Legacy of a Dreamer (11 page)

“You are the daughter of a Contrite warrior, just like Mathias. I know your memories of your past are confusing, and there is someone coming who can explain in detail why that is, but for now, you have to trust that what I am telling you is the truth.

“No, you do not have gray skin, like Mathias does. The females born of the Fallen are different from their male counterparts. While the men are gifted with the power to walk in the Shade and camouflage by changing their skin tone, the women have the Grace of Heaven. You may gain the strength to fight, but those dreams you experience are your greatest power. As an Oracle or Dreamer, you have a powerful gift. Your dreams can reveal not only the past, but the future as well.”

“Nightmares are my gift?” she said, incredulous. She glanced down to the sleeping girl resting peacefully on her lap. “Somehow, I think we got the short end of the stick. If my dreams reveal the future, our future sucks!”

“Both of you, the women and their brethren, fight evil on both sides of the coin. While the men fight the darkness on a physical level, you Oracles are the biggest key to their success. The dreams you have are filled with evil because that is what surrounds you.”

“Lydia said that the bad one is after us,” Chantal said. “What did she mean by that?”

“For a while now, Lydia has been having a recurrent vision of an evil man who takes her away.” Father Ralph looked at the little girl, unable to hide his concern and fear. “I haven’t had the heart to tell her . . .”

“Tell her what?” Chantal’s heart felt like a heavy rock. She gazed at the priest, silently begging him to continue while at the same time dreading what he would say. Her own nightmares . . . visions . . . whatever . . . were replaying in her mind.

It was Nick who answered. “When the Fallen learned of the gift the Oracles possessed, they began to hunt them down. At first, they destroyed every female child born of a Contrite or a Fallen warrior. Now, they’ve begun to capture, punish, and capitalize on their gifts, using it for their own gain.”

“Capture . . . Is that why they’re after me? Tonight, in the subway and in my apartment?”

“Yes.”

His honest answer hit her like a sledgehammer. The rising panic that she’d kept contained earlier, burst free.

“What the hell . . . How could you keep this from me?”

Mathias reached out a hand to comfort and soothe her. “Chantal, I didn’t—”

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, forgetting her surroundings. Lydia began to stir on her lap, but she paid no attention. She pushed away from both the priest and that shadow warrior until she was pressed against the wall, huddled into a corner of the bed. The familiar anxiety she’d battled in her youth overcame her like a tainted fog, thick and suffocating.

“Chantal,” the priest said.

“No! I don’t know who you are! I don’t know if I can trust you! What if you want to use me . . . all of us . . . just like they do?”

“Our sole purpose here is to keep you safe,” said Father Ralph. “My charge is to keep these young ones hidden from the Kajola.”

“Who?” Chantal was crying now.

“The ones like me, born from the Fallen, who hunt for the Evil One,” Nick said, his face contorted with pain and caused him to look more human than her Protector at the moment.

“I’ve been watching over you the moment you were taken from your home. They found you tonight, and I had no other choice but make myself fully known to bring you here.”

“Are there more like me? Older, I mean?” Her head felt heavy, and she rested her temple against the hard wall.

“That we don’t know,” Mathias said. “There may be others that survived the first great hunt thousands of years ago, but we haven’t heard from them. The newer generation has been our main concern.”

“Wait, the women could still be alive? That’s impossible. How long ago was that?”

“Once you reach the age of twenty one, your powers will mature. And you will stop aging, just as I did.”

All she could do was stare at Nick, at a complete loss for words. Immortality came from fantasies, books, or movies. It couldn’t be a reality. This had to all be a dream. A horrible nightmare that blended into the ones she’d had before. Maybe she’d finally snapped, and she was sitting in some mental institution somewhere talking to herself.

“Chantie . . .” She looked up to see Nick crouching down in front of her, his eyes narrowed in concern, his face softer than she’d seen in the brief time she knew he was real. He’d used her childhood nickname, sealing the fact he had been in her life a long time.

“No matter what happens from here on out, I will be at your side. That I promise you.”

“Why would you make me a promise you can’t keep?” she said, feeling exhausted. “Everyone seems to leave me . . .”

The darkness encroaches, her nightmare closing in.

   
Nothing is here but the unknown, yet that blankness seems to scare her more than anything else. That inconsistent, never predictable void always keeps her on edge, anticipating the moment where fear takes over.

This time is different. This time she’ll keep watch, knowing that what she sees will predict the future. Apprehension pushed aside, she keeps her mind focused.

Concentrating, studying, waiting . . .

Shapes begin to appear out of the faded background, forming and solidifying, until she stands at the entrance of a dim, narrow hallway, facing the end of its vast expanse. Along the surrounding walls are several closed doors, obscure and bleak as the environment around her. Her bare feet feel frozen on the ice-cold floor.
 

Only one door remains open, inviting her forth. It stands directly across from her, at the far end of the dim corridor. A vague familiarity sparks in her subconscious. Has she been here before?

Against her will, she begins to float above the floor, a slight push from an unseen force carrying her along the cold ground. As she moves, she searches for clues, hoping she can remember the details this time.

She has to tell the man that hides in shadow what she sees. It’s important for some reason.

Why can’t she remember?

Faint lights from below the doors grabs her attention, and she can see something moving on the other side. Silhouettes can be seen across the floor as the figures pass by the light, but no one comes out to greet her. Soft whispers can be heard from behind the solid wood. Jumbled words she cannot comprehend create a white mess of noise, carried along the stone walls. She tries to make out their message, but isn’t successful.

“I can’t understand you,” she says, hoping her plea gives the deliverer some motivation for clarity.

“Go back,” a willowy female voice warns. Fear clings to the faint message in earnest.

“It’s not safe,” another one shouts, and the dreamer searches for the source of the voices.

“Where are you?” She stares at the doors around her, still moving at a slow pace toward the end of the hall. The open room is becoming larger, wide and welcoming, yet threatening all the same.

“We are hiding,” yet another feminine voice says, and she can see their shadows crouching behind the doors. “It’s not safe for us anymore.”

“I can’t see you . . .”

There is silence for several minutes, and the shadows seem to have disappeared. The dreamer looks all around her, trying to find out more information, when she sees the open doorway, and she feels perhaps once she crosses the threshold, more answers will be waiting for her.

“Don’t go through that door!”

The shrill command is deafening, making the other countless voices speak in panicked tones. The unknown figures are back, dancing along the ground as if their makers are running, trying to find a way to help her. Each panicked voice cautions her not to go through the door, yet she travels closer to it, unable to stop the strange force that moves her.

She tries to lift her arms to grab onto something, but the murky walls are bare. Even the doors lack handles, she realizes as she grabs for one. Having no other option, she braces herself as she approaches the mysterious room.

A figure moves into the doorway, obscure and ambiguous. It is a silhouette and nothing more.

It gestures for her to come closer, its movements slow and ethereal leaving a swirling, smoke-like trail behind it. A spark of recognition jolts the dreamer, and she remembers moving in the Shade with the man in shadow. Everything in that world, too, seemed to be made of wispy clouds and insubstantial nothingness.

Her momentum shifts, sending her forward at a faster speed. She feels the fear start to take over, her heart beating a frantic rhythm, as she gets closer to the door with the menacing figure.

His name, the man in shadow, is right at the edge of her remembrance, but escapes her. Her memories are faint and just out of her comprehension, much like this world she visits all too often. It infuriates her not being able to remember something most likely important. The figure offers an elongated hand. Holding its hand out in greeting, welcoming her inside the door, but she knows that the implication is false. It awaits her arrival with patience and expectancy, yet the gentle civility will likely be forgotten as she gets within proximity of the open door.

Purpose forgotten, reality nonexistent, she panics, not wanting to get any closer. She calls out a name, knowing the man she yearns for will save her, but still she moves toward the creature. She screams, backpedaling, her mind sketchy as movement is out of her control.

She crosses the threshold as the thing steps aside, welcoming her into its den.

“It’s been a long time, Chantal,” a familiar male voice says, sending a chill from her head down to her toes.

“No . . .” she says, but the words are meek and without force.

Black hands envelope her, the grasp tight and claustrophobic. The door shuts behind her, and a chilling laugh rings true in her mind . . .

Torture. Blood. Death . . .

   
A clawing pain gripped her chest, making each breath she pulled in an excruciating effort. Bits and pieces of horrible scenarios flashed through her mind—the most unspeakable, horrific crimes that could ever be committed against another person. And she could feel every single one of them as if it were done against her own body, repeatedly.

“Mathias!”

The dreamer calls his true name, the one that had been so elusive as if intuition drove her to seek the safety she felt with one person alone.
 

Him.

The man who came from shadow, but fought against the darkness to keep her safe. The one who’d watched her most her life. He alone could protect her from those demons who hunted in the dark, those who held her captive in reality as well as in her dreams.

And yet, as she said his name, the pain in her body and mind doubled in intensity.

“Chantal . . . it’s okay, sweetie. Wake up.”

She heard a voice in the distance, familiar and comforting. She tried to reach out toward the voice as it beckoned her home. Something kept her arms from moving. Hard metal cuffs encased her wrists, and she could just make out a solid wall of stone surrounding her.

Through a haze of uncertainty and distortion, she became aware that she was chained to that very stone wall. Screams of an endless, painful death crescendo off the rocks, making it the only thing she could hear. A door at the far end of the horrible room opened. Someone was coming for her . . .

“It’s him! Oh God, no . . .”

The man wore black from head to toe. His movements were panther-like, methodic in pace. His eyes were filled with hatred. Evil seeped out of his pores, radiating thick and acrid.

Everything hurt, and having this man so close to her made her feel like she was suffocating.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Open your eyes, beautiful.”

Desperation and fear mixed into one, the voice did not overshadow this man’s putrid presence. Staring at her, he sneered, baring his teeth that were sharpened to a point. He reached out a hand to cup her face, and she recoiled, which made the man throw his head back in mirthless laughter. His eyes revealed the hatred that filled him. He brought back his hand and slapped her across her face, and her head snapped back with the sudden force.