The Last Dream Keeper (16 page)

He looked over at Dev, sheepish.

“I may have also seen more of Eleanora than any man really wants to see of an old lady's—”

“Okay, I got it,” Dev said.

Freddy grinned.

“So I guess we gotta get your sisters, then?”

But it was Melisande who answered.

“That's the easy part,” she said, a strange resolve in her eye. “It's raising the dead ones that's going to be difficult.”

D
aniela herded them out of the sunlight toward the shaded portico of the smaller structure across from the villa. They took the stairs in single file—like schoolchildren, Lizbeth thought—letting Daniela lead the way.

“C'mon—” Daniela began, but the words caught in her throat.

Daniela froze at the top of the stairs. The others, unaware of her distress, piled into her back.

A frail old woman in a gauzy dress stood in the doorway, her long gray hair flowing past her shoulders and down her back. Her face was deathly white, and there were deep fissures of age in her flesh. She lifted a paper-thin arm—the wrist as tiny as a child's—and waved in greeting.

“Buona sera, amore mio.”

Daniela's face went slack with shock, and the old woman's wide grin quickly disappeared. She reached out with a frail hand, trying to touch Daniela's cheek, but Daniela stepped out of her reach.

“It's Francesca,” the old woman said, frowning now. “Don't you know me?”

Daniela shook her head.

“No . . . this can't be . . .”

Lyse moved to Daniela, almost touching her shoulder. Then she swiftly retracted her fingers, remembering how dangerous even one touch could be.

“What's wrong?” Lyse asked—but Daniela wouldn't look at her.

Instead, she continued to stare at the old woman.

“But they said you were dead,” she whispered, her face as white as a sheet. “That you died with my mother.”

Her eyes rolled up into her head and she fainted.

Weir ran for Daniela, trying to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Weir! No!” Lizbeth cried, but it was too late—Weir had his arms around Daniela's unconscious form, careful to steer clear of her gloved hands as he gently set her down on the porch. Thankfully, there was no one else on the portico to see what had happened—just the strange old woman, who seemed as worried about Daniela as they were.

Weir moved Daniela's body toward the side of the porch, where a large hedge grew, blocking the view from the gardens into the portico. Lizbeth and Lyse ran to their friend, Lizbeth kneeling by Daniela's head and Lyse tucked in by her side. Both of them watched with bated breath. If Daniela started seizing, it meant Weir had triggered her empathic power and, though it wasn't horrible in the moment, the cumulative damage to her brain was irreparable.

“I hate that we can't touch her,” Lyse said, and Lizbeth nodded. She knew exactly what Lyse meant—but then her mind went to Temistocles, who existed in the dreamlands and, as desperately as she wanted to, could not be touched, either.

“Was I wrong to catch her?” Weir asked, realizing that he might've done something wrong.

“She will be fine.”

Lizbeth looked up as the old woman—
Francesca
, Daniela
had called her—squatted down on Daniela's other side, cradling Daniela's limp head between her hands. She realized that this was the same Francesca from Marie-Faith's notebook, and that she was a Dream Keeper just like Lizbeth.

“I've watched her since she was a baby. I know all about her ‘difficulties'—and I know that when she is sleeping or not in her head,” Francesca continued, stroking Daniela's hair, “that it is safe to touch her. Even the hands.”

Lizbeth reached out a tentative finger to gingerly shift a few strands of pink away from Daniela's face. She looked over at Lyse, encouraging her to do the same.

“Are you sure?” Lyse asked Francesca. “I . . . I think I might be a different story . . .”

Francesca shook her head, her long hair a wispy cloud around her face, but the way she looked at Lyse was frightening. Lizbeth could feel the hostility pouring out of the old woman's eyes, her gaze fixed solely on Lyse.

“I know what you are. And even you can't hurt her now.”

Her tone was even, but Lizbeth could sense her underlying hatred even as she tried to suppress it. Weir also picked up on the old woman's vibe, and he moved to stand over Lyse, offering her his silent protection. The old woman shook her head, the wind catching bits of her hair and blowing them across her face.

“I'm not the one you need to worry about, tall one,” she said to Weir before pressing the back of a birdlike hand to Daniela's forehead. “We should wake her up now. I'll do a spell.”

Lizbeth caught Lyse's eye and smiled because her friend's expression seemed to say:
This old bat is crazy.

“Uh, so how do we do a spell?” Lyse asked, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

Regardless of the old woman's strange attitude, Lizbeth—and Lyse—were curious to see her in action. Neither of them had ever witnessed someone treat magic like, well,
magic
. The coven performed rituals, meeting at preordained times,
casting protective circles, reciting canon that had been passed down from the old covens of yore. But what exactly the rituals accomplished when compared to “real” magic, that had always eluded Lizbeth.

She knew all about the five talents—that Daniela could see inside of a human's soul, Arrabelle could manipulate plants, Eleanora could enter the past and present as if she were a thread in the woven fabric of time, Devandra gave voice to fate with her cards . . . and she, Lizbeth, was a Dream Keeper, who could walk in the dreamlands—she just didn't understand how “real” magic worked.

“No one teaches anyone anything anymore,” Francesca muttered under her breath and, with creaking bones, hauled herself to her feet. “Spells and manipulating the fabric of time . . . all of that knowledge has been banished . . . leaving only the five weak forces. But maybe that will be changing.”

She wiped her palms down her white shift, avoiding Lyse's proffered hands and heading straight for Lizbeth.

“Give me your hands,” she said to Lizbeth.

Boy, she's really anti-Lyse,
Lizbeth thought.

“Come now, don't be shy,” the old woman said, her gnarled fingers searching out Lizbeth's youthful ones. “It's so simple, really, but none of you are taught the old ways . . . all these centuries the Council has been scared we'll get ourselves burned at the stake for witchcraft if we do anything out of line . . . and now this. The Flood coming and none of you can protect yourselves—it's just wrong.”

“Is that the truth?” Lizbeth asked, her voice scratchy in her throat, reminding her of how blessed she was she could speak again. “What else is there? We want to learn.”

She turned to Lyse, who nodded, blue eyes earnest. She was standing close to Weir, his hand brushing her wrist. It made Lizbeth happy to see them touching; Weir had been out of sorts since Eleanora's memorial service, and Lizbeth thought it had something to do with Lyse. Her brother wouldn't say as
much, but he was usually so even keel that she knew he was upset. And then she'd seen how strangely he'd behaved around Lyse the other day. Acting as if they weren't an item, like he wasn't all gaga over her friend.

“It wasn't an option either of us knew existed,” Lyse replied, agreeing with Lizbeth. “Show us, please.”

Francesca frowned, then looked over at Lyse.

“You understand what it is, though,” she said, staring into Lyse's eyes. “Magic . . . ? Where it comes from?”

“I will be as honest with you as I can be,” Lyse said. “Until a few weeks ago, I didn't even know that blood sisters existed. I've been as in the dark as Weir, here, has been.”

Lyse patted his arm, her fingers dancing across his bicep.

“Sorry to use you as an example,” she added, smiling at him.

He shrugged and looked sheepish.

“S'okay.”

“But I meant what I said,” Lyse added, returning her attention back to Francesca. “We want to know and we'd be grateful for anything you can show us.”

The old woman bowed her head.

“The rituals are to bring together the five powers in a place filled with the energy of the flow lines,” she began, taking Lizbeth's hands in her own. “A coven of five—five feminine forms who possess the sacred blood: Earth, Wind, Fire, Water, Spirit—when brought together in these sacred spots, they hold the power to create and sustain life. Not just human life, but
all
life.”

She stopped speaking and the everyday outdoor sounds of the world filled Lizbeth's ears. The bleat of a car horn in traffic, the roar of a plane as it passed overhead, the chatter of a group of men and women walking past the small round building . . . with her eyes closed, Lizbeth could almost “see” the sounds as images . . . almost see Francesca's face in front of her as the old woman's breathing grew more relaxed.

—You can trust no one but Daniela. Marie-Faith trusted and you can see where that got her—dead.

Francesca's voice was inside her, rattling around in her head. She opened her eyes and found Francesca's inky black irises boring into her own.

—You're the last of us. You must go to the Pillar before the blood moon passes the meridian—only then can the truth go out to the rest of our world. You will dream them into knowing who we are, that the witches are here on this Earth and will not be ignored or forgotten ever again.

The words rained down on Lizbeth's hungry mind like water—there was so much information, it was hard to take it in, but she let it all wash over her.

—The one you call friend, this “Lyse” woman? She is a Judas. She has already betrayed you once and she will do it again before the day is through. Kill her if you can. Stop her from playing her part in their plans.

Lizbeth was appalled. This was not the Lyse she knew. Lyse was her friend and would never betray her. She wanted to ask Francesca how she knew these things, but Francesca was not done.

—Go down to the catacombs. The others are there waiting. They've been trapped for so long . . . set them free and their power will be yours to command. But first I must give you
the word
. Will you receive it?

“I will,” Lizbeth said—and then a searing, white-hot pain shot through her hands, up her arms, through her chest and neck, and into her head. She screamed as a million points of light burned like fireworks inside her skull, information downloading into her brain like she was some kind of human hard drive. Tears coursed down her cheeks, her body buzzing with enough energy to split her like an atom.

And then it was over.

Her head ached and she felt strange, kind of woozy on her feet.

—Go to the catacombs. Take your brother and Daniela. Leave the Judas here for me. She will be taken care of.

Francesca's voice was growing weak, her energy expended.

“LB?”

Lizbeth blinked.

She was standing on the path, her back to the fountain, her hands in her hair. She released the strands of russet, and they fell like a fan across her throat, the spray from the fountain tickling her bare neck. The villa lay before them, a massive stone edifice with towering Doric columns and a wide flight of stairs that stretched like a beige skirt across the front of the building.

To her right the small stone circular building with its shaded portico and heavy wooden door was gone—in its place stood two alabaster obelisks sanded so smooth they appeared to gleam like pillars of water in the sunlight.

“LB? Are you even listening to me?”

Lizbeth turned her head. Daniela was standing beside her, pink hair falling around her face like a frame, a concerned expression on her face. Lizbeth realized this concern was directed at her. She shook her head, a subtle movement meant to clear her mind.

“I'm fine,” she replied, smiling back at Daniela. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

As Daniela prattled on—rehashing the need to stay together, blah, blah, blah—Lizbeth's mind raced, trying to understand what had just happened to her. The whole experience had felt so real: Francesca, the small circular building, Lyse being a Judas . . . it had all been in her imagination.

Or had it?

She could feel the energy pulsing through her body, a heightened awareness of how her muscles and skeleton worked: The flutter of her eyelashes, the beat of her heart in her chest, the subtle rise and fall of chest as her lungs and diaphragm worked in tandem to make her breathe. It felt as if her body were just a flesh-and-bone vessel, carrying her thoughts and emotions . . . her essence . . . everything that made her Lizbeth.

But now she was so much more than that; Francesca had
burned
the word
into her soul and it swirled around, mixing with the rest of her thoughts and feelings. It pulsed and wove its way around her brain, enticing her forward, suggesting the next moves for her to make as if her life had become some kind of game.

Tell Daniela.

It was a command, and it pushed her to open her mouth. She looked up and saw that Lyse and Weir were still heading toward the villa's front entrance. Definitely out of earshot.