Shady Lady

Page 22

“I’m sorry,” he said with such sincerity that it felt like the hug he could not give.
“Me too.”
Booke cleared his throat, acknowledging there was a reason I’d come looking for him. “Care to tell me what’s afoot?”
I summarized my situation in a few words. Since he’d been involved in our fight against Montoya and helped us locate Chance’s mother, he knew everything but the most recent developments. In dreamtime, I had no way to tell how much time had passed in the real world, but Kel would guard me.
“And so,” I concluded, “I must pass this test for Escobar to seal our alliance against Montoya.”
“ ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ ” he said softly.
“Something like that.”
“You can’t use your cell phone to ask for the information you need, because that offers proof you used more than one partner to complete these challenges.”
I appreciated how quickly and accurately he assessed a situation. “Exactly. We’ve come to the spot marked on the map, but there’s only a statue here, apart from all the wildlife.”
“Can you show me the markings?”
“Better.”
His eyes brightened visibly. “Translocation?”
“Yep. I have a sketch for you. I made sure every line is accurate.”
“It would be interesting to know whether you could take a photo with your cell phone and send me that,” he mused. “Do you think a gadget could make the transition intact? There has always been a certain disconnect between magick and tech—”
“Well, if it didn’t, then you wouldn’t have an image to examine, and I would have no cell phone.” Sometimes I had to rein him in.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean now, when your need is pressing, but perhaps it would make an interesting test another time?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll buy a throwaway phone and we can try it later.”
Like, after the dust settled, and I’d taken care of Montoya. Once, I would’ve shied from making that claim—I would’ve been paralyzed by fear and indecision. For most of my life, I’d constantly sought someone to keep the darkness at bay, but I could work a flashlight, and I liked fighting my own battles.
“Then I suppose we need to replicate what we did before. Can you create the campsite for me?”
I could. While I had been drawing earlier, I was also capturing details in my mind’s eye to make our shared space real enough to allow for translocation. I built each tree, each leaf, everything I remembered, down to Kel sitting quietly beside our supplies. The library shifted slowly to the jungle, and Booke watched with pleasure shading his features. I didn’t know if he had succeeded in contacting anyone else this way, and I’d never inquire, because that would sound proprietary. You just can’t ask: Do you share your dreams with anyone else? without the other person taking it wrong.
“I’m here,” he breathed—and joy threaded his voice like silver ribbons.
From his own account, he had seen so little of the world. I didn’t know why he was trapped in Stoke, only that he was. Booke carried all manner of mysteries, but he did not invite confidence. I wasn’t even sure I could call him a friend. Such relationships must be reciprocal, and he shared nothing with me. Ever. Even during our virtual chats, he spoke only of books he’d read or programs watched, nothing personal. Nothing meaningful. To him, I was a voice to fill the silence, and someone who occasionally needed a bit of research done.
I let him explore the small clearing, pacing its length, before I bent and retrieved the paper upon which I had drawn the markings from the statue’s base. If anyone could get us a translation, Booke could. If he didn’t know, I was sure one of his online cronies could put him in touch with the right person. For a few moments more, I watched him drink in the feeling of standing in a jungle. When he faced me at last, his expression glowed with wonder.
“Anywhere you’d like me to,” I said softly, “I’ll go for you. And we’ll share it.”
He froze, like a child afraid of reaching for a treat. “Egypt?”
“Certainly.”
“That would be so brilliant.” His smile cut his cheeks so wide that I thought they’d crack with the strain.
Yes, he was my friend, after all. I’d hardly make such an offer if I didn’t care. What the hell—I’d always wanted to travel. I could see a lot of sights on Escobar’s money, as well as rebuild my shop—which would take time.
“I promise.”
He reached for the paper. We took care not to brush fingers as we made the exchange. If everything went well, it would disappear from the camp in the real world. I wondered what Kel would make of that.
Booke hesitated, as if weighing the risk of what he might say against its possible value. “If we go to my house, I might be able to find the information right now. I know the place well enough to re-create it, including every book and scrap of paper.” Bitterness colored his voice.
He hated his captivity with a ferocity I could only imagine. If nothing else, since I hitchhiked out of Kilmer when I was eighteen, I had at least been free. Frequently, I had been alone, frightened, hunted, and desperate—or some combination thereof—but I’d never been trapped the way he seemed to be. I wished there were something I could do, but right then I had problems of my own.
But research within the dream . . . Well, it would certainly be easier than trying to find him again. I wasn’t sure how long it had taken this time. Even with Kel keeping watch, I couldn’t sleep the days away. Escobar had made it clear we had a deadline.
“Do I need to do anything?” Both times we’d worked the translocation, I’d taken care of constructing the new environment.
He shook his head. “Just keep your mind clear, please.”
“Okay, tell me when you’re done.”
To make that easier, I sat down and closed my eyes. I blanked my brain, which was harder than it sounded. Though Booke seemed capable of watching me build the new environment without exerting any influence, I didn’t think I had that much mental control. Better to let him finish.
Despite my pressing need to wrap up here and move on with my challenge, anticipation spiked through my veins. He was going to show me where he lived. I wondered whether he would show me his true appearance as well.
“All set.”
When I opened my eyes, the world had changed. Though I expected as much, I was rocked by how wrong I’d been. I sat on a plain hardwood floor. From the exposed stonework and the weathered beams, I guessed the cottage was a couple of centuries old, at least. Directly across from me a fireplace heated the property. The furniture—a chair and a settee—was faded and threadbare; it might’ve been fashionable in the thirties or forties. Books and papers surrounded me in piles, the sort of disarray born of a restless but brilliant mind.
“May I look around?” I asked quietly.
The question was far more significant than it seemed, and we both knew it. If he said no, I’d never try to get to know him any better. Since I’d promised, I would still go to Egypt, but he could keep his secrets. Booke studied me, his stance wary. After a moment, he nodded. He looked the same as I imagined, so I wouldn’t be receiving further revelations tonight.
It didn’t take long to explore the cottage. He had a sitting room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom—hopelessly dated, tiles crumbling, and an old-fashioned slipper tub. The enamel showed scratches, but he kept everything clean.
In the bedroom, I found his computer, the only new item in the place. Whatever money he earned, he clearly spent it on technology. He had so many gadgets and gizmos attached to it that I didn’t know what they all did. This room, too, was buried in books and documents, some of which looked to be ancient, as if they should be on display in some museum and might crumble at a touch. His kitchen was tiny and likewise outdated. The whole cottage held a wretched, melancholy air, as if it had slipped through a crack in time. Even the pictures on the walls looked tired, depicting dated scenes and people long dead.
Once I thoroughly scoped out the place, I returned to the sitting room, where a fire crackled in the hearth. I could even smell the wood smoke; oh, but he was good. I sat in the chair because on the settee we risked an accidental touch.
“Now you know,” he said quietly. “I am not distinguished or a man of means. As you can see, it is all rather wretched.”
I shrugged. “You saw where I stayed in Kilmer. Growing up, I lived in places that were much worse.”
“With an important distinction. You left. Because you could.”
“Did you want to discuss the why of that?”
His face closed. “No.”
“Then you should begin the research. There’s no guarantee how long I’ll sleep before Kel feels compelled to wake me.”
“Of course.” He opened a book and read a bit before adding, “It appears to be Aymara, very old. Just give me a while.”
Once he started, it was simply a matter of waiting. I perused a few of his tomes, not that I expected to be much help. As it turned out, I laid hands on the one he needed and placed it beside him so he could make notes on the paper. I couldn’t be certain how long the translation took, but I felt a tug, as if I might soon rouse naturally.
“Hurry,” I murmured.
“And that’s got it.”
Intellectual diversion burnt away his bitterness, so he was smiling when he handed me the sketch with the notes on the back. This time, the endeavor felt more natural, less an act of will and more a function of our shared reality. Because we were sure this worked, we were sure we had the power, it grew easier with each execution.
“Thank you.”
“Corine,” he said, as I felt a stronger tug. I had only seconds before I woke. “I will tell you. Someday.”
And then I opened my eyes to find myself on the ground, damp with morning dew. Kel had not slept. I could see it in the shadows beneath his eyes and the weary slope of his shoulders. Despite his great ability, his resources were not infinite. Tonight, I would keep watch over him.
Smiling, I sat up and examined the paper I held—translation on the back, as I’d known it would be. I read the words aloud. “ ‘Follow the serpent until fire eats the sky. In the hollow of the lady, unearth her bones.’ ”
“Directions,” he said.
“Can you walk?”
He cut me a scathing look, his gaze on my feet. “Can you?”
I dug up a clean pair of socks. As I’d noted prior, there were no clothes in my pack, just socks and underwear. Escobar’s test qualified as cruel and unusual in my book. Not that I wanted to haul a wardrobe through the jungle, so maybe his intentions were good. He was lean enough to have spent some time hiking around out here.
“You healed me, remember?” I could hardly forget.
My feet were filthy now, but they weren’t bleeding or blistered, and my boots had softened up enough that they shouldn’t inflict more damage. I put them on and laced them up. Maybe lucid dreaming was better than common sleep, because I felt stronger today, less sore and beaten down, even though our predicament was every bit as dire, and the day threatened the same swelter. I tightened up my braid, trying not to consider how badly I needed to wash my hair, and pushed to my feet.