Revived (The Lucidites Book 3) (18 page)

“How was it?” Trey says as he approaches me after this morning’s run.

I tug the towel with both hands on either side of my neck. “Not long enough.”

“It surprised me that you take such a joy in running,” he says as I try to pass him in the hallway.

I want to say “oh really,” and stroll by nonchalantly. But my curiosity gets the better of me. “Why’s that?”

“Because you disliked it so much as a child.”

Rapid blinks seek to zip the surprise out of my eyes. “Is that something you ‘know,’” I say, using air quotes over the word, “because of your gift?”

“I know it because I’ve watched you from the dreamscape.” A fond smile angles his lips up slightly. “You went to some pretty impressive lengths to get out of track-and-field day.”

Zhuang punched me in the gut during our battle. That feeling shoots through me and I reflexively want to double over but remain standing. To know Trey watched from the other realm fills me with a strange confusion, like I’ve been immersed in breathable liquid. “Did you visit when I had class trips too?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“I watched you every single day. Didn’t miss one.”

My mouth puckers; my eyes follow suit. Fierce tears rake up my throat. “Stop,” I say, my voice constricted.

“Roya.” He says my name like it’s a plea.

Stepping backward, I shake my head at him and I don’t know why. It must be to stop what’s about to burst out of me. “I have to go,” I say and twist around almost tripping over my shoes. Quick steps take me halfway down the hallway. And then an image flashes in front me, flickering a few times before solidifying. I halt like I’ve been pressed between two walls. Standing in front of me is Trey. I flip around to the hallway where I left him. It’s empty. Pulse racing, I swivel back around, mind boggling. “How did you do that?”

No pride marks his features, only fatigued determination. “I can teleport. Short distances,” he says, breathless. Several wrinkles spray out around his eyes as he clenches them shut and steadies himself with one hand on the wall. “It’s energy consuming though.”

“What? That’s a gift? How’s that possible?”

After composing himself Trey looks up at me. “Most anything’s possible. We’re just energy and thought. Between the two we can manipulate any reality.”

“Well, thanks for the performance,” I say, looking past him at the path I want to take but can’t will myself toward. Am I being unfairly cruel to him? I can’t decide. And since I feel hollow it’s hard for my conscience to accurately inform me.

“I’m not going to stop trying, Roya,” he says, drawing in a long breath. “Like I said before, you were better off never knowing I was your father because it’s too much to process in retrospect. But I think I never wanted to admit that I always knew you’d find out.” A pained smile flashes on his face. A sound like a laugh falls out of his mouth. “Actually I believe you finding out strangely saves me in the future, but we’re not there right now.”

“Why are you speaking so cryptically?”

He presses his forehead into his hand. The buzzing of the lights overhead is excruciatingly loud, drowning out our silence. Looking up, he casts his eyes on mine. “It’s going to take you time to process everything and I will offer you what I can. But it’s clear to me now more than ever that even if it hurts, you need to know I care.”

“I’m not sure what I need,” I say, resentment welling up inside me.

Trey chews the inside of his bottom lip. A resignation forced into his intense eyes. He wants me to say more. I know that with as much certainty as I know the sneakers on my feet are mine. “Okay,” he says, a strain in his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And there’s a promise in his words.

“Okay,” I agree and sidestep around him, moving not as quickly as before.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
sit in my room staring at the blank wall, waiting for the long hours to pass. I imagine that somewhere in the world it’s raining and that’s where I want to be right now. In a house. With windows. That look out on a yard. Rain spatters against the glass, forming designs that are quickly covered with new droplets, like a constantly evolving canvas.

There’s a road outside the house and it takes me to a store, a museum, a park. It takes me away. Is it poetic that I can go anywhere in my dreams and still I feel trapped? Poetry is for the romantics. I’m the cursed.

A knock sounds at the door, awakening me from my modest fantasy. It’s Patrick. I know his knock. One long one, followed by three quick. Aiden had used that knock once to trick me into answering my door. He won’t be trying to trick me anymore. For all I know Aiden’s forgotten I exist. I’ve hardly seen him since the meeting in the auditorium.

“Well, hey there, sassy,” Patrick says when the door slides back.

“Hey to you,” I say.

“You want me to carry this inside for you?” he says, gesturing to the large box he’s balancing on one hitched knee.

“Sure.” I move aside to allow Patrick into my room.

“I’ll just leave it here on the bed for you, sweetheart,” Patrick says, strain in his voice from carrying the heavy package.

“Thanks.” Curiosity mounts inside me.

The box makes my bed springs squeal from its weight. “Tell whoever sent this to you that they’re buying me a massage,” Patrick says with a wink.

“I’ll write them a letter straight away, but you have to deliver it.”

“Clever girl. You’re ensuring the Institute gets its money out of me, aren’t you?” Patrick chuckles.

I flush red, wondering if that’s a jab at me because of Trey being my father. I’m going to have to outgrow my paranoia at some point.

The clear packing tape comes off the top of the box in one long strand. As I suspected, there’s a crisp white envelope lying on top of a piece of tissue paper. All Bob and Steve’s packages are wrapped this way. I rip open the envelope to find a lacy white and blue card inside.

Dear Roya,

Bad dreams will deprive you of so much important energy. This should help you combat those nightmares. This Egyptian god has long been known for his power to protect dreamers from nightmares. Furthermore, Bes might be able to offer information and power to you while you sleep. Put him to the left of your bed for best results. Sweet dreams.

Love,

Bob & Steve

I fold the card and put it to the side. The tissue paper is crisp, brand new. Not something recycled from another event. Underneath I find an object that strikes me as familiar, but takes several seconds to locate in my memory. The last time I saw this it was behind a glass case in Bob and Steve’s library. Now it sits in this box in my room staring back at me. I’m nervous to put my oil-ridden fingertips against the stone, afraid in time they will mark it. Damage it. Still I trace the carving. Too curious to know how it feels.

As I anticipated, the tablet of Bes is rough and hard, like how I’d expect it’d feel to swipe my hand against the Sphinx. The raised portions of Bes are mostly bulbous, protruding outward with great detail of his features. Most Egyptian gods are portrayed in profile, but not Bes. His Buddha belly, flat nose, and outstretched tongue are best captured from a frontal view. It’s hard to believe that a barely dressed dwarflike man is known for warding off nightmares, but I’ll try anything at this point.

♦

As I drift off to sleep that night I’m careful to remain lucid, creating a landscape that grounds me inside my dreams. After the first nightmare of Aiden being murdered I abandoned the location of the ocean and came up with this one. Thankfully none of the dreams have been quite that bad.

The location is always the same, night after night. A giant green hill, unmarked, save for a large oak tree. I stand beside the giant tree, looking out at a night sky and the stars of my imagination. All my dreams begin this way, until my subconscious paints it with colors and people and usually fears. Still, as long as I remain lucid, I can watch everything from an objective place, make alterations if necessary, and pull myself out of a dream that’s too terrifying. Detail by detail the scenery around me shifts and people come in and out. Ideas are processed. Conversations from the day repeated. And so my dreams pass tonight, one after another. Nothing frightening. And as a quiet observer, I sit in the background, enjoying the simplicity of it all.

When the scenery shifts to one that’s both familiar and strangely new, my attention is piqued. I’m in a room inside the Institute, but it’s different. The walls are paneled in shiny stainless steel, which clearly reflects everything in the room. It confuses my senses and isn’t as appealing as the brushed stainless steel that the Institute is presently known for. The carpet under my feet is black, not iridescent blue. It’s like the Institute has been remodeled.

A figure appears, one I know, but only from the picture in the main lobby. I watch everything, careful to absorb the details, knowing I’m observing a reality that has come to pass. Other people enter into the vision. Conversations are had. Everything moves almost too quickly for me to process, but it’s only because emotionally I feel tied to it all.

“Please, Monsieur Underwood, I beg of you, do not tell him.” Those are the last words I hear before I bolt upright in my bed.

♦

Even though I want to charge into Joseph’s room, I stop and softly rap against the door, being quiet enough not to wake anyone.

Shuman’s words come back to me in a rush:
Now that you know your subconscious delivers information about real events of the past while lucid dreaming, it will affect the weight you put upon it.

Wrapped in a sheet and bleary-eyed, Joseph answers the door. “What?” he growls.

“It’s almost morning,” I say, pushing him aside and marching into his room. “Quit acting so tired. I’ve got something important to tell you.”

“I’m not actin’,” Joseph says through a yawn, sending the door shut behind me. “What’s so important that you have to barge into my dreams so early? Don’t you have the rest of the day to harass me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you already knew all about our mother’s history. Since you do, I’ll just be leaving.” I start for the door, expecting the hand on my arm.

“Hold up there, li’l partner,” he says, pinching my wrist with a tired smile. “Go on now.”

“I’ve just had the most peculiar dream.” I rub my head, refreshing the images in my mind. “In it I saw Flynn and Trey, and they were much younger. Trey was hiding a woman.”

Joseph rotates his hand through the air, beckoning me to hurry up and get to the point.

“The woman was Eloise—our mother.”

No emotion or shock or anything registers on Joseph’s face.

“She begged Flynn not to report her relationship with Trey to her father,” I say, careful to report the dream in the order in which I experienced it. “The three of them argued and Eloise said that if her father found out he would punish her severely.”

“So?” Joseph gives me a petulant expression. “I don’t see the significance of these events. Why are you wakin’ me up to bore me with this crap?”

I close my eyes; secure the words exactly as I heard them in the dream. “Flynn refused to keep the secret. He said, ‘I have to tell your father about this, I never keep anything from Pierre.’”

“What!?” Joseph says, dropping the sheet. Thankfully he’s wearing pajama bottoms. “As in the guy who was the leader of the Voyageurs?”

“Yep,” I say.

“Our mother’s father was Pierre!?”

“Exactly,” I say, encouraging with a nod.

“This means…”

“She wasn’t a Middling,” I say, completing Joseph’s thought.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I
sure hope you’re right about this, Stark,” Joseph says over his shoulder with tired eyes as I sidle up next to him.

“Oh, don’t even start.”

“Are you gonna knock?”

“No, you are,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“One of these days, I’m gonna have a dream with ultra-important significance, then I’m gonna order you around. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like you’re wasting time. Knock already,” I say.

Joseph knocks, although a rabbit could have made more noise than him. Still Trey answers the door, a look of surprise on his always-tired face.

“Well, I didn’t expect anyone this early, especially you two,” he says, a smile reaching up to his eyes.

“We just had a few questions for you,” Joseph says, a meek smile on his face.

“If you want to teleport to the nearest exit, now would be a good time,” I say dully.

Joseph elbows me in the ribs. “What your very rude daughter is trying to say is this will hopefully only take a minute.”

“That’s not at all what I was trying to say,” I scold Joseph, who’s looking too sheepish. “Please save the world endless confusion and don’t become an interpreter.”

Unflustered, Trey welcomes us into his office. It’s as drab as the last time we were here. “You both may have as much time as you like,” he says, walking behind us and sitting at his desk.

“I just had a dream. I witnessed certain events from the past,” I say, looking directly at Trey. His expression grows hard as I speak. “I need to know if the information I learned is true.”

“What is it?”

“Pierre, one of the cofounders of the Institute, is our grandfather, isn’t he?”

Trey rests both elbows on the desk, rakes his fingertips over his eyebrows multiple times. “You have quite the knack for picking up on information, don’t you?” he says with a frustrated laugh, although I don’t think he feels it’s the least bit funny.

“So it’s true?” I say.

He delivers his answer to the far corner, like it asked the question. “Yes.” Trey should be talking, explaining himself, but he isn’t. He keeps his eyes pinned on the corner, like some imaginary force is there advising him on how to proceed.