The Dream Crafter

by Danielle Monsch

  Merc reached for it now, the leather warm in his hands as he set it in front of him, and it wrapped around him like he was in the embrace of an old friend, much missed and very welcome.

  He gripped he corner, battling between opening the book and letting it alone. It was disconcerting how much his fingers itched to pull back the cover and flip through the pages.

  It wasn’t like he was a wizard, for gods’ sake. His magic had been etched into him one line at a time, the brush of ink pushing powers into his skin as Shisen pushed his body and mind to their limits, creating him to be a worthy receptacle for the ancient magic.

  His fingers curled around a pointed corner, and letting it bite into his flesh he pulled –

  The buzz of his mobile sounded sharp in the nighttime quiet. Placing the book down, he put the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

  “Bad news,” came Nemesis’ voice. “Someone not me got Hadrien.”

  Merc’s body sagged, frustration knotting his gut tight. “Who?”

  “I arrived after the fact. It was a professional, and if you pushed me, I’d guess Blackguard, though I wouldn’t swear to it.” Her voice tightened, lowered, the worry coming through. “Are they allied with the Guild, or do they have a special problem with you?”

  “If it’s Blackguard, they have a special problem with me.” Putting it mild there. Griffith was legendary in his ability to not hold grudges and let a job be a job. In fact, there was only one exception to that rule.

  Lucky him.

  “Well, if that news has you happy, this will have you doing cartwheels.”

  “Oh good, can’t wait to hear this.”

  There was a pause, and if it was bad enough that Nemesis had to steel herself to share it, it was bad. “Reign has spread the word you have the Spellbook, and that he would take it as a great favor to have it brought to him.”

  Which, in vampire-speak, meant Reign wanted the book with all due haste, and his minions would be crawling over each other to receive the kind of regard presenting him with the Spellbook would achieve. “How widespread?”

  “Everyone.”

  Merc bit down on his tongue to keep back the desire to yell, which would do nothing and only waken Amana. “Why? The Spellbook is useless to necromancers! Why is he involved?”

  Nemesis was silent for several moments, and with no noise to distract him, Merc’s own rapid breathing bounced through his ears. Several rotations, getting calmer and calmer, before Nemesis brought forth, “You’re bound, aren’t you?”

  There was no point denying. “Yeah.”

  Nemesis breathed hard through her nose, the sound of her frustration taking the edge off his. “Well, at least we know Hadrien isn’t dead, since otherwise you and I wouldn’t be talking right now. How did Hadrien get you in a bound?”

  “I have no idea.” It shouldn’t have been possible. Merc’s defenses should have prevented it. But somehow the little toad pulled it off.

  “And the end condition?”

  “Spellbook in his hand, noon in five days time – exact.”

  “Well gee, let’s not make it too impossible, shall we?”

  Merc laughed, which really should have been impossible with what they were discussing. “I haven’t given you all the details, so don’t think I have it quite so easy yet, okay?”

  Nemesis’s offered no response. Instead, she said, “I’ll keep looking for Hadrien. If he is with the Blackguard, I’ll see if there are any official channels I can take advantage of to get him back.”

  “Thank you. This means everything.” And it did. He brought his breathing under control, letting the frustration release.

  “Don’t get soft, darlin.”

  “I’m not, and to prove it, I got another favor.”

  “Now you’re pushing it to see if you can.”

  He snorted, but continued. If Nemesis wasn’t going to help anymore, she already would have shut him down. “I know, but most of my usual contacts are laying low. You’re one of the few ready to throw a big FU in the Guild’s direction.”

  “Lay it on me, but I’m not promising anything.”

  Merc looked over at Amana, making sure she was still asleep. Satisfied, he said, “I need to find out if there is a prisoner in the system. First name is Nakoa, though I’m not sure if that’s a nickname or not. Good chance he’s in one of the Three.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to give me? Do you realize how many prisoners are housed, and how many layers of security I need to get through to access any kind of information?”

  He grabbed the book and made his way to the safe, eyes on Amana and step soft as he got the book nestled back into safety before he made his way back to the bed. “That’s why I got you, to do the impossible.”

  Merc knew that Nemesis was rolling her eyes as surely as if she was standing in front of him, and her tone of voice confirmed it. “Don’t rely on me to completely be your Deuses Ex Machina. The Seven Houses are getting slightly more interested in the goings on since Reign came into play. I’m not sure how much time I have left to help in your sneaking around.”

  “Whatever you can do I’m grateful for. Hadrien is still the priority.”

  “Got it, and you gotta know you’re going to be owing me big time if you survive this.”

  “I know. And I’ll pay.”

  “Stay alive.”

  “Back at you.” That ended the call, and Merc tossed the phone onto the end of the bed before lying down, turning so he could study Amana’s face up close.

  Reign’s involvement meant more than a new faction after the Spellbook. It meant a new faction aware of Amana, and unlike most others, this faction would be aware of Dream Crafters…hells, there was a good chance Reign may have been around before they were exterminated, so he would know exactly what Amana was.

  A Dream Crafter in the hands of a necromancer would be a horrorscape of unimaginable proportions, and even with his mastery over his body, Merc still couldn’t shake the chill invading at the possibility.

  His Amana as Reign’s puppet…no. No, he would lay waste to all the Realms before he’d allow that terror to occur.

  He ran his fingertips over the smooth skin of her cheek, her warmth invading his body and fighting the lingering effects of the conversation.

  He had lied earlier, still trying to protect himself though it was useless. It didn’t matter what she did. If he survived this bound, they were going to get past this, and he was going to remain with her as long as she allowed him. Would make it his right and privilege to protect her against any who would harm her.

  All the power housed in this delicate body, and she lived her life terrified. He’d seen that from the first, though he hadn’t been able to place it until the second dream, the nervous, haunted edge that she could never get rid of, no matter how much bravado she layered upon herself.

  What he hadn’t understood until tonight was that she wasn’t terrified for herself. She was terrified for her brother. She was terrified over the possibility she would harm people. Her concern was always for others.

  A woman like that in the hands of necromancers?

  He leaned close to her, his forehead against hers, and breathed deep. He couldn’t make promises, not really, not in his predicament, but inside him a promise formed nonetheless, his mind and soul uniting in the common goal of keeping her safe and protected from this moment of her life and from now on.

  It didn’t matter if her brother was a serial murderer, Merc was going to bust him out of jail.

  It didn’t matter if Reign discovered her secret, the Master Vampire was never going to get his hands on her.

  No fight and no sacrifice would be avoided if it meant she could begin living her life free of that constant fear.

  Merc closed his eyes, his consciousness drifting, and in the moments before consciousness faded listened as his heartbeat synced in time with hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

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  “He’s so cute sleeping there, isn’t he?”<
br />
  Sitting on the bed at Merc’s feet, the blue eyes of Amana’s double were fixed on Merc, on how Merc’s hand was entwined with that of the sleeping body of Amana, the two cuddled together.

  Amana’s consciousness was seated next to the bed, watching in ridiculous envy because though Merc was holding her hand, she couldn’t feel the warm touch of skin to skin or feel the puff of breath as it hit her cheek with their synchronized breathing.

  “And it’s sweet,” the devil continued, glancing now at Amana, “how he fell asleep next to you. Part of it is exhaustion, of course, but deep down, it’s because he trusts you.”

  “He shouldn’t.” Amana rose, her movements slow and controlled as she came to stand in front of the doppelganger, though her brain screamed move faster, protect Merc. “Get up and get away from him.”

  The other’s arms crossed over her chest. “Why would I do anything to your poor boy?”

  “I don’t know why you do anything, so I want you away from everything.”

  The other Amana rose, those stormy teal eyes housed in a face that twisted into a mask of scorn. “I could ask for a little more appreciation from you, but I guess that’s hoping for too much.”

  Amana said nothing else until the other was away from the bed and from Merc. “Since you destroyed my life, I think you’re right about that.”

  The other hopped onto the railing, her whole countenance telling of complete disinterest in the conversation. Her chest rose and fell as if she was breathing, the lines of her throat contracting in a swallow before she said, “I didn’t do anything you didn’t want done.”

  That uncomfortable truth made Amana’s shoulders go back, her head hang for a moment as she looked toward the wall. In the attic of her memories something stirred, and Amana double-checked those locks were strong. “What people want and what should happen are two different things.”

  The other raised her head, blue eyes and snarling grin full of malicious amusement. “That’s an excuse for cowardice, nothing else. If you didn’t want it so badly, it would never have happened.”

  “Leave me alone.” The attic would stay locked, and she would not go back there. “If I’m such a coward, leave me alone. Go somewhere else.”

  “Sometimes I wish,” and the other threw her head up and looked at the ceiling, as if calling out to the gods to answer a prayer, “but that’s not how it works. You and I are bound together, and we better learn how to play nice.”

  Amana’s chin jutted forward, false bravado as plans to somehow force the other away began to form, all of them ill-defined and useless. “There’s no reason for you to be here. I want you to go away. I’m never going to use this power again.”

  “Yet you’ve said that before, haven’t you?” The other rose, circling the bed but keeping a wary distance from Amana. “You swore it over and over and over, and yet, here I am. Don’t hate yourself, though,” she added with a false soothing quality in her voice. “It was only a matter of time. No one can fight the lure of power.”

  “I don’t want power. I want my brother.”

  “Wrong,” the other interrupted, triumph lighting her gaze. “You did want your brother. Now you want your brother and you want Merc. You want him safe from whatever is chasing him. Or will you try to tell me you’re fine letting him die?”

  “I’m not going to let him die,” said Amana, but even to her own ears her voice held the unknown, the unsure. Not just because of the uncertainty surrounding them, but on the devil’s face, there was an evil gleam that held secrets being teased in a tantalizing display, beckoning Amana to ask…and ultimately, to follow.

  “You don’t want him to die, but you have questions, don’t you? You know you’re missing something.” The other went to stand in front of a gorgeous painting of a mountainside in autumn that dominated one wall of the bedroom, the riot of reds and golds almost photo-realistic. “The safe that holds the Spellbook is behind here. Amazing, how attached Merc has become to that book? Very aware of it, though he can’t use it. Why would the book call to him? Aren’t you curious?”

  Of course this thing in front of her would know the fears plaguing Amana. Even without the other’s confirmation, she had known the book was here, the way Merc’s eyes kept wandering to this painting. “Are you telling me it can harm him?”

  “I’m not telling you anything, unless you’re saying you want my help now.”

  Being backed into corner after corner was getting old. “I want nothing more than for you to disappear.”

  The other switched topics, the two-step making Amana mentally pivot to keep up. “He talked to someone about us, wanted them to research dream crafters.”

  If the other thought this would destroy Amana’s trust in Merc, she was mistaken. “Of course he did. I wouldn’t think otherwise. I’d be disappointed if he was so stupid that he wouldn’t gather as much information as possible.”

  “We should see this other person.”

  They stood in a dojo, wood floors and bare walls, a lone man kneeling amidst it all in meditation. His head was bald, his features unlined. He had the bearing of a monastic, and power radiated from him even here in the dreamscape.

  In slow motion his head rose, eyes opening with the movement, fathomless eyes that had Amana stepping back when they glanced her way. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t. And yet… “The Dream Crafter?”

  Another step back, and Amana’s short puffs of breath echoed loud and clear in her ears, each breath harder and harder to get out around the constriction of her throat. The other cocked her head, speculation in those teal eyes. “Interesting. So nice he knows us. So few do these days.” The doppelganger walked over to him. “I wonder what secrets his mind holds?”

  She put her hands on his head, her fingers spread, and pushed her thumbs into his forehead, peeling the top of his head like the skin of an orange. But there was no blood, no gore. Instead, a shining light, and then a change, the landscape becoming…something medieval, something long ago. It wasn’t only the castle in the distance and the sounds of horses and carriages, the people dressed in coarse fabrics, moving around small, roughly built homes. It was the smell, free of modern industry but ripe with earthy layers. It was the starlight, crisp and clear with stars so bright they were within reach if you could find a tall enough ladder.

  “It’s the Magic Realm. Before the Great Collision.” The other breathed the words, so small and delicate amongst the awe her face displayed. “I remember…a little. I remember here.”

  “This was my home. Mine and Merc’s.” The monastic’s voice interrupted their perusal, the man himself tall and straight, not prideful in his manner but pride in his bearing. Her doppelganger’s face went from awe to surprise, to wariness holding shadings of fear. His visit was not in her plans.

  Amana held no fear of the man. This was the man who Merc spoke of, the one who had trained him, and only curiosity coursed through her, the possibility of learning Merc’s origins exciting her in ways she’d never before believed possible while within a dream. “Merc’s originally from the Magic Realm?” Amana asked. No one knew how many humans from the Magic Realm survived the Great Collision. Part was because so much damage and chaos occurred, reliable records were non-existent. The ones who wanted to join society at large were able to slip right in and never needed to tell their history. Those that were not comfortable losing their way of life stayed closer to the changed lands, where dwarves and elves made their kingdoms, and lived as they had before, under the protection of other races who did not answer to anyone.

  It was one of the reasons for so many problems, so much us versus them. Humans were from one Realm, monsters and other races from another, and the twain oftentimes did not like to meet.

  The man began to walk forward, an easy gait where he never glanced their way, his manner of a man who was used to others following. “He was my initiate,” he said, and then nothing else, the answer frustrating in its vagueness.

  The other was walking but keeping a d
istance from the man, but Amana rushed forward to be beside him. “He said you had him from birth. Where was his mother and his family? Does he have any siblings?”

  “Such curiosity for a man who kidnapped you. Shouldn’t you ask how to defeat him? Shouldn’t you ask even what I know of your powers?” Now they were in the castle, in a huge room filled with scrolls, and in the middle a woman with dark, dark hair sat at a desk, transcribing. On her right was a large dusty collection of scrolls tied together. Of all the scrolls in this room, Amana’s gaze settled on those, a vague recognition tickling her senses.

  Amana circled the woman and saw Merc’s mouth, the shape of his nose. The woman looked up and it was Merc’s honey-gold eyes in a feminine face. “Why are you here, thief?”

  Amana’s surprised double-take wasn’t even finished when Merc’s voice said from behind her, “Looking for a scroll, of course.”

  The woman…Merc’s mother?…hadn’t been talking to her, but at a man behind her, and Amana turned to see a near replicate of Merc. With a moment to reflect, it hadn’t been Merc’s voice. This man’s voice was coarser than Merc’s, a hint of accent where Merc had none, but with so many similarities, this had to be his father.

  The monastic stood beside her, watching the scene with the same placid expression he’d shown throughout this strange meeting. “Merc’s mother was from a clan sworn to protect the Spellbook. She was the thirteenth generation who had taken an oath of blood and magic to protect the Spellbook unto death.”

  The room gave way in slow dissipation, but the last look of Merc’s parents showed them looking at each other in hungry fascination. The space reformed, a dark alley, echoes of men and women yelling and laughing from a nearby tavern filling the space, and Merc’s mother covered in a dark cloak and holding a bundle. Merc’s master was now part of the vision, standing before the woman, his eyes on the bundle even as he spoke to the woman. “I will not give him back.”