Delirium (6 page)

Viv had charged ten thousand euros for Mrs. Wallace to read her child a story, which was a lot of money, but not so much that a grieving parent wouldn’t pay…and pay again…and again. This was the black market. All dreams were dark, one way or another.

Mrs. Wallace sobbed and dove forward, arms outstretched. Mr. Wallace backed up against the bedroom wall.

Rook looked away. His job wasn’t what was going on in the room; it was what might encroach from the outside. He sniffed and listened—using his waking world senses to stimulate the Darkside ones so he could discern what was going on around the Echo Rêve.

Viv’s black market neighbors would change day to day as their hookups negotiated for space in the dreamwaters. Her connection was always pure, safe, and strong—pricey to maintain, as a result.

He put a hand to the boundary, feeling for vibrations. On one side of Viv’s Echo, was the sex Rêve—
been there
—but on the other side, he could tell there was a large group of people—a couple hundred at least—all jumping with energy. Probably a nightclub with a Darkside rock band driving their rhythm into the blood and minds of attending revelers. There was some good music underwater, where a new group could build a following in the deep, then explode mainstream in the waking world. The club Rêves in the black market were dicey, but they often had a better following than the legal ones in the Agora.

Mrs. Wallace was reading to her daughter about forest animals all welcoming the day. Mr. Wallace hadn’t moved from where he stood against the girl’s bedroom wall, his hands flattened against it at his sides, as if he were trying to push the wall backward to get away.

A chilly flash at Rook’s shoulder had him leaning his forehead toward the club Rêve again. The rhythmic surges didn’t stop—in fact, he was pretty sure the beat was starting to climb—but yes, there was a coldness inside now, one he didn’t like.

He leaned into the club Rêve as Mr. Wallace began weeping.

The club was a hack of a small industrial setting—a lot of vertical concrete and metal—packed with revelers. The Rêve operators hadn’t had to provide the illusion of club goers, which said a lot about the band. Seemed the crowd was full of real people—and most were female—screaming and waving their hands at the trio up on the stage. Well, actually, the lead singer had risen slightly into the air, as if gravity had no power over him, only his exaggerated pathos, as if he were a crow-like version of Christ. But everyone could float in the dreamwaters if they wanted to.

Then, a subtle shift in the currents and Rook looked harder. Three gray nightmares crept through the throng of the Rêve club. Stooped and crooked, they peered at the revelers rocking around them. No one in the club seemed to notice, but maybe they didn’t know what to watch for.

Viv and others who worked the black market had said nightmares were creeping inside. And goddamn, they were.

Rook silenced everything about himself to observe them. The nightmares weaved along the club’s floor, and then they passed into the sex Rêve beyond. He’d thought that maybe the nightmares were sneaking in one at a time to grab a reveler and drag their prey out into the Scrape, but this seemed more insidious still.

What were they doing? What did they want?

Harlen Fawkes needed to see this. The new Chimera Darkside Division should start here.

Rook was torn—follow the nightmares or do his job?

His job. Everyone who came to the black market knew they weren’t safe—like playing in a bad neighborhood at night—and yet they’d chosen to be here.

He turned back to the Wallaces’ Echo to make sure that the only nightmares that breached the dream were the ones the revelers brought upon themselves.

***

Sera curled up in a chair to watch the front door. Any minute now… She felt heavy, exhausted, as if recovering from a bad flu. Even her heart beat irregularly—slow and hard, and then it’d accelerate too much at the slightest bit of effort or if she thought about what had happened. Waking had been a laborious crawl to shore.

She had no regrets, but she hadn’t meant for
that
to happen. She shuddered…again. But he’d attacked her. She’d given him chances. He’d been overconfident. And she’d been extra motivated. And so he’d died. Or at least, he would never wake again.

An accident on her part. But still—

A key scraped against the lock of her apartment door. Harlen was here. In spite of her lethargy, she was up and had the door open before the lock turned.

Harlen dropped his bag, and suddenly she was being squeezed tight, held six inches off the floor. He smelled like airplane, but she inhaled deeper and found his unique scent, warm with the tang of a long day, all Harlen.

Vince Blackman was now A-OK in her book. When Harlen had first called to tell her that he was coming home, she’d argued with him: She was fine. Her attacker had deserved what he’d gotten. Really. Harlen had work to do. But he’d already been at the airport, everything arranged. And she was so damn glad.

“Hey, Chef,” he said, putting her down and searching her face with his gaze. “How are you holding up?”

She searched his, too. Scruffy with new beard. Worried eyes. His suit had traveled well; his tie had not. God, he looked good.

“I’m okay. I told you,” she said as she backed into her place so that he could come in and shut the door.

She had
not
returned to the restaurant upon waking, even though time had cooperated with her. She could’ve even made the beginning of service if she’d wanted—quick dip in the dreamwaters, cross the vastest desert known to humankind, a sudden scuffle ending in her attacker’s never-ending sleep, and message delivered.

Turned out she’d precipitously resolved Harlen’s problem. Or complicated it.

“You’re the toughest adversary anybody ever had.” He put a hand to her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “And I should know.”

She laughed wearily, leaning into his hand. “You really didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did. I couldn’t stand another meeting.”

She laughed again, but it was cut off by a sudden closing of her throat. “I pulled a Lambert.”

There. She’d said it. Didier Lambert, aka El Maestro de Evil, had killed a lot of people by feeding them to nightmares. She had to admit, it was a very convenient method.

Harlen took her by the shoulders and gave a soft shake that made her heavy eyes leak a little. “You defended yourself.”

“Do you know who he was yet?” She didn’t want to know, not really.

“Yeah. I think so, anyway. Ex-Army, worked in Rêve, just like me. I think I even met him once.”

“You’re not going to tell me his full name?”

“Nope. Not important.”

“
Who he was
isn’t important?” Did he have a family? The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt.

“He not only attacked you but sought to incapacitate you with a jump. It wasn’t even a fair fight.” Harlen had mentioned the jump when she told him how Peter had seemed to have a special power. Apparently, it was one of the ways to disable a reveler Darkside for capture. Harlen had said Chimera used something like that when subduing criminals. “Now, you’ve got to be in a world of hurt.”

She shrugged. “Better now. Could barely move at first. I hate being sick.”

“Let’s get you to bed then.” He quickly divested himself of his suit jacket, laid it over the back of a chair.

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” she said, though she didn’t want him to think she was scared. That she couldn’t help him Darkside again. Because she could. Just at the moment…she
really
didn’t want to sleep.

“But you will, and I’ll be there with you,” Harlen said. “You were under only a little more than an hour and it’s going on four a.m. now.”

“Well, I don’t want to dream. Can I just float?” Floating wasn’t as restoring as being fully submerged, but it was better than not resting at all. It was like dozing—little sense of time or place. Just darkness and Harlen.

“Deal. Give me a minute to change and we’ll snuggle up,” he said, though
snuggle
was her kind of word. He must’ve really been worried.

She waited in bed for him, contemplating the subtle ripples of paint on the ceiling the way she used to before they’d gotten back together, every night tired from work but too keyed up to sleep. Lonely. She wasn’t lonely anymore.

Harlen came out of the bathroom and rounded to his side of the bed—she liked that he had a side—and then his arm suddenly snagged her waist and he hauled her back against his chest into a spoon position. Warmth seeped through her skin from her nape to her toes. Almost too hot, but not quite.

“You need to call your mom,” she said, remembering.

“Now?” he grumbled against her hair.

She smiled. “Later. Just passing on the message.”

The weight of his arm and his heat at her back were magic. Just his being near subdued the worry and stress that had been rankling inside her. The tightness in her shoulders released and she took her first, real deep breath. Her heart settled. Her mind went quiet; nothing bad, not even memories, could reach her. She could stay like this forever.

He was getting hard, the telltale signal at the small of her back, and she arched a little, saying yes. Even now, after this bad day. Especially now.

“Sleep,” he commanded. “You need to rest after being jumped.”

“
You
could jump me.”

“Cute,” he said. “I will. Later.”

“Now,” she said, but with a couple more breaths and the knots in her muscles easing, she was adrift. The waves beneath her were from the rise and fall of his chest. If time passed, she couldn’t measure it and didn’t care to. Her mind felt as if it were stretching long like taffy, and her limbs dissolved.

When his hand finally slid under her shirt to cup a breast, she arched again. His stubbly face burrowed into her neck and the tickle of it made her body reflexively curl.

“I have to go to work soon,” he said.

She cracked her eyes to find a morning glow lighting the room like fire. Closed her eyes again and groaned. “Ten more minutes.”

His hand left her breast, and she would’ve complained, but he slid low, down her belly, beneath the waistband of her pj’s to take absolute possession of her.

She didn’t have the energy to open her eyes, but the fuzz in her brain dissipated somewhat. A languid smile pulled at her mouth as she rolled over onto her back. Yeah, okay. His idea was better.

She expected a kiss, and it came at her belly, hot air, scratchy face, and his mouth. He simultaneously tugged at her pants, and she lifted her hips to oblige him. She could be cooperative, something she’d point out to him…later. When he settled his attention between her legs, the zaps and quivers he shot through her obliterated every residual ache. Her body knew him, welcomed him, and responded to his lead, so relieved to feel like herself again. Her very best self.

When gravity finally overcame her floating euphoria and set her back in bed, she fisted her hands in Harlen’s hair to get his attention and pulled him up to look him in the eyes.

He chuckled, so proud of himself, and cooperated. Cocky bastard. She pushed him onto his back on the bed and, peeling off her shirt, climbed on top of him.

His gaze heated as he looked up at her. “Move in with me. I don’t want to split my time off between two places.”

“Move in here,” she said, flexing her hips, feeling powerful. On top the world. Her world, at least.

He did his own flexing, nudging her heart to beat fast again. “Better security system at my apartment.”

Security while sleeping was a Chimera constant. She braced her hands on her parted knees and rocked again. But it only made her want more. She’d never be done with him.

“Well, Chef?”

There was only one answer. “Yes.” Absolutely. “Doesn’t matter where.”

***

“Close the doors, please,” Harlen said.

Marshal Gomez—good tracker, hothead—got up from his seat in the back of the Chimera briefing room and did so.

Harlen’s gaze skipped from face to face of the other twelve agents gathered in the space, each marshal handpicked by him or suggested by Director Bright. As a group, they sat as if they weren’t sure they wanted to be here. The Kill Chimera! protesters’ chants would make anyone uneasy, and the Darkside Division’s loosely defined “expanded powers” would make the ethical among them object to the new boundary-crossing authority the division had been granted. Still others might guess why the authority had been granted—nightmares and the Sandman—but the dangers might make them hesitate to join a fight doomed to failure. Nevertheless, they’d all hear him out.

He couldn’t afford to fool himself, either. There had to be Oneiros among them in hiding, those who’d been loyal to Didier Lambert and were still believers in the supremacy of the Sandman.

“Welcome to the Darkside Division,” Harlen said.

Without further introduction, he tapped the control screen and the room darkened as a three-dimensional memory capture sprang up before them. “This is the Dragon’s Lair Rêve.” A multilevel gaming experience to which revelers bought a subscription, rather than a one-time ticket. “In a few moments you will see Marshal Malcolm Rook breach the Agora into this Rêve from the Scrape with then-recruit Jordan Lane.”