Into Dreams: A Gina Harwood Novel (Gina Harwood Series Book 3) Read online

  Into Dreams

  A Gina Harwood Novel

  By Indi Martin

  Into Dreams:

  A Gina Harwood Novel

  by Indi Martin

  The third novel in the Gina Harwood Series

  following:

  Behind the Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel

  Descending: A Gina Harwood Novel

  Tortoise & Hare Creations

  PO Box 605

  Funkstown, MD 21734

  Follow at: www.facebook.com/tortoiseharecreations

  Store: http://www.etsy.com/tortoiseharecreate

  Copyright © Indi Martin 2015

  1

  All rights reserved

  Printed & Bound by CreateSpace Publishing 2015

  Kindle Edition released simultaneously. First Ebook Edition 2015

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, telepathically, telekinetically, or by wishing really, really hard without written permission of the author. For information regarding permission, write to Tortoise & Hare Creations at the address above or visit the sites listed above to obtain an email address. Cover design by Indi Martin.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, undead, or otherwise, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. I mean, unless your parents decide to name you after one of the characters in the book. I guess that wouldn’t be coincidental. It would be pretty cool, though.

  ISBN-13: 978-1511472951

  ISBN-10: 1511472952

  Written in Funkstown, MD and Capon Bridge, WV

  United States of America

  To my father,

  who taught me the wonder of the cosmos

  and the beauty of a good read.

  Part One

  1

  Charlie Parker rubbed her temples under the straps of her headlamp, trying to coax the dull throb of her headache to recede. “Make room,” she commanded, watching in mild irritation as Morgan and Chaz clambered out of the grave. She sighed; she hated exhumings. Screwing up her pretty face in distaste, she carefully lowered herself into the hole. It smelled of freshly turned-up earth, a heady, off-putting scent, but certainly better than the odor of rotting flesh. Frowning, she considered the exposed corpse before her, staring back at her accusingly from its interrupted rest. “Sorry, Harold,” she murmured. “But you were kind of a dick.”

  “This should only take a moment,” she called up to the rest of her team. Withdrawing a small bone saw and a pair of pliers from her kit, she crouched and went to work, reminding herself to train Morgan and Chaz in this particular procedure later. She understood the reason for it, and even begrudgingly agreed with the mosquito that this was the best route, though she would never openly admit to it. If old Harold Locke had returned through the veil somehow and was leaving bodies in his wake, then they had to find him fast, and the only way to do it was to have a piece of him along to track his essence. Understanding it didn’t make her like it any better, though. I told Hanagawa last time that I wouldn’t do this again, she complained internally, wishing he were here so that she could give him an earful. Not after Matthew…

  Charlie shook her head to clear it, and was rewarded with a new upsurge in pain. Gritting her teeth, she clicked on the small saw and winced as the vibrations flooded through her body, seeming to aim straight at her already ailing head. “This sucks,” she hissed to herself, glaring down at her work as bone dust flew around her. She dug as deeply as she dared without breaking the brittle bones, and held her breath. This part was tricky - she’d chosen to take a splinter from the preferred area of the sternum, but it had to be just right, and from subsurface bone material. Her head ached from the earlier controlled burn of the Locke house, and she hadn’t had any real chance to recuperate; Charlie snarled at her own weakness and pressed on with her task.

  She was suddenly aware that the light in the grave had dimmed significantly, as others’ headlamps were no longer illuminating her work. Charlie hyper-focused on the sternum, feeling as though she were zooming towards the tiny filaments, holding the shattered pieces outside of her pliers away with her mind. Her temples exploded in argument, but she did her best to shut off the pain and the noises coming from above her. It’s Locke, she reminded herself. He’ll be fighting. The thought of crawling up to see what was happening crossed her mind, but the long-ago face of her old partner floated in her memory, and she redoubled her efforts, grinding her teeth against the flood of memories. The best thing she could do to help her team was to finish her job.

  A flurry of sky-splitting cracks sounded, and adrenaline surged through Charlie’s body. Gunshots. The gravesite was in sharp focus, every angle and line seeming to stand out as if outlined in electric blue. “I’m almost done!” she yelled triumphantly as her pliers peeled away a perfectly acceptable bone needle. Three more gunshots fired, and thoughts flew through her adrenaline-laced neurons. Help or burn? Quickly, she considered the possible outcomes from either scrambling up the dirt to assess the situation, or burning the remains. Against her temples’ wishes, she decided that burning the body was necessary, now, in the likely case the deceased Harold Locke was causing the maelstrom outside. She struck a match against her teeth and focused briefly on the whitehot pinpoint of nothingness directly above the match head, nestled at the heart of the tiny flame. Tongues of fire leapt from the match, igniting the decrepit clothes instantly and curling themselves around the bones. Charlie held her head for a moment as her world began to spin, and she felt herself falling against the wet earth, willing her legs to keep her upright.

  “MORGAN!”

  Charlie’s eyes snapped open as she felt another surge of adrenaline shoot through her. Not again, she thought, clambering mindlessly out of the grave, her long limbs scrambling for purchase in the soft ground. She emerged and swiveled her head, taking in the scene, her vision blurring at the edges from the pain in her head. The young Chaz was crouched behind a gravestone, tugging at his red hair and staring at a spot on the ground with wide, fearful eyes, his phone held up to one ear. He was under no immediate threat that she could see. Following his gaze, she noticed shards of some sort of gem or stone lying on the ground, reflecting her white headlamp light with a deep and mesmerizing blue. Continuing her split second scan, she saw Gina huddled over someone, her shoulders hitching as she administered chest compressions. There was no other movement that she could see, no assailants. Charlie glanced back down the grave - the fire was still licking at the bones, but it had not done enough damage yet to fell Locke, if he was the one causing the problems. She looked back and couldn’t help but notice the messy blonde locks of the body on the ground, and allowed herself a moment to close her eyes. Locke didn’t do this. I should have climbed out to help. Not again. Not again. She repeated the thought like a mantra as she jogged over to join Gina.

  “What happened?” asked Charlie, carefully pushing Gina’s hands aside and taking over chest compressions from the frantic agent.

  “Help him,” whispered Gina. She looked up and locked eyes with Charlie, an electric current that stopped Charlie from breathing for a moment. The woman’s green eyes were fully dilated, her walls completely down, and Charlie had to concentrate to discern which reality was hers and which was being projected into her mind. “Don’t let him die.” She heard Gina’s words reverberate through her head and she closed her eyes against t
he crescendo of pain that raced through her skull. Gina didn’t appear to notice Charlie’s distress, reaching out to touch Morgan’s face for a moment before pacing away.

  Charlie continued the compressions, wincing with each one, trying to wrangle her free-flowing thoughts towards something helpful.

  Chaz should be on the cb. Going through 911 is slower than calling in an officer down. He knows better. She made a mental note to reprimand him later. If it wasn’t Locke, then what did this? She studied Morgan closely. Other than a slightly blistering, but still superficial-looking, mark on his neck, there was nothing to explain the fact that he lay near death underneath her hands. What if he dies? What do we do if he dies again? The years had washed most of the crispness out of her ex-partner’s face in her memory, but his sideways smile still cut through the blur. His smile. She nursed the small red flame in her heart into a roaring bonfire. Goddamn bone compass! AGAIN! Great idea, Victor! She noticed her chest compressions had become aggressive and too rough, and let up a little. And Hanagawa! Why isn’t he even HERE? The anger was misplaced, but it burned away the rain of her sorrow, so she embraced it. Damn it, Snyder. Why did you even join up if you were just going to get yourself killed?

  “What does it MEAN?” she heard Gina yell, but gave it no mind. Charlie’s world was rage and pain, and loss, and the memory of loss. It doesn’t mean anything, she thought, fighting off a wave of dizziness. It never means anything.

  Charlie forced herself to look into Morgan’s lifeless face, keeping her countenance carefully stony. She had found that the best way to deal with sadness was confrontation, anger, and numbness - whether it was the healthiest way, well. She would leave that up to the psychologists. There was no reaction on Morgan’s handsome features to the compressions, no wince of pain, nothing but an oddly serene look cutting through the chaos of the scene. She’d seen the expression before, a dozen times, a hundred. She set her lower jaw and kept pushing, wishing the ambulance would hurry up and arrive.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go,” she heard Gina yell, both in the crisp night air and in her pained mind. She winced again. She needs to stop doing that, thought Charlie, shaking her head again to clear the intrusive vertigo. She had enough pain of her own without Gina throwing hers into the mix.

  Charlie was dimly aware that Chaz had joined her next to Morgan’s body. “She’s taking the car,” he said breathlessly, his voice cracking with anxiety.

  “Take over,” she snapped, and was thankful that the boy didn’t argue, picking up the chest compressions as soon as she let off.

  “KEEP HIM ALIVE!” screamed Gina, as she cranked the engine and raced off. That was the final straw for Charlie - the words pierced through her skull, a barrage of white-hot needles, each carrying the full force of Gina Harwood’s intent and mental disarray, bashing her own thoughts aside. Charlie saw Chaz snap a palm up to his temple momentarily before placing his hands back on Morgan’s chest, but his actions seemed disconnected and far away. Her vision telescoped as her mouth fell open in a silent scream, no longer able to handle the bedlam of agony in her skull. The world twisted and turned disconcertingly, and she felt weightless for a moment, a grey, blurry moment; then, Charlie Parker slipped into blackness with a sigh.

  2

  The lean, lithe man moved fluidly between the objects he’d introduced to the room. The lights were low, as he preferred, and he wore a small smile in the darkness. His sight was clear, as though the midday sun were shining through a window, and he hummed snippets of a long-forgotten tune as he went about his work. It was only when the other members of Unit were absent on a mission that he felt comfortable turning the lights so far down during office hours; he did his best to cater to their expectations of how a normal human co-worker would operate. There were less uncomfortable conversations that way.

  Victor Dobre examined the bags of saline fluid, checking the expiration dates on the labels. He nodded to himself, marking over the check that already existed on his clipboard. This was his second time through the checklist, and though he felt comfortable that he hadn’t missed anything, it was important to him to be thorough. After all, her life would be in his hands. The last thing he wanted or needed was another stain on them. The Propofol was stocked and ready in the small refrigerated cabinet, and he did a quick double-count of the bottles before checking off the next row. Though Victor doubted he’d have trouble taking someone down into REM sleep, he wasn’t certain of his ability to keep them there indefinitely. The Propofol would keep her in an induced coma without his constant attention. He didn’t need sleep, but he did get tired, and he would need sustenance. Having Gina Harwood unconscious in close proximity would be an inopportune time to let his hunger overtake him.

  Sighing, he continued down his checklist, concentrating on the words written on his list, and ignoring the emptiness that gnawed on his stomach. Victor was a creature of habit, a self-imposed regimen of strict daily timelines for his own personal activities. He ate four times per day, at set times, and his next meal was scheduled at 4 pm. He looked down at his watch briefly. 3:58 pm. He nodded to himself and marked off the last row on the list - latex gloves. He hardly had to worry about an infection, but it was easier if he didn’t come into direct contact with unapproved food.

  Setting down the clipboard, he walked smoothly to the rear of the office. There was a thin door there behind a curtain. Opening it, he walked to the marble-top counter and withdrew a pint glass from the overhead cabinet. Eyeing it and feeling his stomach rumble, he replaced it and withdrew a larger glass, setting it on the counter with hardly a clink. Turning, he opened the refrigerator door and scanned its contents; the white light of the refrigerator was tinted a light pink, reflecting through the deep red bags inside. Victor hungrily grabbed one from the second shelf, not bothering to peruse the label. He wasn’t in a connoisseur mood.

  He poured the fluid into the glass, taking care not to splash any of the crimson on the countertop. The bitter smell filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, finishing the pour before stoppering the bag with practiced hands and returning it to the fridge. He lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the first taste, and then drunk greedily until it was gone, feeling the familiar thrum in his ears and the warmth in his flesh. Victor closed his eyes for a moment, letting the old memories flash before him, wishing he’d taken a moment to warm the meal. He reopened his eyes with a sigh and quickly cleaned the glass, setting it back in its place overhead.

  The click-click of shoes echoed down the hallway; frowning, he slid back through the door to the office. Time already? he thought to himself, thankful he had been quick about his preparations. He had figured he’d have a few more days to mentally prepare himself, but it appeared that was not to be.

  Victor Dobre reached the light switch just as the footsteps reached his door, and he flicked it on, washing the room in a glaring white light. He blinked away the sudden change and glided swiftly out of the way just as the door burst open.

  “Victor!” cried Gina Harwood, breathless from exertion. Sweat poured down her face and soaked her clothes, and she trembled with cold. Her green eyes were wild and urgent; her cry ripped through his head just as her voice tore through the room, and he flinched slightly. Gina was entirely open in her state of exhaustion and concern, and thoughts flowed from her in a tsunami of disarray.

  “It has happened?” asked Victor, patiently pushing her thoughts out of his mind and strengthening his mental walls. Her panic was still there, but it was mere background noise now instead of the contagious drumbeat it had been.

  “You knew?” she spat. “Why didn’t you warn me!” She wrenched her jacket off and threw it carelessly to the floor, crossing the office to sit on the lounge.

  Victor decided it would be easier not to explain all of the plans, and to just move her to the bed and administer her IV’s once she was down. She was not in a good place mentally to absorb what he needed her to, and she was too single-mindedly worried about… Victor carefully removed one
brick in his wall, and braced himself against the torrential images whirling around the room. One image was crystal clear and repeated: the image of Morgan Snyder’s lifeless blue eyes staring to the sky. Victor frowned, genuinely saddened but not surprised by the news, and replaced the brick. “Esther Locke warned you. I was just uncertain of when, or how, or whom.” He sighed. “Though I assumed it might be Mr. Morgan. It is in his character to do such a thing.” Victor gestured for her to lay on the lounge, and picked up a pile of blankets to cover her shivering body.

  “Take me under,” she snapped reflexively, and Victor smiled sadly. Her tone and her body language was prickly, but he couldn’t have missed the waves of sadness and desperation he felt from her thoughts. She was beside herself with guilt, and the anger was a thin mask. “You are prepared,” she commented, with a hint of surprise and appreciation in her voice. She had only just noticed the new reclining lounge upon which she sat, and the pile of blankets he was carefully laying over her. He didn’t think she’d even seen the hospital bed and cabinets in the corner.

  You have no idea, he thought, and the genial smile faded from his lips. “You are not,” he sighed, exhaling through his teeth. “And while I can help guide you to your sleep, I know very little of where you are going. I cannot help you there.”

  “I don’t care,” she said flippantly, but Victor didn’t need to lower his walls to see fear mingling with the grief in her expression.

  “You may die, Ms. Gina,” he said softly. It was imperative that she understood the danger, and while he appreciated seeing the fright on her face, he feared she was woefully unprepared for where she was going. The Dreamlands, he thought with wonder, and not for the first time. When she’d first explained her dreams to him, he had fought the foregone conclusion that she was actually trying to enter such a realm, but her continued experiences had long ago erased all doubt. He couldn’t deny feeling a twinge of jealousy at the opportunity, but it was overridden by concern. “This is no ordinary dream.”