Dreamlander

Dreamlander

  By K.M. Weiland

  Copyright 2012 K.M. Weiland

  About the Story: What if it were possible to live two very different lives in two separate worlds? What if the dreams we awaken from are the fading memories of that second life? What if one day we woke up in the wrong world?

  Every night, a woman on a black warhorse gallops through the mist in Chris Redston’s dreams. Every night, she begs him not to come to her. Every night, she aims her rifle at his head and fires. The last thing Chris expects—or wants—is for this nightmare to be real. But when he wakes up in the world of his dreams, he has to choose between the likelihood that he’s gone spectacularly bonkers or the possibility that he’s just been let in on the secret of the ages.

  Only one person in a generation may cross the worlds. These chosen few are the Gifted, called from Earth into Lael to shape the epochs of history—and Chris is one of them. But before he figures that out, he accidentally endangers both worlds by resurrecting a vengeful prince intent on claiming the powers of the Gifted for himself. Together with a suspicious princess and a guilt-ridden Cherazii warrior, Chris must hurl himself into a battle to save a country from war, two worlds from annihilation, and himself from a dream come way too true.

  Join the discussion: #dreamlander

  “The real test of a man is not when he plays the role that he wants for himself,

  but when he plays the role destiny has for him.”

  —Vaclav Havel

  Chapter One

  Chris was dreaming again.

  He was in a place he’d never been before, even in his other dreams. Somewhere in the mountains maybe, someplace that smelled of cold water and a sharp organic spiciness that might have been pine except for a faint sweetness when he exhaled. Mist shrouded everything, rolling over the shadowy shapes of rocks and trees. Water crashed from five hundred feet up a sheer cliff of black granite, its source hidden behind the waterfall’s white cloud.

  The water pelted him, plastered his clothes against his body, and zinged cold through his bones. He was in the lake? His heart stuttered, and he tried to see where he was. His head wouldn’t move. Nothing moved. He gritted his teeth and fought his immobile body.

  Thunder filled his ears: thunder from the waterfall and thunder from hoofbeats. From out of the fog, a black horse charged him. It held its head high, its mane spilling over its shoulders. On its back rode a woman. She was tall, even in the saddle, although the flow of her white gown probably accentuated her height. Matching white blossoms studded the mahogany hair piled on top of her head in a braided crown.

  She drew the horse to a halt. It slid, hind fetlocks buried in the grass, then reared. With her hand on its shoulder, she quieted it. And then she looked up.

  Eyes the blue of a thunderstorm locked with his. She was cold, forbidding, but also beautiful. The sharp angle of her jaw above her neck and the straight slant of her nose exuded a survivor’s fierceness that couldn’t quite mask something softer and more vulnerable, something almost desperate, in the compression of her mouth.

  She didn’t smile, didn’t even blink an acknowledgement. She just stared, those tremendously blue eyes of hers never flinching from his face.

  Her expression bore recognition. She knew him?

  He tried to open his mouth and say something.

  One of her hands left the reins and unsheathed from her saddle scabbard a rifle of burnished black metal. A pattern of fifteen dime-sized holes, in two concentric circles, marked the stock and flickered with an aquamarine light. Without lowering her eyes, she pulled back the bolt lever and thrust it home. A whirring, barely audible over the water, buzzed with a mosquito frequency. She raised the rifle to her shoulder and her gauzy sleeve fell back to reveal taut muscles in her forearm. She lifted the barrel to point at his forehead.

  She knew him, all right. Knew him and didn’t like him.

  He tried to stagger back, to turn and run. He tried to shout at her. But he was paralyzed. All he could do was stare back.

  Her lips parted. “Don’t come,” she said—and pulled the trigger.

  The shot burst from the rifle barrel. It smashed into the center of his forehead. Jagged teeth of pain tore his skin, chewed through the bone, and then—

  He was awake.

  Heart hammering, Chris Redston lurched upright in bed. Sweat drenched the front of his T-shirt and plastered his hair to his temples. Outside the window, the Chicago traffic buzzed, horns honking as a garbage truck’s brakes wheezed and an upended dumpster clanked against the hopper.

  He squinted against the sunlight and groaned. If it was this bright already, he must have overslept—again. The water pipes were humming, which meant his roommate was already back from the gym and in the shower.

  He tried to swing his feet to the floor, got caught in the sheet, and had to kick free. Finally, bare toes curled in the threadbare carpet, he dug his elbows into his knees and scrubbed his hands across his face.

  Another dream. Another ridiculous dream.

  This was the third time he had seen the woman on the black warhorse, the third time she had stared at him down a rifle barrel, and the third time the pounding in his brain had jolted him awake. Who dreamt things like this anyway? Who dreamt things that felt as real as this?

  And the weirdest part was someone knew he was dreaming them.

  He raised his head from his hands and leaned forward to snag an opened envelope from the desk by his bed. Gooseflesh whispered across his arms as he touched the rumpled paper inside.

  The letter had arrived yesterday. Postmarked from Chicago, written on cheap notebook paper with the thin blue lines fading into violet, it contained only three lines of black scrawl:

  You’ve been dreaming.

  I’ve been looking for you.

  Stay away from the shrink.

  That was it. No explanation. No signature. No return address.

  He had thought it was a joke at first. But after yet another dream of the woman on the black warhorse, the connection was starting to seem downright eerie.

  Or maybe that was only a sign he was slowly going nuts.

  He tossed the letter back onto the desk. He purposely didn’t look at the clock. If he was late—and he knew he was late—for his article deadline, he was going to be more than crazy. He was going to be every bit as dead as his warrioress in the white dress could ever want him.

  He got up and pawed through the closet for a clean T-shirt.

  From somewhere in the kitchen, his phone started playing “Folsom Prison Blues”—his dad’s ringtone. He closed his eyes. These days, his dad only called for two reasons. Either he needed money for booze or money for bail.

  He let the phone ring while he crossed the hall into the kitchen. When it finally stopped, he let it sit for another few minutes, long enough for one of his father’s rambling messages, then plucked it from its recharge dock.

  The signal for new messages blinked on the screen, right above the time: 10:18. He’d been up for only ten minutes, and already he’d managed to miss both his article deadlines, one for turning in a completed piece—which he hadn’t even started—and another for a phone interview with a notoriously interview-shy foreign diplomat. He wasn’t likely to get a second shot at the interview, and his editor was already unhappy with the last few articles he had turned in. This had been his last chance. He groaned.

  And now he had to deal with his dad. He hesitated, finger hovering over the button, then punched it. He raised the phone to his head and braced for his dad’s stammering.

  “Hi, uh, Chris. Sorry to bother you. I suppose you’re working . . . Anyway, if you have time, I could really use a ride. I’m down at the jail again.” Paul cleared his throat. To his credit, he never took Chris’s help for granted.
It was about the only thing in his credit. “I’ll need you to get me out again. I promise I’ll pay you back. Okay? Anyway . . .” His voice faded. “I hope you get this.”

  Chris breathed out and lowered the phone. His dad didn’t need to hope. Chris always showed up to bail him out, and he never reminded his dad to pay back the money, because he knew all too well he couldn’t.

  Why did he keep going down there? What he should have done a long time ago was change his number so his dad couldn’t call him anymore. Maybe some time in the slammer would be good for Paul, help him see how he’d destroyed his life and abandoned the only family he had left.

  But Chris kept right on answering the phone, kept going down to the jail, kept paying bail. This was his father. What was he supposed to do? Walk away?

  That’s what his father had done, mentally and emotionally, after the car wreck that had killed Chris’s mom and younger sister. But that was Paul, not Chris.

  The bathroom opened, and Mike Andreola’s off-key attempt at Puccini in bass warbled down the hall. Mike had worked at a radio station for the past ten years, and his talk-show program was steadily gaining popularity. One day, he was going to hit it big. But not for his singing.

  Mike rounded the corner into the kitchen, a towel around his neck. “There you are. What happened to getting up early?”

  He was a linebacker of a man who—with an irony that had utterly escaped him—opted out of football for glee club. His scraggly beard was still damp from his shower. The curly ash blond hair, which his sister was always trying to buzz cut, stood on end.

  He crossed the kitchen to the fridge and started pulling stuff out randomly, piling it on the counter. “You don’t look so good. Those big circles under your eyes make you look like the loser in a black-eye contest.”

  Chris shrugged. “Rough night.”

  Pluto, Mike’s half-blind Scottish terrier, clicked across the linoleum and growled as he passed Chris.

  Chris put the phone back on the counter and gave it a spin. He needed to get out of here and take care of his dad. He didn’t need to tell Mike what was going on. The whole dream thing was nutso. And if even he thought it was nutso, what was Mike going to say?

  Of course, maybe what he needed was someone to say it was nuts and tell him he had no business investing even a fraction of belief in this garbage.

  “You know,” he said, “I keep having these dreams.”

  “Me too.” Mike emerged from the fridge with a white carton of Chinese takeout and two loose toaster waffles. He kicked the fridge door shut. “I keep dreaming about owning a mansion in Malibu, winning a million dollars, and sleeping in every morning.”

  “Funny.” Chris moved out of the way, so Mike could pop his waffles into the toaster and reach the microwave over the stove. “I’m talking about dreams you have at night.”

  Mike dumped the broccoli chicken onto a plate and slid it into the microwave. “Nightmares?”

  “More or less. Remember when I was eleven or so and I kept having those dreams about a war? Huge battlefields, and it was like I was right there in the middle of it? These dreams—they feel kind of like that.” He made himself keep talking. “Have you ever woken from a dream that was still so vivid you could remember every detail?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I suppose.”

  “In my dreams, it’s like I’m watching things happen, participating in them. Then when I wake up, it’s like I turned around to see what was behind me, and if I turn back fast enough, the dream will still be there, just as real as it ever was.” He fiddled with the phone. “What do you think that means?”

  “I think it means you shouldn’t turn around.” The microwave pinged, and Mike opened the door. “Seriously. I think it means you’re majorly stressed out. You’ve been stressed out for as long as I’ve known you.” He gave Chris a whack on the shoulder and took his plate to the table. “I’ve got some sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Maybe you should give them a try.”

  Chris waved off the suggestion. He had no trouble sleeping. Sleeping was what brought the dreams.

  Mike gave him a long look. “So this is why you overslept your deadlines?” Mike was probably the only person in the world who would let Chris sack out here for a month, rent-free, after his little old landlady had kicked him out last month. He was also the only one who knew Chris wasn’t writing anything worth reading these days. He never brought it up; but he knew.

  The toaster popped, and Chris leaned back to snag the waffles. He carried them to the table, bouncing their heat back and forth between his palms. “I missed a deadline again. But the next article’s pay goes straight to you for rent.”

  Mike plopped the waffles on top of the Chinese food. “Don’t worry about it. I bail you, you bail me. That’s how it’s always gone.”

  “These days you’re bailing me out a whole lot more than the other way around.”

  “Consider it overdue payback for all the times you saved my heinie in those schoolyard fights.”

  Chris let himself grin. “Seems like I was the one who started most of those fights.”

  “You started ’em, you finished ’em.” Mike raised a forkful of broccoli. “You’ll figure it out. You just need to calm down, focus. Your life is running right past you. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You know, but sometimes I don’t think you care. You’re a brilliant guy. You got nominated for a Pulitzer while you were still in college for an article you swear was just a throwaway idea. C’mon, man.” He shook his head. “I’ve read the stuff you’ve been writing lately. I could write it.” He lowered his voice and spoke out of the side of his mouth, “My sister could write it.”

  Mike’s baby sister Brooke was a medical transcriptionist bent on getting Chris to help her become a “real” writer.

  Chris grimaced. “Right now, she’s probably got a better right to call herself a writer than I do.”

  Mike snorted. “C’mon. The only reason she’s even interested in writing is that crush she’s had on you since grade school. You’re the one who knows what you’re doing. But it’s like you don’t even care about what you’re writing anymore.”

  Chris crossed the kitchen and started putting stuff back into the fridge. He didn’t want to hear this right now. Mike was trying to help, but he didn’t get it. A shake of the orange-juice carton told him it was down to its last swig. Without looking at Mike, he popped the cap and downed the dregs.

  He swallowed. “I don’t have to care about something to write about it.”

  “Just like you don’t have to care about life to live it? It’s not just writing. You’re disengaged from everything these days.” Mike cut a wedge of waffle and scooped it onto his fork along with some rice. “What about those car wrecks you’re always visiting for therapy, or whatever you call it? You care about them. So why not write about it? Write a book. I’ve got a friend in a publishing company. Let me give him a call. Pitch the idea to him.”

  “Thanks, but you know I don’t write about that.” He tossed the empty carton at the wastebasket and finished replacing the rest of the food in the fridge. “That stuff’s too personal.”

  “Then become a plumber. You don’t have to care about toilets.”

  He slammed the refrigerator door and glared at Mike. “I’m trying to figure it out. You think I’m not?”

  “I think you’re killing yourself slow and sure because you don’t want to take any chances. Or, if you do take a chance, it’s on something so out there, you get nothing except the snot beat out of you.”

  “Thanks for the fortune cookie.” He crossed the kitchen. “I’ve got to go bail my dad again. I’ll probably be back late.”

  Pluto swung his head blindly and started yapping.

  Mike toed the dog in the ribs. “Wait.” He held out one of his waffles. “At least have some breakfast.”

  Chris hesitated in the doorway, then turned back and leaned across the table to accept the waffle. “
I’ll be out of here in a month, I promise. How’s that?”

  Mike ate steadily without looking up. He was probably embarrassed their conversation had gotten this far. “I said don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s not for your sake. It’s for Pluto’s.”

  That was enough to start Pluto barking again, and Mike spared a guffaw.

  Chris bit into the waffle, and crossed the hall to his bedroom, where he could rummage for a pair of cargo pants and his shoes. If he was lucky, he could whip out one of his articles on the L-train trip to the jail. Maybe the day was still salvageable. He owed it to Mike to get himself back on his feet and out of here. For that matter, he owed it to himself.

  He passed back through the kitchen, snagged his phone, and left through the front door. As he started to pocket the phone, it rang again. He glanced at the screen before answering, but the number wasn’t familiar.

  A voice like worn-out bedsprings creaked in his ear. “Chris Redston. You’ve been dreaming.”

  He stopped short. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. This was his mysterious letter sender?

  “I’ve been looking for you.” The voice rasped. “Stay away from the shrink.”

  “Who are you? How do you know what I’m dreaming?”

  “You don’t have much time. I’m not the only one looking for you. I’m not the only one who’s spent his life searching for you.”

  “Who’s looking for me?” This guy couldn’t be for real. Could he? “And where are you getting my personal info?”

  “Mactalde will find you if you don’t listen to me. And I don’t want that. I want victory. Do you understand?” He growled, soft and dark. “But, then, no, of course you don’t understand anything.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “You’ll understand it all. Soon.” The hang-up clanked audibly.

  “Wait a minute—” Chris pulled the phone away from his head and stared at it.

  The chill on his neck crept down his back, and he barked a short laugh. This guy couldn’t be for real. He was like something out of a bad horror movie, creepy laugh and all. What was next? A dude with a hockey mask and a chainsaw jumping out from behind the bushes?

  He needed to get out of here, needed to find his dad, needed to write an article, needed to pray for rent money. But, first, he stopped just long enough to search his call log. He found the number and dialed. The phone rang once, then rang again and again. Either the guy wasn’t answering, or he’d called from a pay phone.

  Whoever he was, he was good.