Queen of the Night (14 page)

I wake when the world starts

heaving as if it’s going to crack apart. It takes me a few seconds to realise that I’ve fallen asleep with my head on Wolfboy’s chest, and now he’s thrashing wildly.

I fall away and watch from a safer distance. A deep frown scores his face; he looks as if he’s bearing the weight of famine and war and every possible natural disaster in his sleep. I’ve never seen anyone have a nightmare before and it’s a scary sight.

‘Hey,’ I say softly, shaking him. ‘Hey, wake up.’

He starts talking then, incoherent mumbles. I wonder if it’s the right thing to wake him in the middle of a bad dream. His arms are no longer flying about, so I move in
close again, and put my mouth to his ear.

‘Wolfie,’ I whisper, ‘It’s me, Nia, wake up.’

His eyes flick open, and he grabs my wrist, gasping. I run my hands up and down his arms, trying to soothe him. I feel as if I’m anchoring him with my touch. Gradually his eyes stop blinking Morse code.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ The air has got cold in here while we’ve slept, and my breath forms white clouds.

Wolfboy struggles to talk. ‘Ortie and I were waiting at the shop for Diana. She was late and we were worried. When she showed up we were really relieved.’

He still doesn’t seem a hundred per cent awake, even though his eyes are open and he’s talking.

‘But then we realised that there was something wrong with her face. It had been erased. Like someone had taken an eraser and rubbed out her whole face.’

‘That sounds horrible,’ I say, brushing his hair off his forehead. I wish I knew a comforting bedtime story I could tell him. I make do with whatever comes into my head.

‘Ever since I was little I’ve been able to remember my dreams. I used to drive my mum crazy telling her about them. When I was twelve I had a dream journal, and this dream book where you could look up symbols and what they meant. I don’t do that anymore, but sometimes, even now, I’ll wake up from a really great dream and get so
annoyed that I won’t find out what happened. But if I try really hard, sometimes when I fall asleep again I can pick the dream up again, right from where it stopped the last time, like pausing and playing a DVD. It’s pretty cool.’

We breathe in time, my head rising and falling on Wolfboy’s chest. The room is dark with no windows. It could be any time of day or night.

Wolfboy’s eyes melt closed again.

It’s so strange and adult to be lying in bed with him, but it’s made easier by the fact that he looks like a little boy when he’s sleeping. Numbness spreads across my buried left arm but I don’t want to move it in case it wakes him.

When I can’t bear it any longer, I carefully slide away, my dead arm prickling unbearably as the blood flows back. My phone tells me it’s Friday morning. We slept through the night together. Right about now I should be in form room getting my name marked off. I don’t even know the school policy on non-attendance, if they’ll message Mum or call her.

The hallway is silent and empty, which is just as well, because I’m only wearing a t-shirt and undies. I can’t find the switch so I leave the bathroom door ajar, giving me enough light to see.

I use the toilet and wash my hands. In the mirror above the hand basin, I look different. My eyes are bigger, darker, more serious than I’m used to. I touch the cold glass to
check it’s really me. There’s no going back from this now.

When I go back to the guest room I pull on Amelia’s pyjama pants and walk through the hushed house. There’s a fur-lined jacket hanging on a hook near the stairs, and a pair of gardening clogs. I slip both on, and go up to the roof.

The ladder doesn’t seem as daunting this time, but a breeze has sprung up in the last few hours. I walk across the rooftop garden, breathing in the sharp air. My allergies have subsided. The fresh chill is welcome after the red embrace of the guest room, the closeness of everything, Wolfboy’s unfamiliar body heat.

I wonder if Wolfboy and I have done something wrong, getting together while Paul sleeps on downstairs, lost and alone.

I go to the edge of the roof. The fake forest looks smaller from up here, but I can see now that there’s a pattern to the trees. At the centre is a circular bald patch.

Beyond the fake forest pokes the black outline of Orphanville, a handful of fingers on the horizon. It’s difficult to imagine Orphanville minus the Kidds. I look to the left, trying to see the snaking river that divides the city, but I’m not high enough. I think of Mum with her sister and my cousins in Fish Creek, and even though I chose not to go, I feel left out.

When I look back there’s an odd rainbow light building in the heart of the fake forest. At first I think I’m
imagining it, but it becomes obvious that the glow is strengthening. As it gets brighter, the light separates into distinct pinpricks, a galaxy of different colours scattered through the plywood trees. I thought the forest was eerie earlier, but the lights turn it into something resembling fairyland. I have to see it close up.

The forest is beautiful, painted in mingling multi-coloured lights that lift the worst of the shadows. The ground under my feet sharpens into splinters of shaved wood; the trees have clear zigzag edges. The forest is as silent as ever.

I stop at the foot of a tree and look up high. Tiny LED lights are built into the wood, maybe twenty or thirty on each tree. I run my eyes down to the base, where it’s hammered into the ground, but I can’t see any wiring. How is it done?

I keep walking. After a minute or so the trees thin out; I’m getting close to the centre. A low buzzing sound gets louder as the trees get thinner. I don’t feel scared, at least I don’t think I do, but my feet start to drag. What is that sound?

As I get closer to the source the noise becomes more familiar.

Whirring.

Then a laugh, a child’s laugh, and the bass murmur of an adult’s voice in response.

I creep closer, using the trees to mask my progress. Through the cutout shapes I see two people. I reach the last tree before the clearing and I hide behind it.

At the centre of the forest is something far more strange than the galaxy of rainbow lights. A little girl is riding an exercise bike with an enthusiastic grin. The bike is set into concrete in the middle of the sawdust clearing. Even though the seat on the bike is on the lowest setting, the girl’s feet barely reach the pedals. As I watch she slips off the seat and rides standing. She is laughing and puffing.

Her dad stands behind her, close enough to catch her if she falls. The little girl is about five years old and as cute as they come in mismatched red and pink clothes and a pudding bowl haircut. She’s getting tired, and as her feet slow I see she’s wearing gumboots with rainbows on them. The twinkling lights dim and flicker.

‘Can I have a go?’ asks her dad. ‘You’re hogging it. Let me have a go.’ He’s dressed formally, in a suit, and I wonder what on earth they’re doing in the forest at this early hour. But I guess when it’s always night, playtime could be any time.

The little girl shakes her head and steps up her pedalling again. The lights get brighter. Her dad backs away, resigned to not getting a turn. A red birthmark over his eye is just visible through the lens of his black-rimmed glasses. I’m lucky he’s busy watching his daughter, and
not looking in my direction. He can’t take his eyes off her.

A tear, uninvited and unexpected, slides down my cheek. I blink it away and that’s it. I don’t even feel sad. The girl lifts her head and looks dangerously close to where I’m hiding. I move away before I’m seen.

I’m alone when I wake.

There’s only a Nia-shaped absence in the bed. I roll over to the empty space and breathe in the sugary smell left on the pillow. My body is leaden, usually a sign that I’ve spent the night fighting dark dreams. I hope I didn’t sleep-talk.

I want her to spend another night with me, and then another. I don’t want this to be the first and only time. Whispery dream remnants still hang about, but I can’t grab on to them. Someone’s blank oval face, oceans of fear. Was I dreaming about Paul?

When I think I can move, I pick up my phone from the bedside table. Nia’s is next to mine, so she can’t have gone far.

I dial and I can tell the phone is ringing in an empty house. Echoing up the stairs from the Birds In Winter shop. I hang up. I’ve slept through the morning, and now that it’s afternoon they’re probably at the park or shopping. I’ll try again later.

I find yesterday’s clothes crumpled on the floor, then follow the sound of muffled voices to Amelia’s main room. Blake, Amelia and Nia sit on the floor with a teapot, cups and plates of food. All three look up as I enter the room, and I blush under their collective gaze. I don’t know enough about the ways of girls to tell if Nia has talked about what we did last night.

The girls have moved Paul to a chaise longue at the side of the room. I go to him first. He looks the same as yesterday, only perhaps more waxen. I always thought Paul, more than any of us, had stayed the same since the Darkness. But it turns out he was changing right under my eyes and I didn’t notice. I know how lonely that feels.

‘Nothing happened overnight,’ says Blake. ‘All his vitals are the same.’ She holds up her notebook. ‘I recorded them here. Every hour.’ She keeps her voice clinical but I can see her worry has grown. She’s not alone.

‘He isn’t twitching as much anymore,’ I say.

‘That means he’s gone in deeper,’ says Amelia. ‘We need to move faster. I’m waiting for something to distil, but as soon as it’s done, we’re good to go. We’re supposed
to wait until the moon is at its apex, but I think we should do it as soon as we can.’

I leave Paul and sit next to Nia. She moves her teacup out of the way and smiles at me. Our eyes click. I feel something shift deep down in my stomach. Her t-shirt has slipped, exposing a patch of round brown shoulder. All the natural laws pull me towards her. I have to force myself to stay where I am. There are other people in the room now.

‘Doughnut?’ she asks, holding a plate in front of me. I notice she’s getting dark circles under her eyes, like a Local. ‘Blake made them.’

The doughnuts are golf-ball sized and dusted with cinnamon and sugar. They’re warm and delicious.

‘Take another. There’s no way you can eat just one.’

After I’ve grabbed three more, I put the plate down. Nia rests her hand on my knee.

‘Did you stay up all night?’ I ask Blake.

‘Sort of. I slept inbetween checking on Paul.’

‘You need to get some more sleep.’

‘I’m fine,’ she says, but her words are undermined by a yawn so large it shakes her entire body.

‘He’s right,’ says Amelia. She wears a thick leather apron and her hands are stained purple. ‘You should sleep. I have more prep to do, but I can manage it on my own.’

‘We’ll stay in here and watch Paul.’ I help myself to
more doughnuts, then offer the plate to Nia, but she waves them away.

‘Had too many already?’

She shakes her head, an inscrutable expression on her face. ‘Not eating.’

‘Why?’ Next to me Blake freezes in the middle of pouring a cup of tea. Nia still doesn’t answer. I take another bite. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t be angry,’ she says.

Blake titters nervously. Amelia turns to me. ‘It’s best to fast before taking the dream meds. It works quicker, and it’s more effective.’

I still have a mouth full of half-chewed doughnut. Only manners stop me from spitting it out. ‘What? Then why did everyone let me eat five doughnuts in a row?’

‘Because I’m going to do the dream.’ Nia looks scared and so she should.

‘You tricked me.’ The doughnut sticks in my throat when I try to swallow it.

‘Hear me out, I’ve got really good reasons, just let me—’

I cut her off and turn to Amelia. ‘How long do you have to fast? There’s still time, right?’

‘Overnight is best.’

I stare at her.

‘There’s not really time.’ She smiles wryly.

Blake stands up, holding the teapot and a stack of cups.
She hurries out of the room. I expect Amelia to exit as well, but she leans back and watches. I realise she doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want to leave Nia on her own with me right now, while I’m so pissed off. I force myself to unclench my hands.

‘Wolfie, I spent the entire night watching you thrashing about having bad dreams.’ Nia tries to put her hand on my arm, but I shrug her off. It doesn’t stop her from talking, though. ‘I can do this. I never have nightmares, and I told you about how I can direct my own dreams. That’s a skill. Not everyone can do that.’

‘Remember what I said about lucid dreaming,’ Amelia butts in. I shoot her a pissed-off glare, which she returns calmly. I get the feeling she wouldn’t think twice about chucking me out of her home if I misbehaved. Nia’s torrent of words continues.

‘Not only am I better suited to take the dream, I’m kind of responsible, in a roundabout sort of way. If I hadn’t deleted Ingrid’s photo, then maybe Paul wouldn’t have gone off the deep end.’

I open my mouth to argue, but she holds her finger up.

‘If you say I can’t do this—and actually, I’d like to see you find a way to stop me—you’re denying me the opportunity to set things right. Do you want me to be wracked with guilt for the rest of my days? You could be karmically cursing me for several lifetimes.’

I look from Amelia to Nia and down to the almostdemolished plate of doughnuts.

‘It’s done anyway, it’s too late now,’ Nia says.

I look at her, with her wide eyes and her bed-mussed hair, and I feel so tired I can’t believe I just got out of bed.

The rooftop is bathed in

full-moon silver. It looks like a sports pitch lit for a night match. Amelia looks up at the moon, clinical and round and white, not quite directly overhead.

‘We need to move quickly now,’ she says.

Blake draws a large circle on the concrete with white chalk. I shiver when the wind manages to burrow inside the overalls I borrowed off Amelia. I no longer feel like a tough lady mechanic. I try to catch Wolfboy’s eye for comfort, but he’s over at the edge of the roof, still concentrating on being pissed off and brooding.

‘Wildgirl, take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable in there.’

Amelia drops to her knees at the edge of the circle.

I ponder the impossibility of feeling comfortable under these circumstances. I settle for kicking off my shoes and letting my hair out of its ponytail. While Amelia has been talking Blake has set up another pillow next to Paul. I try not to look at it. Amelia has a silver tea tray before her, crowded with jars and bottles and cups and a genuine Wedgwood teapot.

My heartbeat starts off on a leisurely tour of my body, pulsing along my temples, throat, fingers. It settles finally in my hollow stomach.

Wolfboy finally quits his sulking. He comes over and wraps me in his arms, holding me too tight.

‘Don’t do this,’ he mumbles close to my ear, but there’s no conviction in his voice. He knows this is a done deal.

‘I’m going to be fine.’

These are just words, of course. I do know there’s no way Wolfboy should do this in my place. If we had to break into the Datura Institute, fight off some black-belt sleep nurses, hog-tie Doctor Gregory and abseil off the roof, then I would be happy to let him take care of it. Someone has to go in after Paul and I’m the best candidate. We each have to play to our strengths.

‘I knew you wouldn’t back out, so I’ve been thinking about what you can do,’ he says. ‘I think Paul is stuck in the past or something. I don’t know if that helps.’

‘Okay.’

‘Be careful, Wildgirl.’

I look at his oceanic eyes and his too-serious, toobeautiful face. I think of last night and all the things we did, and I feel unaccountably embarrassed and pleased, all at the same time. I kiss him. Then I step across the line, dodging the four large crystals placed along the perimeter.

Amelia pours from the teapot into a glass, then uses a pipette to add extra ingredients. She waves Blake away from the circle.

Amelia hands me the blue pill that we got from Umbra, and a bottle of water. I neck the pill, automatically running through every warning my mum ever gave me about taking drugs. Wolfboy and Blake settle in to spectate at the edge of the circle.

‘You need to wear this.’ Amelia holds up a chunky silver necklace studded with gemstones. I can’t help scrunching up my face. It’s one fugly piece of bling.

‘Amethyst and moonstone,’ Amelia says in response to my disgust. ‘They’ll protect you from nightmares and keep the dream clear from influence.’

‘This is a bit woo-woo for me.’

‘Wildgirl, you’re about to enter someone else’s dreams. That’s about as woo-woo as it gets.’

Amelia stands behind me and fastens the clasp. She puts her mouth close to my ear and whispers just loudly
enough for me to hear. ‘I’ve never seen anyone go under for this long, but I read through my grandfather’s notes again. It’s rare for someone to wake up past the twenty-four hour point. You need to do this as quickly as you can.’

The metal links of the necklace are cold and heavy. I look across the flimsy border of the chalk line at Wolfboy. I know Amelia’s words should bother me, but the whole thing is starting to feel pleasingly cinematic. ‘What do I do now?’

‘Let’s sit down and have a chat.’ Amelia speaks loudly, more for Wolfboy and Blake’s benefit than mine.

We sit on the rug, facing each other. I’m as clear and crisp as a swimming pool full of fizzy mineral water. I wonder how long the pill will take to work. I picture it buzzing in my bloodstream and making its way to my brain.

‘In a few minutes I’ll give you my medicine to drink. You should find yourself feeling sleepy soon after. When you’re dreaming it’s important that you don’t impose your will too strongly. You have to find Paul’s dream first, rather than making him come into yours.’ She mouths the final word soundlessly: ‘Fast.’

‘Okay.’ I look at Amelia, taking in her features. In this light it’s clear she’s chosen the right colour scheme for herself. Midnight hair, blue eyes, red lips. Under normal circumstances I would probably find her tone bossy, but I’m enjoying listening to her talk like a queen.

‘Amelia? What’s the circle for?’ The words take a while to bubble out of my mouth.

‘It binds you and Paul together, stops you from being interested in anyone else’s thoughts.’

The thought of me being interested in anything outside the circle is laughable. It’s the most perfect and complete circle I’ve ever seen. The chalk line burns whitely into the grey concrete. Amelia hands me a mug. It has a chipped rim and a teddy bear on the side. I want to tell Amelia how funny this is, the chip and the bear, so ordinary, especially compared to the fancy teapot, but I can’t be bothered opening my mouth. The medicine is river-water brown.

‘There’s no need to drink it all. Swallow two mouthfuls.’

The liquid hits my lips and it tastes foul, but I force myself to take a gulp. Bitter, but not as thick as it looks.

‘Easy, tiger. Enough.’

Amelia takes the mug from me and crawls outside the circle. ‘Lie back,’ she says.

I find the pillow and let my head fall against it. The ground is hard underneath me; the stars are billion-carat diamonds above.

I close my eyes.

I think I’m a better person when I’m in Shyness. Stronger. Braver. I try to breathe slowly, willing my body to slow down, relax. But it doesn’t work. Even though my
body feels like melted cheese, my rebellious mind is still razor-sharp. I forgot to ask Amelia how to exit the dream quickly, in case there’s an emergency. I forgot to ask her how we wake up, once I’ve talked some sense into Paul.

‘One more question,’ I say, and open my eyes, expecting to see the night above me. But the sky isn’t there anymore.

I lie very still and ponder the roof above me. Water-stained with a ceiling rose at the centre.

‘It’s not working,’ I say again.

I twitch my fingers experimentally, feeling the cool touch of leather underneath them. I lift my head, push up on my elbows. It takes a full thirty seconds to realise where I am.

I’m in Paul and Thom’s cottage, the historical house in the middle of the Memorial Gardens. Wolfboy and I visited it after escaping Orphanville on the night we met. I recognise the cracked leather couches, and the austere furniture. Sideboard, writing desk, Tiffany lamp. Around the corner there’s a handbasin, for sure.

I roll off the couch to check. There it is. For some reason the sight of the apple-green basin makes me smile. The cottage. What a strange place to teleport to. There are hooks on the wall, with bath towels hanging on them. I don’t remember those being there last time, although maybe I just didn’t notice.

There are other differences in the cottage. A throw rug on the couch. A futon in the corner. A bar fridge. An Andy Warhol Marilyn poster on the wall. Fewer dirty clothes lying about, less crap in general. Something is not quite right.

When I figure it out, I feel incredibly stupid.

This is the dream.

I slap my palm to my head. What a dufus. How could I forget I was supposed to dream? It feels so real. I run my hands over Amelia’s overalls. You’d think my subconscious could have arranged a ballgown or something. The amethyst and moonstone necklace still rests heavily on my collarbone, but my feet feel different. I have heavy leather boots on. I march my feet up and down and the floor feels one hundred per cent real.

What else can I try?

I grab a nearby glass and fill it at the basin. The water is cold and slick and real as it travels down my throat. When I put the glass back down on the sideboard it makes a sound like hands slapping together.

I lift the glass up and place it down again.

Clap!

The clapping continues, even though I leave the glass where it is. Slow clapping at first, then flamenco-fast. The sound echoes through the empty cottage. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I turn in circles. The sound gets louder,
until it’s more like the explosion of distant grenades.

I remember that there’s supposed to be someone else in this dream, not just me. Someone I’m supposed to look for. I touch the necklace and I hear a voice in my head: ‘FAST.’

I rush to the front door and fling it open. There are no gardens outside the cottage, no path that leads to the avenue of fallen trees. Instead there’s another room, an unfamiliar one this time. The room is at least thirty metres long, with orange walls and white opaque panels lit from behind. Two rows of reclining day beds along the side walls, with a carpeted path down the centre leading to another set of double doors.

Everything smooth and modular. A space-station day spa. Some of the thickly padded seats are occupied.

I half-run down the aisle, stopping at the foot of a bed. A man lies on it asleep, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears. He looks peaceful. A neatly dressed woman watches over him, clipboard in hand. She doesn’t notice me. I squint at her name-badge. Two flowers. Annie. The Datura Institute.

I move on. I’m drawn to the end of the room, the bed closest to the next set of doors. This bed is occupied by someone dressed for combat in camouflage pants and a shirt.

He’s asleep, still, arms falling on either side of the padded chair. I squeeze into the space between the chairs to get a look at his face, accidentally knocking a video
game controller off the bedside table. ‘Paul. Come with me now,’ I say.

Paul’s eyes snap open as if he’s been shot with adrenaline. He draws a sharp breath. Off the bed, on his feet, and out the doors.

He’s gone before I even have time to register what’s happened. Compared to him I move in slow motion. I push on the heavy door, slip through into darkness, a yawning night landscape.

A newly mown soccer field with crisp white lines intersecting the green grass. An enormous hemisphere of sky, with the eyeball moon riding high. When I look behind me there’s no doorway, no cottage, no building, no sign of Paul. A thick forest extends as far as I can see.

I have something clutched in my hands. It’s a machine gun.

‘Incoming!’ someone screeches and bolts past me.

A booming explosion sends me running after him. It’s hard to move with the heavy gun; I need both hands to hold it, and it bangs against my thighs. The soldier beckons me onwards and I recognise Paul’s face under his helmet. His scrawny frame has been made bulky by bullet belts and drink canteens and mini-satchels slung over him.

The final piece slips into place. I’m in Paul’s dream. I’ve actually done it.