The War for the Waking World

  Doc Scoville groaned as he sat up. “You heard the lad. We’re leaving, Kaylie.”

  “But you came here to defeat Kara,” she argued. “I don’t understand.”

  “We bit off more than we could chew,” he muttered. “That’s become a rather tiresome habit of ours. In any case, there will be another day to fight. We need to go now while we can.”

  “How do we get out?”

  “The elevator.”

  “But I blew up the elevator.”

  “And . . . why is that a problem? You are a Dreamtreader, aren’t you? There are other ways, right?”

  “Oh,” Kaylie said. “Duh.” She stood up and gave a mental command to Patches. The doll reassembled itself and came running in their direction.

  Rigby, meanwhile, stood his ground before Kara. He summoned up an ornate walking cane and began to twirl it. Red lightning crackled with each revolution of the cane, and Rigby said, “The trouble with being so smart, Kara, is you can overlook the simple solutions to certain problems.”

  He’d not even finished the final syllable when he pointed the cane and unleashed a fist of feverish red electricity. The power surged into Kara, lifting her from the ground and throwing her backward. She struck the rear of the cavern with an audible crack.

  The sound was so sudden and shocking Rigby thought that, perhaps, he’d done it. He’d caught her off guard and hit her with such a powerful attack he’d knocked her out or at least disabled her. But Rigby, too, had learned from some of his past mistakes. He wasn’t about to play games with Kara.

  He summoned up his will, dredging up a portion much larger than usual, and began to build. Stone by six-ton stone, Rigby built a crypt over Kara’s prone form. The weight alone should have kept Kara down. But then Rigby created a chain net, draped it over the crypt, and secured it by pounding twelve-foot stakes into the cavern’s solid rock floor.

  Half-spent but exhilarated by the successful attack, Rigby bounded to Nick’s side. He knelt down. “G’day, mate!” Rigby announced cheerily. “Or whatever you blokes down under say. Come on, then. Up with you.”

  But Nick did not stir. Rigby’s breath caught in his throat. Trickles of blood were coming from the corners of Nick’s eyes. Rigby put his ear close to Nick’s face. “C’mon now, Nick, you can’t let her take you out this easily!”

  Rigby waited anxiously for a breath. And it came. It was a faint breath, somewhat irregular, and positively reeking of garlic, but it was there. “Nick, you there?”

  “Rak-ta, Shak-ta,” Nick muttered, “come . . . come to me.”

  “What?” Rigby said. “Speak English, would ya? Nick, snap out of it.”

  “Bonzer, mate,” Nick whispered, his eyes springing open. “I feel like I was hit by a Mack truck.”

  Rigby sat up little, breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “Glad you pulled through. Next time, remember: a little defense goes a long—”

  A sound stopped Rigby in mid-sentence. It was a rumble, but not a deep thunder sort of sound. More like a churning of many stones turning over and over and over.

  Rigby stood up and prepped his will. The ponderous chain net still covered the crypt, still secured it to the cavern floor. It wasn’t trembling. There was no evidence it was moving at all.

  “What an amateur,” came a voice from behind, and Rigby felt himself picked up by the seat of his jeans. He flared up red lighting from his fingertips and from his walking cane, but it did nothing to stop him from being manhandled, slung around, and hurled across the cavern.

  Rigby had the presence of mind to recognize his body’s trajectory. He used his will to exert force against the opposite wall of the cavern, to slow his approach. But even as he slowed down and defeated the possibility of being pulverized by the wall, something tore the shoulder off his jacket.

  No, it had cut through the jacket, his shirt beneath, and opened a burning gash in the flesh of his shoulder. Rigby landed in a crouch just in time to see a dozen more of Kara’s daggers flashing toward him. Rigby held out his top hat, and it turned into the shield. A few daggers careened off the shield. Several others buried themselves hilt-deep.

  “Playing for keeps now, are we, Kara?” Rigby said, casting away the shield. His top hat reappeared in his right hand, and he swept it upon his head. “I didn’t think you ’ad it in you.”

  Red electricity sparking all around her, Kara appeared from thin air over Nick’s prone form. “You want the Australian, Rigby? Come get him.”

  In spite of his better judgment, Rigby strode toward Kara. Halfway there, he froze. There in the shadows, just over Kara’s shoulder, were two sparkling eyes and a Cheshire grin.

  “Bezeal,” he muttered, taking a hesitant step backward.

  Kara began to laugh. She dropped to a crouch and reached forward. Rigby couldn’t tell what she was doing. When she stood, she held the end of a six-foot wide strip of stone. With will-augmented strength beyond anything Rigby had ever imagined, Kara whipped the stone as if it were a blanket. The motion sent a quaking tremor rolling across the cavern floor. Rigby tried to leap out of the way, but it took his feet out from under him and sent him cartwheeling into the air. He came down in a heap near the stone where Kaylie and Doc Scoville had been hiding.

  Rigby rose to a knee and nearly blacked out. He blinked and rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, they got out,” he whispered. He glanced across the cavern to Nick. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “I’m not up to this. Not yet.”

  Rigby fled. He sprinted to the torn-down elevator shaft, and began climbing like a frenzied spider. Kara’s voice followed him the whole way. “Run, run, Rigby! It will all be over soon!”

  THIRTY-THREE

  A HOUSE DIVIDED

  “DID YOU SEE THAT? ” KARA ASKED AS SHE WALTZED around one of the medical clinic’s recovery rooms. “I beat them. I beat them all.”

  Bezeal paced in front of the cobalt cube, putting his own finishing touches on the prison Kara had created to imprison Nick Bushman. “Careless fight,” Bezeal muttered. “Rigby’s appearance was such a fright, and you’ve yet to face the Dreamtreaders’ full might.”

  “Don’t be morose,” Kara muttered. “They were toys to me.”

  “They were supposed to be broken toys,” Bezeal hissed. “And yet . . . they live.” The merchant became very still. His arms hung at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  Kara stopped twirling. She had seen Bezeal in this mood on only a few occasions. Though she wouldn’t allow herself to be afraid of Bezeal, something about his dark moods troubled her. Sometimes it was just the lack of rhyming, ominous in its rarity. But very rarely, it was almost like a second personality came to the surface, a menace hidden beneath that hood.

  “Need . . . I . . . remind . . . you, Kara,” Bezeal said, his voice dropping octaves with each word, “they bypassed your vaunted tower’s defenses. They toured your precious Research and Development sector for half an hour before you were even aware of their presence. And what of Rigby? You claimed he was dead.”

  “He was dead,” Kara bristled, “by any human standards, anyway. It was the Scath’s fault. They were supposed to serve me alone. I am their master.”

  “They call you master,” Bezeal muttered. “But the Scath cannot be mastered, not entirely. They will do as you command, but they live for mischief. You should have known this. You should have made certain with Rigby.”

  “Like you made certain with Archer?” Kara quipped. “You were supposed to keep Archer Keaton occupied. Six days were all we needed, Bezeal. Remind me again how you messed that up?”

  “Be silent!” Bezeal’s voice dropped to such a low that it became a vibration, shaking the concrete and steel foundations, the glass panes, and electronics panels. When he turned, his pinprick eyes had grown to dark red gouges. “You dare stand in judgment? Over me? Fool! No one is Bezeal’s judge. Do you understand?”

  Kara swallowed and nodded, but within, she smoldered. She’d seen Bezeal’s little scary song and dance many times
before. So the little beast thinks he’s top dog now?she thought. Go ahead and believe that . . . for now.

  Bezeal’s eyes returned to their normal flickering points of light floating in the inky black beneath his hood. “Now, sweet Kara, it is time for your power to pour. We must end this game; we must make sure. At last, it is time for us to make war.”

  “War?” Kara echoed. “I don’t understand. We’ve won the war. All we need is to keep them at bay for a few more days.”

  “Are you so certain your plans will not fail? The Dreamtreaders have already learned to pierce your Veil. From decisive action we must not quail.”

  “They broke through the Harlequin Veil, but only for a time. They don’t know our secrets. They don’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off. She thought back to her conversations with Rigby while he had been her prisoner. Under the assumption that he would never escape, how much had she told him?

  She began to pace the medical center. What if Rigby had made the proper inferences about his cobalt shackles? Combining that with what he already knew about the Rift and the Harlequin Veil . . . well . . . that could mean serious trouble.

  “We’ve got to get rid of Rigby and his uncle,” she said at last. “They are too smart for their own good.” The moment the word smart passed her lips, she felt a chill.

  Kaylie.

  Kara hung her head and closed her eyes. Kaylie would be a problem also. She was astoundingly brilliant and perceptive. And she’d had a look around Research and Development. If Kaylie and Rigby compared notes, it would only be a matter of time before they unraveled the whole thing.

  “Fine,” Kara said, opening her eyes. “We take the fight to them. You and me, Bezeal, we finish it.”

  “Nay,” Bezeal said. “Not just we two. Not enough to see this through. But I believe an army will do.”

  “An army?” Kara replied. “Where will we get an army?”

  Bezeal drew a green finger across Nick’s cobalt cube and sidled closer to Kara. “We might find some . . . willing to play,” he said. “Soldiers many, fearless, and tame—the Nightmare Lords discovered a way.”

  Kara put it together in an instant. “I’ll call Frederick. It’s so simple, really. And it won’t take long.” She laughed, and her eyes crackled with familiar red electricity.

  She stopped a moment and stared down at the cobalt cube. “Gort won’t be enough for this one,” she said. “Do you think Nick would respond to one of your whisper treatments?”

  “Everyone responds,” Bezeal replied, “maybe sooner or maybe later. Even the strongest make no debate. Surely it will cure the Dreamtreader in the crate.”

  Nick Bushman had been in a lot of fixes. Just walking around Australia’s outback could be a threat to one’s health and life, what with all the poisonous spiders and snakes that made the region their home. But he couldn’t ever recall a predicament quite like this one.

  “They put me in the dunnie this time, haven’t they?” Nick muttered to his cramped quarters. “S’truth, they tossed me in a box like some kind of a pet.”

  That was a rather large insult to his already-injured pride. He couldn’t believe the ease with which Kara had taken him out. The Rift, he thought. We all got stronger after the Rift. But Kara . . . she’s off the charts.

  Worst of all, Nick thought, was getting an ear-bashing from Kara and Bezeal, hearing all about their plans for an army to use against Archer, Kaylie, Rigby, and the Doc—but not being able to do a thing to warn them. He’d tried. He’d searched deep within his mind for just a little bit of Dreamtreader will, something that might let him create a message to send out . . . or even make some kind of telepathic connection. He didn’t know if such a thing were even possible for a full-strength Dreamtreader. There was no mention of such a thing in the Creeds, at least in the parts he’d read so far. He’d tried, anyway, tried hard with every bit of concentration and screaming hope he could muster.

  Nick slammed his hand into the side of his prison. A sharp strike of pain made him wish he hadn’t. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. At least he could still pray, he thought.

  “Whoa,” Nick blurted as his prison cube began to move. “Hey, take it easy out there!” he yelled, but there was no reply. He slapped his hands against the walls to no avail. The cube shook and wobbled and tilted. Then it became steady again and began a long, slow march forward.

  “This might be it,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, ducked his head, and went back to prayer.

  Some time passed. Nick wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or was still awake. It was dark as ever in the box. But he thought for certain he’d heard something. There had been a shriek in the distance. Surely, somewhere outside of the box, outside of the lab, and maybe even outside of the building. But what had it been? There was a familiarity to it.

  Another sound. This much closer, a rumbly, growling sound. But Nick didn’t jump. It didn’t frighten him. “Can’t be,” he whispered. “Can it?” Nick closed his eyes and probed the depths of his thoughts.

  Rak-ta,he voiced in his mind, Shak-ta? Soonerian, se?

  A few tense heartbeats later, foreign thoughts invaded Nick’s mind, and he was everlastingly grateful. “Yes,” two voices said in unison, “we are coming.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ALLEGIANCES

  ARCHER SAT DOWN ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED AND STARED through his window. Old Jack was back.

  “Why is it back now?” Archer wondered aloud.

  What really troubled him was Old Jack’s face. Before the Rift, the clock showed the Dreamtreader’s allotted eleven hours, missing only the six due to Sixtolls, the randomly occurring hour of the Nightmare Lord’s chaos. Now, Old Jack showed only six hours. And rather than counting forward in time (one leads to two, leads to three, etc.), Old Jack now seemed to be counting down from six.

  Archer thought he knew what Old Jack was counting down to now, but if he were right, it was a frightening prospect. The ancient clock face already showed half past four.

  Archer pulled himself away from the window, sat up, and tossed the Summoning Feather into the air. Master Gabriel did not delay. To Archer’s relief, he did not appear to have guards or handcuffs with him when he arrived.

  “It is about time,” Master Gabriel grumbled, stepping from the closet. His Incandescent Armor already burned brightly. “Archelion Michael informed me of your release. I would have expected a call from you sooner.”

  “I’m sorry,” Archer said, “I needed to come home first. I needed to check on my family.”

  “And?”

  “The same,” Archer said, lowering his eyes. “They’re under some kind of spell, wandering about the protective vault I built around them.”

  “I am sorry, Archer,” Master Gabriel said.

  “Kaylie’s gone now,” Archer said with a sigh. “Did you wake her? What about Nick?”

  He took a deep breath. “I propose an exchange of information. Tell me about your court process. I will update you on Kaylie, Nick, Kara, and more.”

  Archer nodded and began to detail his court battle with Bezeal, leading ultimately to the merchant’s banishing from the court and subsequent escape. In turn, Master Gabriel spoke of waking Nick from the post-Rift, perfect-world illusion. He informed Archer of Kaylie’s self-awakening, and the two Dreamtreaders’ plans to infiltrate the Dream Tower.

  “But I do not know the results of their mission,” Master Gabriel explained. “Kaylie has yet to summon me.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “I do not believe so,” Master Gabriel replied. “They were not planning to confront Kara, not yet. Their mission was infiltration and reconnaissance.”

  Archer nodded, glancing through the gap in his curtains. “Old Jack is back.” He pulled back the curtains.

  “So I see, but with six hours?”

  Archer shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s hours this time.”

  “Why?” Master Gabriel replied. “What else could it be?”

  “Days,”
Archer said. “After the court case, Bezeal was so enraged that he began muttering to himself, something about needing only six days. It sounded like he wanted to keep me out of action for at least that long.”

  Master Gabriel spun on his heel. “This . . . this is encouraging, Archer!”

  “I don’t see how. Look at Old Jack. It’s counting down. If I’m right, we’ve only got three and a half days left.”

  Master Gabriel frowned. “You are looking at the wrong side of this, Archer. If you are right, and it is six days—now down to a little more than three—remaining, ask yourself, three days until . . . what? Why would it be so important to Bezeal for you to be unable to fulfill your Dreamtreading duties for such a limited time?”

  Archer wished he had an intellect as quick and deep as Kaylie’s. His thoughts felt like churning butter, slow and sloppy. Then, like the parting of a curtain, the idea came to him. His eyes sprang wide open with brows raised, and he even dared to smile. “Do you think?” he asked. “There’s still a chance?”

  Master Gabriel nodded. “I do.”

  “Snot rockets!” Archer shouted. “I’ve got to find Kaylie and Nick!”

  “I suggest you try Scoville Manor.”

  “Scoville Manor?” Archer barked, incredulous. “Why would I go there?”

  “Aside from the fact that it is my advice to you, you just might find Kaylie there.”

  “Oh, no,” Archer groused. “Rigby doesn’t have her captive, does he?”

  “No, no,” Master Gabriel explained. “Nothing like that. Just go and see. Oh, and Archer, keep an open mind.”

  Archer didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the doorbell.

  He stood on the front porch, focused his will for a thunder-stomp, and blew the door off its hinges. He stepped through the wreckage and cried out, “Rigby! Where are you? What have you done with Kaylie?”

  There was no answer. Even the pets in the basement were silent. They should have been barking, screeching, yipping, and yapping their heads off. “Rigby!” Archer yelled. “Doctor Scoville! Where are you?”