by C. E. Murphy
“Arright, Jo. So what do we do now?”
I shook my head, taking a deep breath. “You don’t do anything. I’m going to sleep.”
Thursday, July 7, 7:37 a.m.
Nothing in my dreams of Coyote or in any other experience in my life had taught me how to say “I’m going to sleep” as a declaration of war. Consequently, it sounded nothing like one, which disappointed me. I wanted it to be dramatic and world-shaking, but it just sounded like exhausted relief. I wanted to sleep so badly I could taste it. Gary’s bushy eyebrows went up.
“You’re goin’ to sleep? Are you nuts? You just said this guy’s power is comin’ from everybody who’s asleep!”
“I know. Dreams are his domain, Gary. If I don’t meet him on his own ground I’m not going to be able to fight him at all. Barb keeps running away from me.” That made me laugh, huff of sound. “At least that’s something.”
Gary took another breath in protest, then exhaled and slumped his broad shoulders. “You sure,” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. “Arright. Lissen to me, Jo. You stay right there.” He got up from the couch and went into my bedroom while I wondered where exactly he thought I would go. I didn’t think dreamland was a place to be entered physically.
He came out of my bedroom with a sword. “Under the bed’s a lousy place to keep a sword, Jo.”
I blinked, getting up to meet him. “It’s a perfectly good place to keep a sword. It’s not like I use it a lot.” He offered to me, so I took it, surprised as always at its heft. The weight hadn’t meant anything to me when I’d first seen it in Cernunnos’s hand, silver metal gleaming beneath prosaic fluorescent lights, but it’d meant a lot later on when the damned thing got shoved through my lung. I’d struck back with iron-based steel, and Cernunnos had fled without his silver blade. It was only considerably after the fact that I brought it to a dealer to have it appraised and found out it really was silver. In retrospect, it made sense, as the Celtic god couldn’t touch anything made of iron.
The dealer had almost literally drooled over the blade. Its swept-silver handle protected the hand easily, the rapier blade impossibly sharp, holding its edge flawlessly despite the metal it was forged of. And that was something else: the forging was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Almost as if it had been cast, like a sculpture. He’d offered me such a ridiculous sum of money for it I hadn’t believed him, and I’d gone home to read up on the Internet about Celtic magic and silver. I’d learned about somebody named Nuada, whose hand, lost in battle, was re-made in silver by a god. I’d tapped a finger on the blade cautiously and wondered.
A week later the dealer called me up and offered twice what he’d offered in the first place. He was still calling occasionally. There had to be a price I couldn’t resist, but so far keeping Cernunnos’s sword beneath my bed was more appealing than cold hard cash. Of course, if the car insurance company didn’t pay up soon, I might start reconsidering my stance.”
“So you don’t go in unarmed,” Gary said to me as I took the sword. My eyebrows rose and I glanced up at him, half smiling, not sure how seriously to take him. He wasn’t smiling at all, eyes serious beneath untamed eyebrows. The lines in his face were deeper, as if the weight of the moment made him seem closer to his seventy-three years. My smile fell away and I just watched him, rapier balanced across my palms as I waited for whatever he had in mind next.
He didn’t disappoint. He pulled a copper cuff bracelet, one that usually sat on my dresser next to the drum, from his pocket. It’d been tarnished and green until recently, when I’d had cause to buy metal cleaner and scrub a silver necklace clean of my own blood. I’d done the bracelet then, too, tracing my fingertip over etched knotwork that might have been Celtic around its borders, and the cut away shapes of Cherokee spirit animals between the borders.
“Gary.” My voice came out small and tight as he turned the bracelet sideways and slid it over my wrist.
“’S from your dad, right?”
I nodded, unable to trust words, and he tapped the metal against my skin. It was already warm from the minute in his pocket. “Left wrist,” he said. “Protects your heart.”
My heart tightened as he spoke, throat closing even more. “Gary,” I said again, scratchy whisper, as if it would stop him, but he wasn’t done. He dipped into his pocket again and came out with what I knew he would, a silver choker necklace I hadn’t worn in months. Hollow tubes of metal rattled gently against its chain, the curved stretches broken apart by triskelions, the Celtic three-way knot that represented the Holy Trinity in modern days, and a much older trio of goddesses from a time before Christianity. The center pendant hung from the chain itself, just far enough to rest in the hollow of my throat: a Celtic cross, a circle quartered by two bars. My mother had given me the necklace as she lay dying, the only thing she’d ever given me besides life. Gary fastened the necklace around my throat with unbelievable delicacy, his big old hands far more certain than mine ever were when I put on jewelry. Something happened as the clasp shut, a soft sparkle of warmth that danced over my skin as powerfully as Gary’s words did.
“To guard your soul,” he said. My heart contracted again, tears blurring my vision, though I managed a painful little smile as I looked down at the sword and the bracelet. The necklace made an uncomfortable pressure against my throat, something I’d never given myself time to get used to. Then I looked up again, smile shaky.
“What about you?” I was trying to tease him, but emotion rode me far too hard. I felt girded for battle, as if I’d been entrusted with a kingdom’s honor and my loved ones had helped me don my armor. “Don’t I get anything from you? Mother’s got my soul covered and Dad’s got my heart, but without you, jeez, Gary, I wouldn’t be here at all. You took the damned sword out of me when I was dying so I could heal myself. And all I get is a lousy little ritual?” I was afraid to blink, for fear tears that burned my eyes would scald my cheeks. My smile was so tremulous I thought it might shake those tears loose, anyway.
A complex expression darkened Gary’s eyes, more facets of sentiment there than I could easily recognize. Pride and love and laughter, mixed up with wry chagrin and just a touch of smugness, and other things that flickered so quickly I couldn’t read them. He slid a hand into his other front pocket and came out with a small, nondescript black velvet box, the kind that makes a girl’s heart slam into her throat when a man pulls it out. My heart did exactly that, cutting off my breath, and I blinked despite all my efforts not to, sending tears rushing down my cheeks. Gary chuckled, barely a sound, and opened the box toward me.
A heart-shaped purple medal, bordered in gold, lay below its ribbon against smooth black velvet, the metal bright by comparison. He only gave me an instant to see what it was before he took it from its case more brusquely than he’d done with the jewelry, and with gruff quick movements pinned it to my shirt. “Never meant that much to me,” he muttered. “Just a way of sayin’ I made it back when a lot of other good fellas didn’t. But since I did, maybe it’ll shield you, too, sweetheart.”
A chime rang out as he dropped his hands, the medal fastened safely to my shirt. I didn’t think he could hear it, but it sounded sweet and loud in my ears, pure tone like silver bells. I felt a click behind my breastbone, profound latching that welded those four items together within me. They whispered recognition to one another: rapier for the hand, to wield in battle. Copper for the wrist, to shield the heart. Silver for the throat, to shield the soul. Bronze for the breast, to shield the body. Four cardinal points burning a bright circle in my mind, heat flaring through each of the items Gary had bestowed on me. With that flare came the Sight, showing me how they shone with purpose and power. When I lifted my eyes to Gary, he blazed with the same resolve, in that moment an icon of all the best things that drove humanity onward.
“My girl,” he added, but less roughly, because I’d dropped the rapier and stepped forward into his arms to let tears run freely down my cheeks. He bowed his head over mine, hand
in my hair, and murmured nonsense at me while I held on to him with everything I had. When I finally snuffled and edged back a little, he gave me a soft smile that had nothing to do with the wolfish, toothy grin he liked to disconcert people with, and everything to do with family bonds that couldn’t be broken. “Normally a man don’t like to make a pretty girl cry, but I think maybe this time it means an old dog did somethin’ right.”
I smiled idiotically through the remnants of tears, nodding. “You know you did. You were what, just carrying this around waiting for the right moment?” My voice was still all hoarse and tight, but I didn’t care. Gary beamed down at me.
“That’s good, then. Nah. S’where I went, home to get it. Been thinkin’ about that sword and everything you got for a while now.” He shrugged, big lumbering motion of dismissal. “Thought maybe I could bring somethin’ to the fold, if you asked for it, s’all. And you did.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gary.” The words, whispered, were as true as anything I’d ever said. “Thank you.”
“Anything for my girl.” His smile reminded me of the younger Gary I’d met in his garden, full of warmth and gentle strength coupled with a linebacker’s ability to clear a path. “I know you’re goin’ to sleep instead of into a trance, but maybe I’ll drum you under anyway, arright?”
I nodded again, crouching to pick up the blade I’d dropped. I curled one hand around the pommel and the other around the blade very carefully, and made my way to the couch. The drum was already there, and Gary came around the other end of the sofa to pick it up. I tilted over, nestling my head on a pillow as I pulled the sword up to my chest like it was a teddy bear.
I heard about three beats of the drum before I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 32
Back in January it’d seemed like every time I went to sleep, that little death drew me into the realm of Other. Letting it find me now, deliberately, seemed awkward after slipping in and out of the astral realms so much. The world of dreams, though, was not quite the same one I skimmed through when I left my body, and very much not the crisp, clear-aired Upper World or the red-skied Lower World I’d made my way to a few times. They all shared a commonality, but in the same way France and Germany shared a border: it could be crossed, but I didn’t want to expect that the same rules would apply on both sides of the border. And I’d spent very little time in dreamworld, using it mostly as a transitory point. Now that I wanted to stay, I found myself with almost no idea how to travel or bring forth the things that I sought. Trusting my subconscious, which was usually how dreams were traversed, seemed both time-consuming and potentially dangerous.
I held on to all of those thoughts for what felt like whole minutes, maybe even longer. It was far more likely they’d formed and dissolved between the third and fourth drumbeats, in that pseudo-waking moment between dreams and the living world. Some brief, eternal time later the darkness of sleep began to take shape. A blaring voice, only half intelligible, echoed against forming hallways, the overhead lights both flickering and too bright. People rushed by me, knocking into me without setting themselves or me off balance, as if I wasn’t there. Gurneys and wheelchairs were pushed against the walls, which faded out suddenly, leaving me standing amid rows and endless rows of hospital beds.
The people in the beds thrashed in their sleep, all of them opening their mouths to let out soundless screams. As if the silence carried their life, like a cat stealing a baby’s breath, they weakened as they cried out.
Harried, faceless medical workers kept crashing by me until I realized I was shouting, too, my hands trembling as I stretched them out toward the agitated sleepers. My protests went unheard, caught in my mind: I can help! Just let me help! No one saw me, no one heard me, no one believed me. Nor should they have: for all my wordless calls, I couldn’t help, not from amid this chaos. The noiseless shrieks from the sleepers pounded at the small bones of my ears, making me nervous and twitchy, like I waited for attack.
Bradley Holliday appeared in the middle of the hall in front of me, holding a patient chart on a clipboard and a distasteful expression on his mouth. “You don’t belong here. Leave now.” He looked and spoke directly to me, so unexpectedly I nearly glanced around to see who was behind me. “I’m talking to you,” he snapped. “Joanne Walker, police officer. This is a hospital. You don’t belong here.”
It was like his words were an eraser, sweeping at me with wide strokes that wiped me away. I leaned forward against the urge to disappear, shaking my head. “But I can help.”
“How?” he demanded, encompassing a thousand hospital beds in one wave of his clipboard. “What do you think you can do that all these doctors can’t?”
Uncertainty washed through me, since I hadn’t been that much use so far. “I—”
“You see?” He put on a very good sneer, the sort my younger self would have tried to emulate, and flapped a hand at me. “You don’t belong. Leave now.”
“But I’ve done okay,” I whispered. “I got Mel to not drain herself fighting this thing. Begochidi. I kept Gary awake. I got Begochidi off Mark’s back.” Even as I made the argument it felt hollow to me. Too many people had fallen asleep, their strength drained to bring a god back to waking. I hadn’t done enough to keep Morrison awake.
The flickering white light closed down to a pinpoint and left me in darkness for just long enough to realize it was happening, then came up again inside a hospital room whose four walls were as solid as reality. Morrison lay resting on the bed there, vague figures holding shape in the background. Billy and Melinda, sharing a room with the captain. But they weren’t what had called me to this space of the dreamworld.
A shield, glittering blue and silver, spun over Morrison’s skin. When I reached out to touch his shoulder, that shield danced up my fingers, becoming one again with its originator. “I can’t fight, boss,” I heard myself say. “Not with you in here like this. I’ve got you all mixed up with me. Even Begochidi’s nice side went after you when I opened up.” I sat down on the edge of his bed, folding his hand in both of mine. What the hell. It was a dream, right? With him so still and asleep, I didn’t expect his fingers to be warm, but mine felt icy, wrapped around his. “I wish you’d kept the topaz. I wish you hadn’t given it to Barbara.” That seemed the greater insult, all things considered. Not just because I defined her as some kind of rival in my little world, but because I was half afraid gifting her with it would ruin any protection all of it offered. It didn’t seem to work that way, but the fear was there regardless.
The fact that boys weren’t supposed to go around giving girls gifts other girls had given them was, if not beside the point, at least a heartache I didn’t want to dwell on. Morrison hadn’t considered the topaz a gift, anyway. More like a burden.
Darkness fluttered through the room, a whisper of silence like feathers on the air. I closed my eyes, lowering my head toward my hands tangled with Morrison’s. Guess I shouldn’t have said Begochidi’s name out loud, though now that I thought about it, that was pretty obvious. Nothing like sending up a beacon to the bad guys saying here I am, come and get me.
I could feel, though, the protective amulets I carried. I could feel the connection of three points to protect my body and spirit, and the fourth, the weapon at my hip. I didn’t need to look to see it there, though I hadn’t noticed its weight here in the Land of Nod. I was armored, ready for battle. My weakness lay in Morrison, sleeping beneath the shield of my making.
The funny thing was, I thought maybe my strength lay there, too. “C’mon, Cap. You’ve got to wake up. I need you to be safe so I can do what it takes to stop this sickness.” I poured a little more into the shielding, looking for the weak point that allowed Begochidi to keep my boss asleep, trying not to invade his psyche while I did it. Power sparked against my skin, running under it like silver-shot blood, until I found the one narrow fissure I hadn’t closed off.
The Dead Zone lay on one side of that fissure, black starry eternity less a threat
than a fact. I could clip the thread Begochidi held into Morrison’s heart, but it would change sleep into death.
On the other side lay me. My power. My magic and my healing skill. Life, which struck me as not a little ironic. And suddenly it was very clear what I needed to do, and I felt foolish for not having seen it before.
All I needed to do, as it were, was change drivers. It was one of those film stunts nobody ever needs to do in real life, clambering awkwardly from the passenger seat into the driver’s seat without ever letting the vehicle lose power. Usually it meant dodging bullets and firing guns at the same time, and if you were lucky, you got to jump a sixty-foot gap in the bridge ten seconds after you made the switch.
That, right down to the bridge jump, struck me as an alarmingly good analogy for the situation. I gave myself a heartbeat to wonder if Petite could make that kind of jump, then put my faith in her solid steel soul and let my dreaming consciousness slide under Morrison’s skin.
I had never tried to be aware of a body without being aware of the person residing within it before. Snooping was bad enough. Snooping on Morrison was beyond the pale. I thought maybe I could slither along the surface and cut into that drainage point without going deeper.
I should have known better. It was his life force—his soul—that was at risk here, and that sort of brought me to his garden whether I wanted it to or not. It wasn’t like trying to work with Billy, who had shields as solid as the day was long. The only reason Morrison wasn’t already hung out to dry was my shielding, and I could get through my own creation easily enough.