Into Dreams: A Gina Harwood Novel (Gina Harwood Series Book 3) Page 32

  The scarred man growled at him and withdrew a small dagger from within his chestplate, throwing it at Gavin Crowell’s head in a flash. Crowell stepped aside calmly and the dagger hit the wall, stopping a millimeter from the stone and hovering in place for a moment before disapparating into smoke. Gina took a few more steps backward and joined Kyrri, whose fur was on end.

  “Just kill me, you bastard,” coughed Agni, and Gina was alarmed to see bright red spittle fly from his mouth.

  Gavin crossed to Agni, sliding his hand under his chin and tilting his head up to look him in the eyes. “Don’t think about it, kitten,” he warned Kyrri, who was preparing to leap on the man’s back. “I will fling you into that wall without a second thought.” He turned his attention back to the kneeling mercenary, whose chin was now covered in blood. “Thank you for delivering her safely to me,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcastic appreciation. “I knew I could count on you.” He released Agni’s head and the man dropped to all fours, coughing weakly and spitting blood.

  “What?” gasped Kyrri, who stood protectively in front of her.

  “Y-you used me,” managed Agni, gasping for air.

  “Stop whatever you’re doing to him,” demanded Gina, glaring at the hateful man. “Let him go.”

  Gavin Crowell turned to face the stone doors, and shoved the air in front of him, his muscles tense with effort. The stone shook, and dust flew up in a cloud. Gina considered stabbing him, but she did need inside, and it hadn’t worked too well for Agni. She would wait. She had learned a great deal about patience on this trip. “LET HIM GO,” she repeated, screaming hoarsely at the creature.

  The massive stone doors creaked open a crack, and Crowell pushed forward, inching them forward until they stood slightly ajar, about five feet of clearance between them. “Fulfill your first deal, and I’ll consider a second,” remarked Gavin, looking at her with a detached disdain that froze her to her core. “But hurry. He’ll run out of blood eventually.”

  “N-no,” stammered Agni, collapsing on his side. “N-no deals.”

  “Let’s go,” clucked Gavin, waving her and Kyrri forward. “Ladies first.”

  Kyrri looked up questioningly at Gina, searching her eyes for her play. Gina shook her head almost imperceptibly and walked away from Gavin Crowell, toward the slim opening in the door, hearing the patter of the Cat’s paws just behind her.

  “And careful,” he called in a singsong voice. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “If you know the traps, why don’t you go first?” asked Gina.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no,” cooed Crowell, and he blinked his yellow eyelids at her with a ferocious grin that seemed to grow sharper the longer she stared at it. “I can’t enter the grounds with his defenses in place. You need to bring his sorry ass out to me.”

  Gina turned. “That wasn’t the deal. The deal was that you could come with me to see the King. If you can’t come in to see him, that’s not my problem.”

  “Don’t try to play loopholes with me, girl,” sneered Crowell, snapping his fingers and brandishing the contract that suddenly appeared in his hands. “Or I’ll just cancel the deal and your fluffy friend can drop dead.” He placed both hands on the faintly glowing paper and mimed ripping it down the middle. “Your call. But he,” Crowell blinked and Kyrri was in a cage next to him, hissing and spitting and clawing at the air through the bars, “stays with me. Whether he’s alive or dead depends on whether you emerge with Kurenas in tow.” Crowell waved his hand patronizingly, dismissing her.

  “Gina-Dreamer!” yowled Kyrri miserably. “No!”

  “I’m sorry, Kyrri,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. “Neither of them dies today, Crowell,” she scowled, glowering at the grinning man, whose animalistic smile only grew wider in response. Gina turned on her heel and walked into the palace, taking care not to touch the walls as she passed them. The constant buzz that had haunted her every step in this world grew louder, fading in from distant background noise and into something more urgent.

  The courtyard of the palace was pristine, an oasis in the middle of the inhospitable landscape surrounding the castle walls. Water streamed out of fountains, trickling down expertly placed stones into pleasing little ponds and rivers that coursed through the lush garden. She crossed over a small stone bridge and approached another large set of doors, but the trickling water seemed to grow to a roar in her ears, eclipsed only by the buzzing sound. The clear liquid called to her and she turned her head, her hand halfway extended to the door handle. She was thirsty, suddenly thirstier than she ever remembered being, as if all of the moisture in her throat had evaporated instantly. She tried to swallow, but her dry skin cracked and crinkled and found no liquid to pass. Her mind felt foggy, her thoughts sluggish, and she looked at her hand, which appeared desiccated and thin. I’m dying of dehydration, and the thought took a long time to coalesce in her consciousness, her vision locked on the twinkling water. The hand extended toward the door handle dropped to her side, and she wondered momentarily why it had been raised in the first place, the memory of where she was overshadowed by the primal, painfully-slow death-beat of her heart; the buzz roared to full volume in her skull and she dropped to her knees in agony. The pain coursing through her subsided, as did the mesmerizing sound of the water, returning to its natural, delicate tinkling sound. She whirled and ran to the door, throwing caution to the wind and grasping the handle. It turned easily under her hand, and she ran inside, closing it behind her and leaning heavily against the wood to catch her breath. Her skin felt normal, and she could swallow again, and she did so gratefully, feeling some grudging gratitude to the awful sound that blocked off a part of her mind.

  Gina looked around, her eyes taking a moment to grow accustomed to the dim light streaming down through the dusty cathedral windows. She was in a throne room, a dark, cobweb-strewn cavern of stone. The faded carpet beneath her turned to dust as she lifted her foot, the fibers disintegrating from age. There was a throne at the far end of the room, and an old man sat in it, his skeletally thin body covered in dust and cobwebs. The sunlight illuminated his white beard, and he shifted as she watched, almost imperceptibly. There was a creaking sound, followed by cracks and pops, and the long-undisturbed dust danced languidly through the sunbeams.

  “H-hello?” ventured Gina, watching the King slowly lift his head. He was a heavily lined pair of eyes and a long crooked nose surrounded by piles of white hair, which had appeared to continue to grow in his stillness.

  The ancient man raised his index finger slowly and creakily, which Gina took as a signal to wait. Wide-eyed, she did, as the scene morphed in front of her. Hair seemed to withdraw into the man’s skull as the room brightened, and Gina glanced up to see the sunlight streaming through bright and clear stained glass windows depicting intriguingly complex scenes, before returning her eyes to the King, whose hair was now a deep shade of brown, and whose skin was hale and hearty, and unlined from age. She advanced towards him, looking around in wonder at the transformed throne room, but her attention was captivated by the windows, which moved and shifted in their frames. The people in them were talking, or doing farm chores, or scheming in an alley, or selling at a market, and it seemed that everywhere she looked she could see past the mirror and at the person it was depicting. She staggered backward and whirled to face the King, unsure of whether he was friend or foe, but certain that he was extremely powerful and possibly immortal. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger; it made her feel slightly more secure with so little familiar around her.

  “Welcome, Dreamer,” he said, croaking, and he coughed and cleared his throat before speaking again. “I am Kurenas.”

  “Not much of a welcome,” snapped Gina. “I get that you don’t want visitors but trying to kill them is a bit extreme.”

  “I am very old,” he replied, sagging slightly in his chair. “I chose to recuse myself from the world and let it live and die as it pleases. I had to deal with the constant stream of supplicants in a
way that ensured they wouldn’t come back.”

  “You could have turned them off temporarily,” she tsked.

  “With that serpent outside?” He snickered and stood carefully, testing his legs after their centuries of inactivity. “I don’t think so.”

  Gina started, surprised. “How much do you know?”

  “I have not been dead for these long years,” he admonished. “I have watched much of your journey, but for the times that creature traveled with you. Then, my sight is hidden.”

  Red hot rage rose within her, remembering the death and suffering she saw on her way. “And you did nothing?” she asked accusingly.

  “This is your dreamquest, not mine,” reminded Kurenas, scratching his close-cropped beard. “I don’t interfere any longer. It’s not my place.” He sighed and looked up at the windows, displaying all of the people. “I don’t even need them any longer. But they are beautiful, aren’t they? I was once very creative. A long, long time ago.”

  “I need to find my partner,” she started, and he held a hand up to silence her.

  “You need only to wait,” he said. “Morgan is on his way here, now.”

  Gina blinked and gaped at him. “H-he’s alive?” she stammered.

  Kurenas smiled down at her, but there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “You knew that he was,” he started, but he frowned suddenly. “No, you didn’t,” he realized, descending the platform to stand in front of her, with his hand raised. Gina heard the buzz grow louder as he approached her and she took a few involuntary steps back, grasping the dagger’s hilt. “That will take some time,” he said, looking deep in thought.

  Gina closed her eyes and set her jaw. “My friends are outside,” she said through gritted teeth. “They’re going to die if I don’t take you out there. To him. Crowell.”

  “Do you want to know his real name?” asked the King, cocking his head and looking at her with curious eyes.

  “I want my friends to survive this day,” growled Gina, remembering Kyrri’s absolute terror of Crowell as she walked away and left him.

  Kurenas seemed to consider her for a moment, and several emotions warred on his face, grief and amusement and pity controlling different muscles of his face like fighting puppeteers. He finally sighed a heavy sigh and grimaced. “Perhaps I have hidden behind my walls for too long,” he said. “There is much you need to know, and I can help you understand the task ahead. Or I can help you save your friends and risk not being here to help you in the future.” He sat on the last step and looked up at her with deference. “This is your quest, Dreamer. The decision is yours to make.”

  Gina glanced back at the door and bit her lip. Kyrri’s angry and fearful yowls still rang in her ears, though the cavernous room was deathly silent. “You did all this. You can beat him.”

  Kurenas smiled sadly up at her. “No, I can’t. Not forever. The best scenario is that we escape with our lives, not that he dies. Just that we get a break from him for a while, hopefully long enough for me to rebuild my defenses.” He ran a hand through his hair and inspected his hand. “It’s been a while.”

  “Everything can die,” replied Gina dryly.

  “Sometimes any victory, no matter how small, must be cherished,” he answered quietly, and his eyes suddenly reflected his age at her, and Gina could see eons pass in the black hole of his pupils.

  “We have to try,” she whispered, yanking herself back and shaking her head to clear it. The vision had been strong, and for a moment, the buzz had been completely absent from her mind. Just for an instant, there was silence in her head. Her resolve strengthened, buoyed by the momentary change. “I have to try, and I need your help.”

  “Very well,” whispered the King, and he walked back up the stairs and sat on his throne. Gina started toward him angrily, and he lifted a hand. “I’m about to lower the defenses to my Palace, Dreamer. Be prepared.” He snapped his fingers and Gina looked down as a gust of air rolled past her body to find that her holstered handgun now rested under her hand; her dagger still hung from her leather belt in a beautifully-carved holster on her left side, and she looked up at the King in shock. “You are more comfortable with that weapon, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she managed, drawing it and checking the chamber. “Yes, I am.” The weight felt right in her hand, and she felt almost giddy at the reuniting.

  “The only chance you’ll have is to attack him once he’s weakened,” warned Kurenas shrugging his shoulders and shaking out his arms. “Good luck.”

  The door swung open, and Gavin Crowell sashayed into the room, dragging Agni and Kyrri behind him on thick chains connected to comically large manacles that were bolted around their necks. Agni was pale, and stumbled forward only when yanked, barely catching himself from falling on each step. His scarred chin was a mask of red. Crowell gestured upward with his hand, and the chains wound themselves around ceiling beams, pulling the Cat and the mercenary up until they had to strain on their toes to support their weight. Gina’s vision reddened and she drew her handgun, pointing it at Crowell’s head. “Let them go!” she yelled. “You have what you wanted!”

  “I have some of what I want,” grinned Crowell, skipping forward in an almost-dance. “A tiny bit. But it’s a good bit.” His grin grew wider, past the edges of his face, and he flicked his wrist, sending Gina’s gun flying across the hall. Kyrri gave a strangled mewl, and she met his half-wild eyes.

  “Quit showing off,” grumbled Kurenas, but Gina could see fear in his ancient eyes, and she felt her own rise in response as she began sidling slowly toward the prisoners.

  “King Kurenas,” he sang mockingly, emphasizing the title. “How long have you kept my brothers and I from your patch of dust?”

  “Not long enough,” Kurenas snapped. Gina saw his grip tighten on the arms of the throne.

  “And how long did you meddle in our little realm here? Pushing us to the outskirts? Protecting your playthings?” Crowell’s voice was lower now, a menacing growl. “This isn’t your world,” he hissed, leaning in closely, nearly nose-to-nose with the still King.

  “It’s not yours, either,” he replied, staring the creature directly in his yellow eyes.

  “Yes, it is,” remarked Crowell in a lighter tone, spinning away from the throne and half-dancing back down the steps. “And I was doing a fine job before you came along. I wouldn’t go so far to say I was a benevolent god, but I let more live than my brothers do.” He snarled at the king. “Do you think I’ll hold them at bay now? No. They can have it, for all I care.” Crowell pouted like a child, but the air around him seemed to seethe and shimmer, an unholy aura of hatred and rage. “They will leave it in blood and ashes. But you, you who have tirelessly worked against me, I have long ago ceased to find you interesting.” He turned to face the king, and it seemed as though a sickly purple cloud followed his movement like a cape, a living shadow that grew and pulsed and twitched along its surface.

  Kurenas stood and took a deep breath, and the air around him seemed to rise and fall alongside his chest. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they shone a bright golden light. “Then do what you must do,” he commanded, and his voice rang like a bell through the hall and the minds of those assembled. Gina flinched, and the light from his eyes seemed to fill her vision. I am sorry I can’t be more delicate about this, she heard him speak clearly, a second before the buzz sent her to her knees. She opened her mouth in a silent scream.

  You can control it…Control it! she heard him cry, but it was distant, overwhelmed by the sudden absence of static. The buzz was gone and her mind was free.

  Her walls were entirely down, not a brick in sight, when the king lifted the floodgates. The waves of thought barraged her, all of them, all of it, and she felt her consciousness zoom upward as her body fell lifelessly to the ground. She flew higher and higher, blown upward by some concussive force, and she struggled to stop or even slow her ascent to no avail. The landscape zoomed outward until she was high enough that the real
m appeared to her like the map in the library, and yet she could see the cities, see the people, see the patterns woven over generations of souls living and dying, hear their cries of sorrow and of joy and see their dreams. She hovered weightless, unable to move or think, frozen by the sheer amount of information she was receiving. As she watched, she saw all of the realms, though she could cognitively understood little of what she viewed. She recognized a pale blue dot, just as an ominous, beastly cloak of darkness began to undulate across all of them, eating away at the edges of the realms, probing to find soft spots in their underbellies. Her attention flew toward the shadow against her will, noticing it without being able to stop herself, and as she neared it a dull knife of recognition pierced her heart. A visceral memory of the bloody veil between worlds ripping in a small shack in Snow Hill. A billion souls writhing in agony and rage within the shadow, waiting to rend and tear and gnash, and over it all, an awful consciousness. An Unspeakable consciousness. The wall is slipping, she thought, and the thought reverberated through time and space. She hovered in a precarious position between waking and dreaming, discovering a single point where all of reality was open to her, and concentrated all of her mind on one thought: VICTOR! she cried out with all of her might, feeling herself being dragged back to the dream. The shadow turned, drawing itself together like some terrible nebula, and noticed her, sending tremors of absolute fear shimmering out from her like a comet’s tail as she fell from the sky. THE WALL IS SLIPPING! VICTOR! THE WALL!

  Part Three

  62

  The waves of thought hit him like a tsunami, propelling him backward in his office chair until he hit the wall, and Victor Dobre tumbled forward onto the floor. He lay in a heap, blinking hard, and touched the trickle of blood running out of his nose gingerly. He felt a tickle in his ears and was certain he’d find blood there, too.

  He grabbed a tissue from his desk and dabbed at his nose, drawing himself unsteadily to his feet and looking at the hospital bed with the prone form of Gina Harwood across the room. She was still, and the monitors were all displaying normal readings, but Victor had no doubt of what he had heard. He glanced down at the tissue and grimaced. No doubt, whatsoever. He leaned his head back and staggered behind the curtain, grabbing blindly at bags of blood as his vision was obscured with red. She must learn a softer touch, he sighed to himself, flipping his cell phone open with a shaky hand as he gulped directly from the bag in his other.