, who still has bright eyes and that pirate smile, most of the time. People like her don’t lose their spark to cancer. It’s inborn in them and can’t be stolen away.

  “Yes, I think so,” she says, looking at the isolation tank with curiosity. “Is the water cold?” she says to Aiden.

  He shakes his head, pulling the lid up to reveal a tank full of bluish water. “It’s your body’s temperature.”

  “And I’ll float?” Dahlia says, stepping forward and studying the chamber closer.

  “That’s right. The salt creates the perfect level of gravity. All you have to do is meditate and then follow the dream travel protocol that we’ve discussed,” Aiden says.

  She nods, now taking her robe off to reveal a bathing suit which shows just how skinny she’s gotten. And she actually looks excited for the next step, like she’s about to dive into an enchanted lake. “Let’s do this,” Dahlia says. With a grace that I first witnessed twenty-two years ago, she steps up and into the tank, taking Aiden’s hand for support. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she says, tucking down low and sitting at once, her arms swimming around her as she glides back.

  “This isn’t a soak in a hot tub. You have a job to do,” I say, and I know my voice sounds too stern. Everything rests on what happens next. If Dahlia can’t access the dreamscape then I’m uncertain if my plans will work. And if she doesn’t die a Dream Traveler, then I’m doomed.

  “Stop being so grumpy. You’ve got to learn to live a little,” she says, running her hand over the surface of the water.

  “Ha-ha,” I say as I step backward, away. “You know the coordinates?”

  “Only because you won’t stop repeating them,” she says, and her smile is the only thing that has ever fully disoriented me. It makes my heart speed up in my chest.

  “Meet me there in twenty minutes,” I say, trying to make it sound like an inevitable meeting. But it’s not. I might find myself alone in the dreamscape. I might have failed. “Don’t screw anything up, Monkey-Boy. I’m trusting you,” I say to Aiden and turn at once and head to my room to dream travel.

  ***

  The night sky in Nuuk looks like the canvas that a wizard streaked with smoky paint. Plumes of an almost neon green light hover high up in the sky. Effervescent blue has snuck its way into the cascading green, but only in small places. Beside it is a costar of pink, the color of cotton candy. Few things in the world are as mesmerizing as the Aurora Borealis. Scientists believe the phenomenon is a result of protons and hydrogen atoms and electrons and whatnot. These small-minded idiots fail to see that that’s the chemical makeup, but there’s far more to it. I’m comprised of atoms, but that’s not what caused me. That’s not who I am and it definitely doesn’t say anything about my purpose. The Aurora Borealis is proof that other worlds exist. It’s the bleeding over of these other worlds. I know that for certain, but I must admit that I don’t know how many other realms are out there, or if I can get to the right ones.

  I pull my chin down and my eyes away from the light display to find a figure standing fifteen feet away. She looks small with the green hills and stony mountains behind her. And then I realize that I’m rushing, my feet nearly running, having moved without my express permission. Dahlia, or maybe my hallucination of her, doesn’t move. Her hands are by her side, her eyes running over the lake at my back, the lights in the sky, the houses tucked too close together on the banks.

  I slide to a halt just before her. She’s transparent, just as everyone is in dream travel form.

  “Are you real?” I say, looking down at her.

  “I’ve been asking myself that question all my life,” she says, and then giggles, her eyes lit up by the green in the sky.

  “I’m worried that I’ve lost my mind and this is an actual dream or you’re an illusion I’ve created in the dreamscape,” I say, and it’s all true. I don’t trust m
y experiences anymore. That’s what exhaustion does to a brain.

  She takes a step forward, sliding easily into my arms. “I’m real, Ren Lewis. And I’ve dream traveled for the very first time thanks to you.”

  And she’s right, she is real. I can feel her as only those in the dreamscape can do. It’s not as intimate of a sensation as in the physical realm, but still it’s an unmistakable feeling. And illusions can’t be felt. They aren’t real. I press her to me, relishing in the success. What should have been impossible has just been done. I’ve figured out the process to turn Middlings into Dream Travelers. And if I can achieve that impossible reality, then the rest of my plan should work.

  “I’m not cold,” Dahlia says, stepping back to reveal her body barely covered in the red bathing suit.

  “No, you wouldn’t be,” I say. “We don’t experience the elements in the dreamscape. They pass right through us.” I then extend a hand and summon from the physical realm the robe she’d taken off earlier. Although she can’t be cold, I know that her withered body still makes her self-conscious.

  She eyes the robe and then me, a look of quiet pride on her face. “Well, it appears I’ve yet to see all of your tricks.”