Weaver of Dreams

by Sparks, Brenda

  In a few minutes, his surroundings cleared.

  Amnon noted how, unlike most humans whose dreamscape contained vivid color, this man only dreamed in black and white ghostly images . . .

  He pushed through a door that opened into a landscape of gray, melting structures. Wavy apartment buildings stood next to a spooky house which eerily resembled a rundown version of a home from a gothic horror movie. A black tree with bare branches sat in the Salvatore Dali-style town square. As a crow flew by, the tree reached out a limb and snatched the bird from the air. The bird flapped its wings in an effort to escape, but to no avail. The tree brought the bird down to its trunk. A knot opened wide and the branch stuffed the bird inside, swallowing it whole.

  Amnon stalked down the crooked road that ran through the center of the eerie town, looking for the human. He wouldn’t have to do much to change this dream. The man’s mind did an excellent job of making the scene look like something out of a slasher film.

  The Dream Stalker peeked in the windows as he made his way through the town square. In one he saw a butcher shop, with a slaughtered pig hanging in front of the window. Through another, he could just make out the form of a man, dressed in black leather and carrying a chain saw. In the next building, blood covering its windows obscured the view inside. Everywhere he looked, Amnon found depravity and wickedness. Unfortunately, this dream lacked one thing—the human he sought.

  Where was he?

  “Foster,” Amnon called in his most nefarious voice. “Come out. Come out wherever you are.”

  A sound of a twig breaking turned his head to the left. His body followed the noise, his feet taking him toward the sound.

  He made his way between two of the melting apartment buildings, and emerged through the dark alley to find a meadow. Two horses grazed in the swaying gray grass. Their heads rose as he approached, turned to pin him with their malicious stares.

  A little color. Amnon looked into their now red eyes. Their lids pulled down at angles, giving the horses an evil look. The two white horses turned in unison to look at one another, dismissing Amnon as no threat.

  The pain from his corporeal body flooded his mind, bringing agony with it to disrupt him in the dream. Amnon moaned in response, the sound low, mournful.

  One of the white horses snorted Amnon’s way. Puffs of white smoke blew from his flared nostrils. The other horse took advantage of his opponent’s distraction and charged.

  The sound of hooves clacking and pain-filled whinnies filled the air as the two muscular animals fought. Their front legs pounded against each other in a flurry of white. Each time a hoof connected with flesh, a distinct thud filled the night air.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they.”

  Amnon turned toward the familiar voice. “I’ve seen better.”

  Foster emerged from the shadows. “They’ll fight to the death, you know. They always do.”

  “They don’t scare you,” Amnon surmised based on the lack of emotion coming from the man.

  Foster gave an insouciant shrug of his shoulders. “Not really.”

  Well that wouldn’t do. Amnon’s pain increased with each passing moment. He feared if he didn’t get his fix soon, he might lose his concentration and their connection would be lost. He needed to ramp this dream up and quick.

  He took control, added a being onto the back of one of the horses. He gave the beastly rider long horns on the sides of its head. Its face remained human, except for his nose which could be likened to a pig's. Thickly muscled, he held a mace ominously in one large, gloved hand.

  Swinging the mace above his giant horns, the rider turned the demonic horse and advanced on Foster. The human gave a shout and began to run.

  Ahhhhh. The delicious fear blanketed Amnon with its soothing balm. He allowed it to wash over him to ease his pain. Each minute that passed, Amnon felt better, stronger. His breathing eased. His heart slowed to a more normal pace. The crawling of his skin lessened.

  Watching the beast run down his victim, Amnon felt his strength returning, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Craved more.

  He again changed the dream, creating a graveyard in front of the fleeing human.

  Light gray skeletons clung to the overly large crosses as if seeking salvation. In unison their heads turned in Foster’s direction, watching him flee from the beast chasing him.

  With a wave of his hand, the beast and horse disappeared. Amnon watched Foster slow his steps. Amnon approached the man, needing to steer the dream in a more dramatic route.

  Amnon laid his hand heavily on the human’s shoulder. The man’s leg buckled a little under the weight. “Like it?” he asked, indicating the scene with a sweep of his arm.

  “I’ve seen better,” the human repeated the stalker’s earlier words.

  That insolent bastard needed to learn to be respectful and teaching respect just happened to be a specialized talent of his.

  Amnon dove into the man’s memories, plucked from them his worst nightmare. With a wicked smile, the stalker created a haze up ahead. Foster’s eyes widen in recognition as the form emerged from the shadows.

  “Evan.”

  “That’s right, Foster. Your loving stepfather is here.”

  The human’s shoulder stiffened under the pads of his finger. His revulsion rolled over Amnon in a heady sensation he absorbed down to the marrow of his corporeal bones. The stalker fed off the hate, letting it strengthen him. Utterly delectable, like soaring high above the clouds, it freed him. Made him feel invincible.

  He could do anything. Be anything.

  The human started to slip away from the dream. “Oh no, you don’t.” Amnon exerted his will over the man’s mind to keep him locked in the nightmare.

  He held the man still as the image of his stepfather advanced. Foster struggled, but the stalker held him fast, forcing him to confront the object of his hate.

  Wanting to push the man over the edge, he brought forth another image he had found in the forefront of his recollections—an image of someone he, too, knew.

  Color painted the scene. Brown grass covered the graves of the dead. The skeletons turned a ghostly white as they began to laugh in unison, taunting Foster when his stepfather came to a stop right in front of him. Ash-gray mausoleums pushed up through the ground making a sound akin to a combination of scraping rocks and concrete. Amnon melted the soupy haze, lowered it down to hover an inch above the ground in order to assure Foster an unobstructed view of what came next.

  From the left, the sound of concrete scraping against itself drew everyone’s attention. A red granite mausoleum stood, slightly taller than the rest, with the image of three skulls etched into the granite above the door. The hinges of the door creaked their protest as a woman emerged from the mausoleum. Her long strawberry-blonde hair flowed around her shoulders with each step. The candle she carried in her hands lit her pretty face from below. The light played off the yellow flecks in her eyes turning the green to the color of puke.

  Her feet never touched the ground as she moved. She glided over the rough terrain, and came to a stop next to Evan.

  “Hi, sweet cheeks.” The burly man taunted Foster by using the nickname he once called Foster’s mother to address the woman. “You come to watch?”

  The woman leaned in, and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on Evan’s thin lips. “You know there is nothing I like better than watching.” Her head turned around backwards on her shoulders so she could look into Foster’s eyes. “Unless it’s participating.”

  Amnon felt a shiver go through Foster when her eyes began to glow and she licked her lips.

  Evan put a cigarette to his lips and lit the end. The smoke curled around his head. “Ready?” he asked the woman around the cig. He took a long drag, making the cherry flare an angry red.

  She pulled the cigarette fr
om his lips and turned to face Foster. An evil grin curled her lips as she began to walk toward Amnon’s prey. “I couldn’t be any more ready.”

  Her announcement sent fear racing down Foster’s spine. Fear Amnon absorbed wearing a cruel smile . . .

  Chapter 16

  Zane sat behind Maggie in the porcelain tub. Creating a soapy washcloth, he gently worked tiny circles over Maggie’s body. He started on her lower back, traveling north and over her shoulders, before working his way to her bosom . . .

  Paying careful attention to each breast, he worked up a thick lather, enjoying the sight of her tight nipples peeking through the suds. His hand fell to her leg, rubbed circles down her inner thigh with the cloth before switching to her other leg and working his way up.

  He made the washcloth disappear and drew Maggie back into the shelter of his body. Her back rested against his chest, his legs framed her thin body. Her heart-shaped bottom rested against his groin, which hardened from the delicious feel of her flesh. He knew she could feel the length of him pressing against her when she gave a contented sigh and rested her head against his shoulder.

  In the mirror that hung next to the tub, he could see her face. Her long lashes formed dark crescents where they rested against her cheeks. Slightly parted, her plump lips tempted him. A fine sheen, caused by the steam from the water, glossed her pale skin, making it glow. Her hair fell to one side, exposing her slender neck. It begged for a kiss and Zane could do no other than give into the temptation.

  He brought his lips to her nape. His tongue flicked out to taste the tender spot. She tasted sweet, like honey with a hint of salt. And just like eating a salty-sweet snack, Zane knew one nibble would never be enough of her.

  His lips closed over her flesh and he suckled at her tasty throat, eliciting a low moan from her that vibrated against his mouth. She tilted her head further to the side, giving him better access.

  His mouth kissed a trail up her neck. After tracing her delicate ear with the tip of his tongue, he took the lobe between his lips, pulling it into the warmth of his mouth.

  His hands worked their way over her breasts, kneading the small globes as his mouth worked its way back to her neck. Her hands found his thighs, and squeezed them until he could feel the bite of her nails in his flesh.

  Zane slid one hand toward the juncture of her legs. He circled her belly button with one finger before trailing lower, to run his fingers through the thatch of curls that hid her most feminine place.

  She opened her thighs for him, welcoming his touch as her legs pinned his to the sides of the tub. His fingers slid into her velvet folds. She rocked against his hand, sending the water lapping over their bodies. It sloshed over the sides of the tub as Zane moved his other hand from her breast to cup her chin.

  He tilted her head back and took her lips in a passionate kiss. His fingers worked her below in time to the thrusts of his tongue. The duel sensation sent her over the precipice, and solicited a soft mewling sound he swallowed with his kiss.

  He released her, helping her to turn around and straddle his hips. He reached between their bodies, taking hold of his shaft, and positioned it at her entrance. His eyes closed as she leaned forward. Just as their lips touch, he thrust his hips to sheath himself in her core.

  Cold air flowed over his face, chest, and the tip of his manhood. Zane’s eyes flew open. Maggie was nowhere in sight . . .

  He silently muttered a string of vile curses and pulled from her mind. The sound of her alarm clock playing filled the bedroom, making her stir. Zane quickly rose from the bed and sent his magick to open a portal. He went through just as Maggie rolled over and her hand smacked the clock beside her bed.

  Back in his energy form, Zane sent a silent prayer up to the Great Spirits that he no longer had a physical body. If he had been corporeal, he would be in a world of hurt from the unsatisfying dream. If he hadn’t wasted most of the night looking for Amnon, he could have had more time with Maggie.

  Amnon.

  Just thinking the name pissed him off.

  “Back so soon.” Jolan floated up to Zane.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I thought you sensed a nightmare. Did you not find the stalker?”

  “No. Amnon was not there, only the woman.”

  “Amnon? Is that the stalker’s name.”

  Zane realized his gaffe. Lost in thoughts of Maggie, he’d accidently revealed the identity of the Dream Stalker. Bad form, he chastised himself. He knew better than to give away anything.

  Zane believed he could trust Jolan. In the hundreds of years they had known each other, Jolan had never given Zane a reason to doubt his loyalty. But even a trusted friend could be turned by addiction.

  Well, too late now. Jolan had immediately picked up on the stalker’s name. No point in denying it.

  “Amnon is the Dream Stalker,” Zane confirmed, his energy gliding forward with Jolan’s following close behind. “Do you know him?”

  “No. I can’t say I ever met a Weaver named Amnon.”

  A small blessing, as long as Jolan told the truth. Zane settled in the grass next to his favorite meditation spot. Jolan’s energy floated down between him and the falls. A gentle breeze blew over them, making the water ripple.

  “If you will excuse me, Jolan, I wish to be alone. I need to meditate.”

  “Of course. Forgive my intrusion.”

  “Please don’t think me rude. Normally I enjoy your company, but I find myself unsettled and wish to focus my thoughts.”

  “I understand, Zane, you have a duty to perform. I will leave you to it.”

  Zane watched Jolan’s light shrink as he floated away, until at last, it disappeared completely. He shut down his vision, closing out his world, and tried to clear his mind.

  Thoughts of Amnon crowded in, keeping away his inner peace. The stalker may not have been terrorizing Maggie this night, but he had in the past. The sweet woman did not deserve his torture. No one deserved his torture.

  Anger pulsed through his energy making him feel edgy, irritated.

  Jolan’s parting words resonated in Zane’s mind. You have a duty to perform.

  His friend’s observation rang true. Zane did have a duty to perform. He needed to find and dispose of the stalker. Instead he had wasted precious hours this night sharing a dream with Maggie. How could he let himself to be distracted so?

  No other human kept him from his duty in the past. When he realized her nightmare had not been created by Amnon, he should have ported back to this dimension to search for his energy trail. But he’d stayed there with her, taking control of her dream to comfort her.

  He chose her over finding Amnon. Unacceptable. Zane gave himself a mental shake. Why did he allow himself be distracted? He needed to perform his duty to his people, not rescue a human from her bad dream.

  Well, whatever had caused such a lack of judgment he would not continue to allow the distraction from his duty.

  Zane forced the thoughts of the woman from his mind and sent his energy flowing out over the land. The energy of the plants, the emotions of the other Dream Weavers flowed through him. He pushed further, searching for the unique energy he knew to be Amnon.

  Ah, there, the familiar thread of darkness. Zane’s mind grabbed onto the oily thread, and sent his mental energy along the fragment of negative energy to find where it led.

  At the end of the thread, Zane knew Amnon waited for the justice he would bring. He needed to follow it, not lose it before . . .

  Zane felt the thread snap. He gathered his energy back into himself and quickly opened a portal to the place he sensed Amnon.

  He emerged through a cracked mirror into a bathroom, dressed in black fatigues and a black turtleneck shirt. When he jumped down from the dirty vanity, his feet landed silently on the tattered floor mat b
elow. On muted feet, he made his way through the open door and into the bedroom, where the repugnant aroma of stale beer and sweat, mixed with the pungent stench of negative emotions.

  This must be the right place. The negative emotions still hung in the air. They flowed into him, touching him with their oleaginous tentacles. His gut twisted in response to the noxious feeling.

  His eyes searched the room. Sparsely furnished, a bed sat by itself in the middle of the room surrounded by bare walls. A lamp stood like a sentinel next to the door, its shade tipped at an angle. And Amnon?

  The stalker was nowhere to be found.

  Zane made a quick pass through the tiny home, checking the kitchen and what passed for a living room before making his way back down the hall to reenter the human’s bedroom.

  The person rolled onto his back, and Zane saw his face for the first time. A heavy beard grew on his chin. Perspiration matted his greasy hair to his head. The toes of one foot stuck out from his sheet, exposing his overgrown toenails. The man seemed to suffer from weight loss and did not carry enough meat on his bones, evidenced by the too-sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes. Clearly the man did not take care of himself.

  Having no reason to stay, since Amnon could not be found, Zane crossed the room in three purposeful strides and entered the tiny bath. The toilet drew his attention when it made a flushing sound. Nothing to note, except the stains of human waste.

  Zane sent his magick into the mirror and flowed through, grateful to be leaving the disgusting home behind.

  Chapter 17

  Amnon glided through the air at a furious pace. Foster’s pain and fear had been a delicious combination with his powerful hate. The intoxicating mixture fed his corporeal muscles, his tissue and sinew . . . his very soul. The euphoria was tantamount to the strength that coursed through his body. They were one in the same, pure ecstasy. He felt wired, antsy, a good kind of antsy—like being excited, and filled with anticipation.