The Waking Dreamer (20 page)

You would never know what he’s been through in the past forty-eight hours
.

“All right?” Keiran said as he counted through a wad of money in his hands.

Derrick returned from the stove holding a bowl of steaming oatmeal and sliced peaches dusted lightly in cinnamon that bobbed along in the center of the oatmeal. Into this he poured a generous helping of fresh cream as he placed the bowl down in front of Emmett. Setting a napkin and spoon down, Derrick returned to his conversation with Keiran.

“When you boys are ready, we’ll go get the car.”

“And then you
are
going to leave, yes?” Keiran asked, and it was obvious to Emmett that they had already discussed this because Derrick sat back in his chair and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“I have never run from these people, and I don’t intend to start doing it now.”

“This isn’t like last time. I cannot guarantee that they won’t track our movements here to Chicago, and if they do, you’re in danger. You must disappear for a while.”

Derrick was still shaking his head. “I won’t run from them. Even after they killed Annie, I’ve always been safe here.”

“That’s because Amala and I lived across the street for three months,” Keiran added, and Emmett saw the look of surprise on Derrick’s face at the revelation. “Yes, Derrick, we relocated to Chicago. Amala didn’t want to tell you because she knew how crushed you were by losing Annie. The last thing she wanted was for you to live in fear of your own life, as well.”

“I didn’t have much to live for, anyway,” Derrick admitted.

“Annie would never have wanted you to be murdered as her mother was,” Keiran added. Personalizing the issue with the memory of his daughter seemed to work as Derrick finally nodded in agreement.

“I’ve been meaning to visit my cousins down south, anyway.”

“A proper holiday,” Keiran offered with a smile, patting his hand on Derrick’s arm. “When we are confident of your safety, we’ll contact you.”

Emmett saw a look of regret in Keiran’s face, and he felt the same regret acutely, too. Once again, someone’s life was affected by his presence, that perhaps even death was a risk.

“The weather report said they’re expecting a snow flurry from up north. I don’t have it left in my back to shovel out there. So at least I get to avoid that,” Derrick said with forced humor.

“Best you tuck in and eat before we get on the road,” Keiran said to Emmett.

The morning remained uneventful. Derrick took twenty minutes to pack several suitcases while they waited. Keiran seemed preoccupied, often staring off at pictures of Annie along the walls. Not wanting to add to an already complicated situation, Emmett said nothing of his dream.

When Derrick was ready, he looked around the house once and shook his head, having each of the boys carry a suitcase for him as he locked several external bolts on the front door. Derrick drove them in his station wagon along the congested arteries of suburban Chicago, taking Lake Shore Drive north as it wound through the harbor district and hugged the Lake Michigan coastline.

When they finally reached a storage center on the outskirts of the city, Derrick handed Keiran a set of keys to the locked garage he had parked directly in front of. Several minutes later, Emmett and Keiran had rolled the unassuming car out of the opened garage and, filling it with a portable tank of gas Derrick had purchased earlier, tested the engine with a satisfying rumble.

“Thank you, Derrick, for everything,” Keiran said as they embraced.

“Oh, it’s nothing, son,” he said as he stepped back and turned to Emmett. “You take care of each other,” Derrick said as he extended his hand to shake Emmett’s. “I want you to come visit me in July for my slow-cooked ribs. Put some meat on those skinny bones of yours.”

“Thanks, Derrick.”

“And the same goes for you, Keiran,” he continued, looking at Keiran. “Bring Amala with you, understand? Tell her I miss that gorgeous smile of hers.”

“Aye. Travel safe, my friend.”

“I’ll be thinking about all three of you,” Derrick said finally and, rolling his window up, backed his car up and turned out to exit the storage center.

Keiran smiled and motioned to the rumbling car. “You drive. I’ll navigate.”

“Road trip incoming,” Emmett said excitedly as he jumped into the driver’s seat.

Under the crowded Chicago skyline, they pulled out of the storage center, turning right where Derrick had turned left. Answering the call of the endless road, they headed northeast toward the Canadian border and the Grove of Dr. Omar Hazrat.

CHAPTER 19

Keiran’s piping-hot tea and Emmett’s appropriately themed holiday mint cocoa exhaled billowing steam in their cup holders as the two continued on their journey. They filled the passing hours with absentminded discussion about random things, never tiring of talking or laughing. Keiran shared his love of opera, of Renata Tebaldi and Maria Callas’s performance of “Ave Maria,” in particular, and his love of jazz. Emmett, in turn, named his favorite indie bands and bemoaned his broken phone and lack of music for the ride. When Keiran said “hipster music” was something he hadn’t heard of, Emmett roared with laughter at Keiran’s confused expression.

Hours of in-depth film deconstruction consumed the long drive, Keiran obliging Emmett’s passion with countless questions. At one point, Emmett insisted they pull off the highway so he could use both hands to perform a particular scene. When driving resumed, Keiran asked him the relatively simple question of what his favorite movie was. This lead to a day-long treatise of Emmett cataloguing the films of the “twin Davids of Truth”—David Cronenberg and David Lynch—and how every element of life could be traced back to a scene in one of their movies. And through it all, mind-bendingly complex as it was, Keiran listened with rapt attention.

Keiran also talked of his childhood, painting a windswept vista of coastlines and rolling hills of South Wales. He described summers spent along the River Tawe. He spoke of a youth consumed with the Eisteddfod, the nine-hundred-year-old Welsh festival celebrating his people’s language, coastal-inspired food, romantic literature, and the songs, poetry, and theatre of the bardic tradition—the bards of
known
history, not the Bards of seeming fantasy that had come alive for Emmett.

When talk turned to Amala, Keiran hesitated. Emmett could see his worry, and as much as Emmett longed to hear about her past, he saw how difficult it was for Keiran to talk about her without worrying over her safety. Seeing this and recognizing the connection they shared as Companions only made Emmett feel low himself, conflicted as he was by his feelings for her and his value of Keiran’s sincere friendship.

Taking no chances that their movements could be traced, they crossed the border into Canada using fake names without corresponding photo identification. This proved simple enough with Keiran’s money and Bardic powers. They abandoned the car once inside Canada; Keiran was concerned that logging of their license plates could prove problematic if Derrick had stubbornly returned home and was captured.

They paid cash for another bus from a small town to Halifax. A commercial truck towing fish cargo from upstate New York was happy to give them a lift into town, where they finally exited and began the long walk toward Dr. Hazrat’s isolated Grove. It was much colder than Chicago, something the boy from the humid South could not begin to imagine was even possible.

As the city disappeared and ceded to the woodlands beyond, Emmett felt as if he were entering a place hidden behind the veil of the modern world. Against the midday sun, storm clouds encroached from the north, the sky bruised with swirls of black and purple overhead. The long, narrow road wound through the forest, providing no markers to indicate where they were going.

As the road turned at a break in the tree line, Emmett could see the first hints of the Lighthouse. He had half-expected an actual lighthouse poised over a cliff, and though he could hear the distant crashing of ocean waves and tasted the Atlantic’s salty spray on the wind, Emmett was surprised instead by the awesome presence that Omar Hazrat’s Grove commanded.

It was an elegant, architectural expression of a New England colonial mansion, with its wide stone foundation and tiled roofline. Its Dutch Gothic-style red brick walls and gray cornerstones framed a towering inspiration of English Tudor design, with irregular chimneys and large waterspouts lining the rooftop. Strong, vertical lines of masonry ran up lofty spires crowned by stone animal statutes that rode along curved brick arches. The elegant columns were four stories high with rows of spires and parapets lining the roofline rising at least another fifteen feet. Keiran explained that whereas Silvan Dea was grown from living rock, the Lighthouse was built brick by brick by its members.

The iron gates featured heavy bars topped with intricate leafy designs. At its center conjoining the two gates, metal was shaped into a massive crest of a lion’s head, its gaping maw biting down on a twisting, writhing form that Emmett immediately recognized as a Revenant.

“That’s your one-sheet teaser right there,” Emmett snarked.

Keiran reached for a large chain that hung off of a lattice protruding from one of the gate’s pillars and pulled down, releasing finally after feeling tension.

“Let me do the talking,” Keiran whispered, to which Emmett nodded.

Creaking, the iron gates soon swung in toward the grounds. Unlike Silvan Dea, the Lighthouse sat coldly within a bevy of bare, craggy trees washed in the salty ocean winds. A stone path wound through what Emmett quickly realized was a cemetery, with impressive stone mausoleums and markers arranged along the grounds. Stacked rock walls capped with stone statuary accented by dense ivy growth snaked through the grounds.

“The honored dead,” Keiran said, his disagreement evident on his face. “They do not forget their fallen.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“A lot of bad decisions get made in honoring the memory of others.”

Emmett saw Keiran staring behind Emmett. Emmett knowingly followed his stare as he turned around and tried to hide his own startled jump. Standing about fifty feet away from them next to one of the mausoleums, a pair of figures stood silently as they watched them. Emmett could not see their faces, for they were bundled in large jackets whose fur-lined collars sat just above their ears.

“Patrols,” Keiran remarked. “Come on.”

“We aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” Emmett said back and wondered if Bardic ears would hear him over the howling coastal wind.

They soon reached the manor entrance as both doors swung soundlessly open. In their shadow stood a young, fair-skinned boy appearing no older than fifteen, medium height and thin in a pressed black suit and starched white shirt, with a matching vest across which hung a silver chain, and tucked underneath was a bold, blood-red silk tie.

“
Bienvenue, mes frères,
” the young boy said with a high voice, his curly blond hair falling forward into the soft lines of his cherubic face as he lowered his blue eyes reverently and bowed low before them.

When Keiran remained still, Emmett did not bow in response.

“Thank you, Eitan,” Keiran said. “I have come to seek sanctuary from…”

“ …
oui
, your intentions are known to the Ovate,” he said, his English weighted with his French-Canadian accent. His long eyelashes blinked several times as he moved a manicured hand forward across his face to brush the long, blond curls from his eyes.

After a moment of silence where Keiran only stared at the boy without a readable expression on his face, Eitan turned in place on finely polished black dress shoes, motioning with a small hand for the pair to enter.

Emmett felt the cold exterior winds drawn behind him as the large doors closed. Folded within his heavy coat, he felt the draft from the towering ceilings above him. His eyes adjusted to the large shadows covering entire swaths of the foyer, seeing that the marble entrance rose nearly thirty feet overhead to a circular dome of thick glass, at the center of which hung a large chandelier whose hundred or so candles cast the trio in a soft glow.

Eitan stepped in front of them with his hands folded neatly behind his back. He swiftly escorted them down the narrow corridor that lead underneath a sweeping stairwell, the corridor lined with oil paintings of men Emmett did not recognize, gilded mirrors, and wall sconces holding candles. Its narrow width was eclipsed by its greater height, its arched ceilings ending in a curved point that ran its full length. Whereas Silvan Dea felt like a flowing stream of earth, the Lighthouse was a testament to a grand, cold European estate.

The corridor ended at a pair of wooden panels that opened into a small velvet-lined compartment the three entered. The floor immediately lurched underfoot, and Emmett heard the whirring motors of an old elevator churn for several minutes as he felt the car steadily lowering them deep underground. It was all he could do to focus on staring at the back of Keiran’s neck to remain focused, the looming feeling of the enclosed space all around him.

The silence made the space feel even more confined. Eventually, the elevator halted to a stop, and the panels slid open. They exited and continued down a winding corridor until the hallway turned and emptied into a massive great room carved seemingly from the deep earth itself.

The room rose nearly four stories high to a grand ceiling whose intricate carvings and detail Emmett could barely see at such a distance. Long tasseled tapestries of deep burgundy hung on the earthen walls between large fireplaces carved fifteen feet wide out of solid rock.

At the opposite end stood the most impressive feature: a sheer wall of immeasurable blue, swirling with eddies that flashed streaks of brilliant silver and yellow. Noting the fish and shadow of lumbering giants floating just beyond the blue wall, Emmett realized it was the ocean itself—seemingly held at bay by some invisible force. A length of water extended outward like a lava tube, and at its end it fanned out like a shell. The water’s currents undulated in the air, and in its magnificence, it appeared as if the ocean itself had grown an arm and reached out into the cavernous room.

“Seriously. Hashtag more cave,” Emmett mumbled under his breath, awed as he was by the spectacle.

Framed in the shell-like shape of water sat a single, high-backed chair. Seated comfortably in it was a lone gentleman. The young boy quickly walked the length of the great room and turned to stand just to the side of and behind the gentleman. Emmett looked to Keiran, who took one step in front of him and inclined his head in a small bow.

“Ovate of the Lighthouse, Elder of the Children, Guardian of the Song. May it please the Turk of the Northern Storm, I present our brother from Silvan Dea, Keiran Glendower,” the young boy intoned formally with a squeaking voice that echoed through the cavernous room.

“Dr. Hazrat, I humbly request sanctuary.”

Dr. Hazrat rose from his chair and glided across the room, closing the distance within moments. He commanded an impressive height and strong frame, his black hair and thin beard trimmed short and neat along his powerfully built jawline with flecks of silver accenting his gray eyes and hair. He wore a finely tailored suit with a bold yellow tie over which draped a charcoal-colored, double-breasted frock coat with peaked lapels, fitted sleeves tapering the full length of his long arms.

“My young brother, it pleases me that you have returned to us,” Dr. Hazrat said with a deep, richly baritone voice that hinted at an almost-velvety purr.

Keiran motioned to Emmett. “Emmett Brennan, an Underdweller survivor.”

Dr. Hazrat turned to Emmett, the fine lines of his face belying a gentle age of tempered wisdom. “Welcome to the Lighthouse, Mr. Brennan. As my guest, you enjoy both the comforts and protection of my Grove,” he said with an extended hand.

Emmett felt the lyrical quality of his voice as if the finest silk were lightly draped over his ears, and almost immediately Emmett felt himself swept up in the power of his countenance. Dr. Hazrat was the first Elder he had met, and his was the poise that comes to those who command immeasurable strength. Emmett felt both lightheaded and breathlessly without words as his gray eyes moved across his face.

Emmett thanked him with a nod, unsure what to say. His eyes felt drawn by a dark shadow over Dr. Hazrat’s shoulder, seeing something large churn in the deep blue waters beyond the great wall.

“I apologize that you have been waiting this long for treatment for the Rot,” Dr. Hazrat said plainly, his eyes looking at Emmett’s covered neck. At that mention, Emmett blinked, his attention returning to the Elder.

“Thank you.”

Dr. Hazrat took a step back, spreading his arms in an open gesture. “As you have already been called by the Archivist, my power would not heal you.”

Emmett fought the urge to look accusingly at Keiran. In the maelstrom of the week’s events, Emmett had not stopped to ask why another Elder could not heal him. He felt flush with questions whose possible answers could have left him angry.

“We still have another week,” Keiran said with a clipped tone to his voice that seemed to suggest he wished to redirect the subject. “Until then, we needed to find refuge from Revenants still pursuing us.”

Dr. Hazrat bent his arms behind his back, turning to look upon the great wall of deep-blue water before him. Emmett saw another dark shape glide through the waters.

“Revenants would not dare attack the Lighthouse. Their futile attempts to garner the necessary strength within one hundred miles of us do not go unnoticed by me. It is troubling that after so many centuries of Revenants avoiding direct confrontation they choose this moment right now to act so
openly
.”

Keiran remained silent, Emmett following his lead.

“I was, of course, quite disturbed to hear of your message of Silvan Dea’s loss. And the recent train attack by the same force. All passengers dead by fire except
certain
passengers under aliases unaccounted for. I have already made the necessary arrangements for the security footage to conveniently disappear. We would not want Mr. Brennan to become a wanted man, would we?” he asked.

After a moment’s silence, Dr. Hazrat returned to his chair. Smoothing the fans of his frock coat, Dr. Hazrat turned and sat down upon his throne, holding sovereignty over the room and everyone within.

“The attack on Silvan Dea was not isolated. The embers still burn at our southern Grove in Brazil, apparently attacked at the same time as yours.”

Keiran could not hide his shock. “Did anyone survive?”