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Suspicion still knocked lightly at Dallin’s nerves, but it was residual and fading. Calder really seemed to mean what he was saying. “There is much we need to know,”

Dallin said slowly.

Calder dipped his head on a measured nod. “There is much I can tell you,” he replied.

Dallin didn’t even feel it necessary to think about it.

“After supper,” was all he said. That should give him enough time to catch Wil up on all of… this.

The nod this time was low enough to pass for a bow.

“As you wish,” Calder replied, turned with slow dignity…

stopped.

Dallin was just as surprised to see Wil leaning against the doorframe as Calder seemed to be. There was no rifle hanging by its strap over his shoulder; he looked strangely small and naked without it. His posture appeared relaxed—arms crossed over his chest, one bare foot propped atop the other, head tilted to the side—but his eyes were alive with sage fire, cagey and distrustful, and burning into Calder. Dallin had seen the look before, swallowed down the rush of apprehension.

“Wil,” he said quietly, but Calder held up his hand.

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“Aisling,” he said—this time he did bow. “Your servant.”

Wil merely flicked his glance to Dallin. Dallin watched, fascinated, as the brilliance in the gaze dulled and calmed.

Wil pulled himself straight, said, “Don’t call me that,”

then brushed past Calder. “We’ll see you after supper,” he furthered by way of dismissal. Again, Dallin only watched as Calder nodded respectfully then quietly left the room.

The change in Calder was astounding—gone from haughty near-contempt to almost reverence with the mere mention of the Mother. It was convenient, surely, but still unsettling. He’d accepted it, after all, with no proof, only Dallin’s assertion, and knowing very little about him.

What might happen if someone else made a claim, just as lacking in evidence, that Wil needed to die? Dallin was telling the truth, certainly, but Calder had no way of knowing that. Would he believe another just as easily?

Wil stood by the bed for a moment, flicked a glance to the chair Calder had just vacated with a bit of a grimace then peered down at Dallin, considering. With a little bit of effort, Dallin took the hint and shifted his legs, waved toward the now-open space on the small cot. Wil sank down with no hesitation, but the silence was somewhat uncomfortable.

Dallin attempted to break it with a bit of levity:

“Where’s your friend?” he asked with a small smirk.

He gestured at Wil’s naked shoulder when Wil tilted a questioning frown.

Wil’s brow untwisted. “It makes Shaw nervous,” he offered softly. “He’s been kind to me, so I thought…” He trailed off, shrugged.

Dallin suspected that
kind to me
likely translated into
fed me
, but he refrained from making the comment. And it certainly spoke to Shaw’s character that Wil would part with the gun to soothe his unease. Dallin wished he would 168

Carole Cummings

have had time to get Wil’s thoughts on Calder before the last hour or so had happened.

“Where

is
Shaw?” he asked instead.

Wil waved a hand. “He’s got patients. A mum and her little one’ve got… I forget what he called it. Nothing serious, but they’re sick, and he didn’t want them to see me, so he shooed me off.”

Dallin’s eyebrow went up. “Shooed you off from where?”

That got a twitch of a smile. “He’s got his own rooms, with a stove and everything. Calder’s staying up there with him.” The smile faded a little. “Shaw smuggled me up when I asked him if he had any books for you. You should see this place, all the backstairs and passageways.

It’s even more of a maze than the city is. And then Shaw showed me how to make these brilliant little… well, he called them skillet cakes, but they were more like biscuits.”

Funny, how he remembered what Shaw had called the treats, but not the name of whatever the two patients had.

And it rather confirmed the translation and the reason for Wil’s regard. Dallin would have snorted, except for the statement that had been buried within.
He asked for
books. For me. Huh.
He was absurdly touched.

“Sounds like you had an interesting morning,” was all he said.

Wil’s gaze shot over to the door then quickly back again. “Mm,” he replied vaguely. “And how are you feeling?”

“Amazingly well,” Dallin answered truthfully. “Still pretty sore, and oddly shaky, but that’s all. Well, thirsty.”

“From losing so much blood,” Wil told him. “The shakiness. That’s what Shaw said. You’re to drink a lot of water and eat. He should be by with your lunch soon.”

It made sense to Dallin. A simpler and more pleasant 169

The Aisling Book Two Dream

therapy than what it could have been. “Now if I could just get some damned clothes,” he groused lightly.

Wil’s glance flicked over Dallin’s bare chest then quickly to his own lap. He shifted a little on the narrow mattress.

“Calder wouldn’t let me go after the packs,” he offered with a pinch of the mouth. “And Shaw said that if he gave you back your trousers, you’d just be hobbling about before you should do.”

It could have been worse, Dallin supposed—at least they’d left him his drawers.

“Well, as much as I’d like to have my clothes back, and everything else, I’m afraid I have to agree with Calder. It’s too much of a risk for you to go traipsing about the city.”

Dallin leaned in, narrowed his eyes. “Leave the matter of the packs, all right? We’ll figure something else out.

You’ve still got the money, yeah?”

Wil nodded. “And your guns.”

“Good man,” Dallin said with a smile. “If we have to, we’ll just buy all new supplies. I know it would hurt to lose your things, but…”

Wil’s hand waved about in a gesture that was trying to be dismissive. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you some clothes,” was all he said.

He went silent again, fingers picking restlessly at each other, now that there was no bandage with which to fuss anymore. His head was bowed, hair hanging down to cover his face.

No sense in pretending it hadn’t happened. And no sense in pretending Wil shouldn’t be upset about it.

“How much did you hear?” Dallin asked quietly.

Wil shook his head, dragged a leg up and propped an elbow to his knee, rested his head in his hand. “Is there anyone, d’you suppose,” he asked, voice rough, “who
doesn’t
want to kill me?”

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Well. That answered that question.

Dallin sighed and slumped back. He had an almost-overwhelming urge to draw Wil in, pull that dark head down to rest on his shoulder, except Dallin didn’t know if that would get him bitten for his trouble. “
I
don’t want to kill you,” he told Wil.

Wil scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well, yes,” he sighed, looked over at Dallin with a small, thoughtful smile. “There’s always you.”

He said it like he really believed it. Dallin was idiotically buoyed.

“Wil,” he said, pushing force into the tone, “this isn’t about you, all right? You can’t take what he says any more to heart than you’d do with Siofra.” By the slight twitch, Dallin guessed Wil took an awful lot of what Siofra said to heart. Dallin cursed the man silently and violently, wondering just how deep the damage really went; Dallin didn’t fear its depths like Calder apparently did, but he worried that Wil would never really be free of its echoes.

“He’s an extremist,” Dallin went on evenly, “with all of the bigotry and mania extremism entails.” He reached out, laid a hand to Wil’s shoulder. “We’re going to have to handle him carefully, but it’s nothing to do with you.”

“Of course it’s to do with me,” Wil snapped. “His Aisling isn’t perfect, maybe even crazy, so he—”

“
First
of all,” Dallin cut in sharply, “you are not ‘his’

anything, and don’t let him treat you like it for even a second. Did you see how he bowed to you? That’s who you are to him—take advantage of it.” He squeezed Wil’s shoulder. “Second of all, Aisling is not who you are. The way I see it, it’s a job, and one you’re still learning. It doesn’t have to be
you
unless you choose it.”

Wil peered at him seriously. “You really believe that?”

“I live it,” Dallin told him. “If I didn’t, I’d never have taken those shackles off you that first night in Dudley.

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Constable Brayden is… well,
was
my title—it’s never been my name.”

“And you really believe there’s a choice?”

Dallin hesitated. Because when Wil put it like that, the surety suddenly didn’t seem so sure anymore.

Nonetheless, Dallin firmed his jaw. “I have to believe it.”

Because he really did. Even if he was, in this strange new reality, choosing the path that had apparently been set for him, he had to believe it was still
his choice
.

Wil looked down, thought about it for a moment. “Do
you
think I’m mad?” he asked, voice steady but very soft.

Dallin resisted the urge to open his mouth immediately on a sharp negation. It was a serious question, the answer would carry weight with Wil; Dallin could see the little bit of hope intertwined with rueful expectation. So he paused and gave the question the careful consideration it merited.

“I think you’re different,” he told Wil sincerely. “I think that what I might once have seen as madness is more just a way of coping and carrying on that I never would have thought of. The simple fact that you now and then wonder about your sanity tells me you’re saner than a lot of people I know—Calder not the least of them.

D’you think he
ever
wonders about his sanity or if he’s even right? D’you think Siofra ever did? The Brethren?”

He shook his head, blew out a heavy breath. “If they’re all like Calder,” he furthered dubiously, brooding at the flicker of the torch by the door, “I may want to re-think going to Lind, too.”

Bugger all. They were running out of places to turn to.

No wonder Wil had kept moving and as out of sight as possible since he’d been running.

“No,” Wil said with quiet conviction. Dallin shifted his glance back to find Wil looking at him with a surprisingly determined set to his face. “We have to go there,” he told 172

Carole Cummings

Dallin. “We have to listen to whatever Calder has to tell us, and we have to go to Lind. I don’t think I care if it’s a trap. I need to know.”

Dallin didn’t ask what Wil needed to know; the answer would be the same as his own, if he were the one asking the question: he needed to know everything.

“He was talking about power,” Wil went on, brow twisting, and he peered at Dallin with canny interest. “So were you.”

Dallin sighed, letting his hand fall away from Wil’s shoulder. “And this surprises you?”

“I don’t know.” Wil stood slowly, and distractedly took to pacing in small circles beside the bed. “Calder said Siofra buried it.” He turned back to Dallin, gaze sharp. “How could he do that?”

“How are your fingers not broken anymore?” Dallin replied with a shrug. “
I
don’t know. I don’t know that I
have
to know—it’s happened, it’s real. I imagine I should just accept it, learn to use it, and keep moving.”

“All right… all right, yes, but…” Wil started pacing again. His head was down now, eyes to the floor, and his voice had gone lower. “If you’d never known, never realized…” His hand waved about. “Accept it, you said.

Accept
it, like it’s that easy, but if you’d never accepted it…” He stopped again, turned his back, his hand coming up to run roughly through his hair. He was breathing hard, agitated.

Dallin frowned. “Does it frighten you?” he asked quietly.

A small, cynical laugh whiffed out of Wil. “Frighten me.” He shook his head. “It frightens me that it doesn’t frighten me.” He turned about, peered narrowly at Dallin.

“If I’d known… if I’d…” There were tears in his eyes, face screwing up in bewildered grief and anger. “Five
decades
,” he whispered harshly.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

Oh… Dallin closed his eyes. Shit.

Damn it, it wasn’t bad enough that it happened to him; now he felt as though he could have prevented it?

“Listen to me.” Dallin reached out, dragged Wil towards him and held on until Wil’s gaze finally lifted to Dallin’s own. “
Listen
to me,” Dallin repeated. “You keep taking on things that aren’t yours. You didn’t know—he kept you from knowing. I don’t know how, and it doesn’t matter, but you know now, or you will after tonight.

Because I swear, even if Calder tells us nothing we don’t already know, we
will
find out what we need to know before this night is through. Somehow.”

He wasn’t just saying it to make Wil feel better, and he wasn’t placating—he really meant it. He was damned sick and tired of guessing, of trying to fit half-hints into blank spaces far too big for them to stretch into connections. If Calder couldn’t tell them everything they needed, Dallin would… well, he didn’t know what he’d do—give the dream thing another try, shake the answers out of the Father, if he had to—but enough was enough. That inner-push to hurry, get themselves gone, it was starting to knock in his chest again, chitter over his nape like there were eyes on him, just like it had been that last day in Dudley.

Wil was staring at him, head tilted to the side. His brow was creased, not in hostility but in concentrated interest. “So, you think it’s real? You think I can… you think there’s more?”

“Wil,” Dallin answered tiredly, “I think there’s so much more that the effort of holding it back makes you bleed. I think there’s so much more that if you’re not very careful in how you use it, you could lose yourself.”

“And you’re not afraid?”

Dallin’s eyebrow went up. “Of you?” He shook his head. “No. If you ever turn that power on me, it’ll likely 174

Carole Cummings

be because I’ve done something stupid enough to deserve it.” He shrugged, let go Wil’s arm. “
For
you?—yes, very much.” His brow twisted a little, and he tilted his head. “What is this about really, Wil? Because you said a moment ago you weren’t afraid.”