The Last Dream Keeper (17 page)

“Wait up!” Lizbeth called to Daniela, running to catch up to her. For someone so small, Daniela moved like a flash.

“What is it?” Daniela asked, barely slowing her pace. Lizbeth, who was head and shoulders taller than her pink-haired friend, had to jog to keep up.

“Was there ever a circular building? Over there, on the far side of the fountain. Where those two obelisks stand now?”

She knew the answer—the whole sorry event had been placed into her mind, like a movie on a loop. Daniela stopped midstride.

“Why are you asking me that?” Her tone was subdued, but she was gritting her teeth, working the muscles in her jaw.

“I don't know—”

“A long time ago. It was demolished a long time ago,” Daniela paused, working hard to catch her breath—which didn't make sense, they hadn't been walking
that
fast—and then Lizbeth realized Daniela was actually trying not to cry. “But the obelisks, they're a tribute to my mother and the others that were killed in the accident with her.”

“I'm sorry—” Lizbeth said, forgetting she wasn't supposed to touch Daniela and reaching out a hand.

Luckily, Daniela had enough on the ball to see what was happening and step out of the way before Lizbeth could get close enough to reach her.

“I always forget,” Lizbeth murmured. “To not touch you.”

“It's okay,” Daniela said, using the distraction to pull
herself together. “They said it was a technical error, the train derailing? An accident. Officially. But I don't believe it. And everything that's happening now just confirms that for me.”

She held her ground, waiting for Lizbeth to say something.

Tell her.

Lizbeth didn't like to be told what to do, but the thought was insistent and would not be put away without her addressing it.

“A woman named Francesca was with your mother—”

Daniela's face went ashen, but she nodded. “Yes, she was like family. She helped to raise me. She was with my mother when . . . they died together—”

Daniela frowned as a group of German tourists walked past them, their guttural tones breaking the sense of intimacy they'd shared. They were the first people Lizbeth had seen in the gardens since they'd arrived. Somehow it took away the air of mystery the villa possessed, making it seem like any other tourist trap.

“Go on,” Daniela said, once the Germans had passed.

Lizbeth tried not to let her gaze drift in Lyse's direction, but it was hard. She and Weir were deep in conversation by the stairs, Weir's hand on her arm. Lizbeth sighed and dragged her eyes away.

Daniela was waiting for her.

“She came to me. She wasn't a Dream Walker, but more . . . a moment in time. Like an insect trapped in amber,” Lizbeth said.

Daniela's eyes lit up like candles, two hungry flames searching for oxygen, or, in this case, a glimpse of someone she'd thought she'd lost forever.

“Is she here now?” she said. “Can we speak to her? Is my mother with her?”

Lizbeth shook her head.

“No. She's gone now . . . and your mother was never here.”

The glow went out of Daniela's eyes and a sense of melancholy settled over them both. Navigating the minefield of another person's grief was delicate business, Lizbeth saw.

“But Francesca gave me a
message
. And I think it was the power of the message that kept her spirit here.”

“And what did she tell you?” Daniela asked, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other.

“That we can't trust Lyse,” Lizbeth said, and she was surprised at how easily it rolled off her tongue.

“No,” Daniela said. “That doesn't make any sense—”

“—Francesca says that she's already betrayed me once.”

“No,” Daniela murmured. “That can't be right. I don't believe it.”

Judas.

The word sprang into her head and she wished she could punch Lyse in the back of the neck. Paralyze her, or better yet,
kill her
.

Lizbeth swallowed hard, nauseated by the dark turn her thoughts had taken.

I'm not this person,
she thought.
Even if Lyse did betray us, that doesn't mean I should kill her.

Besides, it didn't seem possible Lyse could be a Judas—but then Lizbeth supposed that was the point: You weren't supposed to trust someone who looked like they were going to betray you.

“We have to get away from her,” Lizbeth heard herself saying. “Ditch her in the catacombs—”

Daniela shook her head.

“We can't do this. It's not right.”

Lizbeth shook her head, the heat from the sun bearing down on the back of her neck, making her skin itch.

“She'll destroy everything,” Lizbeth said—and then shook her head, not sure where the thought had come from.

“I just . . .” Daniela sighed, and Lizbeth could see how conflicted she was. “If this is what my mother wanted us to do . . .”

“It is. It's exactly what she wanted,” Lizbeth said. “Lyse is part of the whole thing. She's in league with The Flood. With those that killed your mother.”

Daniela's face was ashen.

“No,” she said.

“Lyse is a Judas. She has to be stopped.”

Daniela nodded, eyes shiny as she fought back tears.

“Okay. We ditch Lyse and get the hell out of here as soon as we can.”

You're an open book,
Lizbeth thought as she watched Daniela go, the rigid set of her friend's shoulders informing the world she was on a mission.
You give everything away.

But there was nothing Lizbeth could do about it. She didn't really understand what was happening to her, but she knew she had to do what she was told. Saying no wasn't an option.

*   *   *

The four of them were huddled together in the semidarkness of the underground catacombs that stretched out beneath the grounds of the Villa Nomentana. The musty dampness filled Lizbeth's nostrils as they moved single file through the claustrophobic tunnels cut out of the soft volcanic rock. She'd tucked in between Daniela and Weir, Lyse leading the way. The group of German tourists from the gardens was ahead of them, chatting in their native language. Lizbeth had no idea what they were saying.

Their young Italian guide spoke in heavily accented English, stopping them here and there to point out certain frescoes, their colors aged and faded in the darkness. One was of two beautifully rendered menorahs surrounding a golden building Lizbeth figured was probably a temple. They followed the guide into another, larger room. It was a burial chamber and Lizbeth could see the graves hewn from the rock walls, the ceiling a muted watercolor painting awash with Judaic motifs.

As the guide chattered on about the burial practices of Roman Jews, the Germans listening attentively, Lyse came to stand beside Lizbeth. She'd slipped her red hoodie on when they'd entered the catacombs, and it was the brightest thing in the murky light of the burial chamber.

“Any idea what we do now?” Lyse whispered, keeping watch over the guide and the German tourists out of the corner of her eye. “You're the only one who's read the notebook . . .”

Judas.

The word invaded her thoughts again. She tried to push it away, but she wasn't the one in control.

“You don't trust me enough to share the info?” Lyse asked, teasing.

“I know what you are.”

“Excuse me?” Lyse said, taking a step back from Lizbeth.

Lizbeth countered the retreat, moving into Lyse's personal space, anger consuming her and making her want to intimidate the smaller woman.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Lizbeth growled, getting her face as close to Lyse's as she dared. “You're playing a game that you won't win.”

Lyse shook her head.

“I don't understand, LB—”

Lizbeth's eyes flashed in the half-light.

“Eleanora may have left you in charge, but that's only because she didn't know what you were all about.”

Lyse's blue eyes flared in anger.

“Something's wrong with you,” Lyse said, shaking her head. “This isn't you.”

Judas.

The word was a catalyst, enflaming Lizbeth, making her shake with rage.

“You want to wreck everything. To destroy what we've been working for,” Lizbeth said, sneering at Lyse.

Weir had noticed something was wrong. He came over,
standing between the women and placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

“What's going on here?”

Lizbeth shrugged out of his grasp and took off.

“Ask your girlfriend, Weir. She's the Judas!” she called over her shoulder before disappearing into the darkness.

She headed away from the rest of the group, down one of the less well-lit tunnels that branched off from the burial chamber, following the voice in her head as it urged her to move quickly. To get away from Lyse.

She could hear Weir cursing and then the scrabble of feet in the dirt—probably him coming after her. She hated to do it this way, but Lizbeth had no other option. She needed to find the Dream Keepers and release them, channeling their powers into her own—whatever that meant. From there she would escape the catacombs and continue on her journey.

In her mind's eye, she could see her final destination calling to her. The Pillar was a lonely place, shrouded in cloud—and it was there she would meet her destiny.

Because the blood moon was on the rise.

And time was growing very, very short.

T
he next few minutes happened in slow motion, the flow from inaction to action, so smooth even someone trained to notice such things would've been hard-pressed to pick up on the cues. Lyse, who'd been blindsided by Lizbeth's odd behavior, missed it completely—and even if she had realized what was about to come, in retrospect, there really wasn't anything she could've done to prevent it.

Still, guilt had a funny way of perverting the truth. Especially when you were at your weakest. That was when the recriminations tiptoed in on silent feet and ripped your heart out—but that wouldn't come until later. At the precise moment that the German tourists ceased to be tourists and turned into militant commandoes, Lyse's brain stopped processing the past or future and just started reacting to the onslaught of insanity that had become her present.

One second Lyse was standing in the middle of the subterranean chamber watching Lizbeth disappear into the darkness of an unlit tunnel, one that was obviously not part of the tour; the next, all hell was breaking loose.

Two of the Germans dropped their backpacks and took off after Lizbeth. They raced past Lyse, pushing her out of their path with enough force that she was slammed into the wall, her left elbow and hip hitting the stone with a bone-jarring crunch. As she slid to the ground, pain ratcheting up her left side, she saw two more of the German tourists, a man and woman heading in Weir's direction.

“Behind you!” she screamed as the woman took her backpack and slung it at Weir's head. It was enough of a warning that he was able to dodge the blond woman's attack.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyse saw Daniela slam the heel of her shoe into the solar plexus of one of the other Germans, sending the man flying backward into the hollow of an empty burial slab. The man caromed off the stone and landed at the feet of their Italian tour guide, who decided to cut his losses and take off toward the entrance of the catacombs.

The German woman grabbed the guide by the head and quickly snapped his neck, his lifeless body crumpling to the ground. Lyse stared at the man's body, in shock until she heard Daniela call out:

“I'll find Lizbeth!”

“Run,” Lyse yelled back at her. “There were two of them after her—”

Daniela shot her a quick nod and then took off like a shot down the unlit tunnel. Lyse watched her go but was quickly distracted when the blond woman—the only female in the group—decided she was easy pickings and descended on her.

Shit,
Lyse thought as the woman brandished her backpack over her head like a medieval flail.

Lyse pushed off the stone wall, leaping out of the way just as the woman attacked with the backpack. It smashed into the stone, breaking off a chunk of the frescoed wall—art that had survived for centuries now ruined in mere seconds.

Lyse had never been great in a fight. She'd survived the encounter with her uncle only because Eleanora had intervened.
Now she was on her own and whether she lived or died was solely up to her—but there was something about the immediacy of death that narrowed your focus down to a pinhole. Everything else fell away. All the worry and fear that were part of being human disappeared as instinct kicked in and your body became a tool to beat the ever-loving crap out of the thing that was trying to end you.

Her life had been upended, she'd found and lost the only family she'd ever known, and now Lizbeth was accusing her of God knew what . . . well, she was sick and tired of being life's whipping boy. Enough was enough.

“Screw you!” she screamed at the blond woman, all of the fury and fear she'd amassed over the last few weeks coming to a head.

She gave a guttural battle cry, the sound a visceral manifestation of the raw emotion percolating inside her, and, like a berserker no longer in control of her actions, she ran headlong into battle. A red haze of rage clouded her vision, her focus lasered in on the blond bitch with the backpack. The blonde hadn't expected Lyse to go on the offensive and was clearly thrown by this flipping of the script as Lyse's body barreled directly into her.

The backpack crashed into Lyse's head, the woman getting in one good blow before they both crashed to the stone floor. The bag was loaded down with something heavy, opening a gash in the side of Lyse's scalp as it connected with her head. Her vision pinwheeled, unconsciousness hovering at the periphery, but she managed to push it away as she fought to get back onto her feet. The blonde was in better shape, recovering more quickly. She was already swinging before Lyse could find her footing. Lyse ducked out of the way, evading the blonde's extended reach, the backpack millimeters above the top of her head.

This happened twice more, Lyse ducking out of the way just before the backpack could connect with her face. It was
tiring work, but she knew if the woman hit her mark that would be the end.

Knockout.

“If you give up, you will not be harmed,” the blonde said as she took another swing at Lyse's head. “We know who you are and we don't want to hurt you.”

The German accent was gone, replaced now by the monotone of Middle America. Lyse didn't know which accent to believe—probably neither, she decided.

“Leave my friend alone and I'll go with you,” Lyse replied.

“Can't do that,” the blonde responded with a condescending grin that exposed crisp, white teeth and pink gums.

“Why not?” Lyse asked, playing along.

She and the blonde were both getting tired, and Lyse hoped that by talking she'd drag the whole thing out long enough to somehow get the advantage.

“Orders.”

The woman slung the backpack at Lyse once more—but this time Lyse was prepared. She held her ground, reaching out and plucking the orange bag out of the air with both hands just as it was about to connect with her face. Without missing a beat, she pulled the bag into her chest, holding on to it for dear life. The blonde tried to yank the weapon out of Lyse's grasp, but Lyse had a firm grip on the Day-Glo orange material and there was no way she was going to let go of it.

The blonde was now within easy reach. Lyse used all of her strength and kneed the woman in the stomach. The blonde grunted, falling heavily against the backpack that separated them, but she didn't go down. So Lyse slammed her knee into the woman's gut again and again, fear driving her attack. Now the woman teetered and fell to her knees, still clutching at the bag. Lyse ripped it out of her hands and swung it like a bat. It connected with flesh and bone and the blonde fell forward, her face hitting the stone floor.

Lyse raised the bag and slammed it into the back of the
woman's head, ensuring that her attacker would be out of commission for the duration.

She heard Weir grunt behind her and turned to find him embattled. He was having trouble fending off the two men who surrounded him, each of them larger and more muscular than he was. She could see that he was already starting to tire, his face a mask of concentration as he dodged blow after blow that rained down on him.

He was going to need her help, sooner rather than later.

She picked up the backpack and unzipped it, instantly seeing why it was so heavy: It contained two pistols and a metal billy club. She pulled out one of the guns, then zipped up the pack, sliding it over her shoulder.

“Stop, or I'll shoot you,” Lyse said, making sure the safety was off and looping her finger through the trigger.

The two men halted what they were doing, giving Weir a moment to catch his breath. Then the larger one, whose blond hair resembled the pale fuzz on top of a fleshy peach, made a move toward her. Lyse didn't hesitate; she pointed the gun at the man's feet and let off a shot. He jumped back as the slug went into the soft stone floor, shards of rock rocketing into the air.

She lifted the gun and quickly checked the chamber: four more shots, more than enough to take the two men out.

“You can see that I know how to shoot and I promise you I will make your life miserable if you mess with me,” Lyse said, keeping the gun trained on the two fake German tourists. “Now back away from my friend . . .”

Using the barrel to indicate that they should move to their right, she waited for them to do what she asked. Peach Fuzz and his smaller but no less muscular friend looked at each other as if they were trying to decide what to do.

“C'mere,” Lyse called to Weir, who was staring at her like she'd grown an extra head.

He stepped over to join her, and she saw that the two Germans had gotten him good. His nose was busted, a thin trickle
of blood oozing from one nostril, and his left cheek was split, the gash raw and angry-looking.

“You look like crap,” Lyse said, grinning at him.

“You look like you're about to kill someone,” he replied, eyes still on the pistol in her hand.

“Eleanora taught me to shoot when I was a teenager. We used to go downtown to the gun club and spend Sunday afternoon there,” Lyse said, keeping the two men within her sights. “I know what I'm doing, don't worry. Now here, take the bag.”

He raised an eyebrow but refrained from saying anything she might mistake as disparaging. Instead, he took the proffered backpack and held it in between his hands, not sure what to do with it.

“Take out the other gun—”

“I don't know how to use it,” he said, shaking his head. “And I don't believe in them.”

Peach Fuzz snickered, and Lyse sighed, not willing to force the issue.

“Then just hold on to the bag, so none of them can get their hands on it.”

He nodded, slipping the Day-Glo pack over his shoulder. When Lyse was sure the backpack was secure, she began questioning the men in front of her:

“Who are you and what do you want?”

She got no answer. They both stared back at her, unfazed by having a gun held on them. She wondered if this was an everyday occurrence in their line of work, or if they were just being stoic.

“Come on, don't make me shoot you,” she said.

“You're not going to shoot me,” the larger man replied, the corners of his mouth stretching into a lazy grin. “You don't have the—”

Lyse didn't hesitate, just took aim and shot the man in the foot before he could get out the rest of his sentence. He screamed
as blood blossomed around the hole in his sneaker—and she imagined she'd taken off a toe or two with the shot.

“You dumb bitch,” he shrieked, falling back against the chamber wall and using it to support his weight now that one of his feet was out of commission.

“I don't care what you call me,” Lyse said, glaring back at him. “I will shoot you in the other foot if you don't answer my question: Who are you and what are you doing here?”

The temperature in the chamber dropped and Lyse felt a cold chill wrap around her body. Her teeth began to chatter as something wet dripped onto the crown of her head. She looked up, but there was nothing there, zero condensation on the stone ceiling that could've fallen on her.

Yet still the feeling of intense cold wouldn't go away. In fact, it began to get worse, spilling down the length of her body as if someone had poured a pitcher of ice water over her head.

She looked over at Weir and then at the two men, but they all seemed immune to whatever was affecting her.

“Tell me!” Lyse shouted, her blue eyes flashing.

The surge of anger she felt took her by surprise. Even Weir noticed and shot her a strange look.

“Sorry,” she murmured to Weir, trying to shake off the impotent rage she was feeling.

These are not my feelings,
Lyse thought, pushing them away.
I don't know what channel I'm tuned into, but it has to stop.

She gritted her teeth and mentally pushed back at the oppressive feelings that were trying to fill her head—
Go away! I don't want you.
She imagined the cold pouring back out of her, returning to wherever it had come from—and she relaxed.

The wounded man kept his mouth clamped shut, a pissed-off expression on his ruddy face. But his friend, by far the quieter of the two, was watching her intently. The way his intelligent brown eyes stayed locked on her face, she wondered if he sensed what had just happened to her.

“We're here to get your little friend,” he volunteered, more forthcoming than his partner.

Maybe he just doesn't want his body damaged irreparably, she thought. She supposed it didn't really matter why he was talking, just that he was.

“What little friend?” Weir asked.

“The one who took off into the dark. My two guys will catch her and then she's all ours.”

The man spoke with a quiet authority, his dark eyes earnest. Lyse realized that he was the one in charge of the mission, not Peach Fuzz. Even if Peach Fuzz was the more physically intimidating of the two.

“You'll never find her,” Weir said. “She'll outsmart anyone you send after her.”

“No, it doesn't matter what he thinks,” the man said about Weir before returning his attention to Lyse. “But you know that already.”