The Last Dream Keeper (2 page)

It was ridiculous how intense their connection was. They hadn't even had sex yet and she was kind of in love with the guy. There was just something special about Weir. Something that made him unlike any other man she'd ever dated. She desperately wanted to be with him: He was sexy and sweet and compassionate and smart . . . and it was only her fear of being hurt that had pushed him away. Like an idiot, she'd run her mouth off and screwed the whole thing up.

She realized she'd been walking without paying attention to where she was going and was now almost to her favorite spot in all of Echo Park. It was the place she used to run away to when she was a teenager living with her great-aunt Eleanora and they'd have a fight. (It was only recently she'd learned the truth. That, in actuality, Eleanora was her
grandmother
, not her great-aunt.)

She didn't know why she found the hidden glen so glorious. Maybe it was because of the light, or maybe it was just the giant weeping willow tree that grew there. The one with the thick trunk and heavy boughs peppered with soft green leaves. Or possibly it was the rope swing lovingly looped around one of its branches, on the seat of which someone had written the loveliest of quotes:
This Is Where Memories Are Made.

Lyse had chosen to come to this particular spot because it was a happy place from her childhood and she wanted to sit on the swing, listen to music, and think about Eleanora.

She wanted to remember her life before.

Before.
Whatever, exactly, that meant.

She just wanted to get lost in the memories she'd created
when Eleanora was alive . . . because maybe then she could forget that the woman she loved so dearly was dead.

But
dead
doesn't mean what it used to,
Lyse thought as “Last Goodbye” cycled through her earbuds for the umpteenth time.
Eleanora is here. Just not physically here.

She reached the edge of the Elysian Park expansion and hopped over the metal guardrail separating the road from her hidden glen. Her mood was improving. She was looking forward to staring out at the city as she pumped her legs and made the swing go higher and higher.

The view from up there was amazing, the little valley packed full of crumbling houses and twisting stairways and overgrown greenery. These were the hills Lyse liked to trek through best, the ones upon which Eleanora's bungalow still stood. Though yuppies and aging hipsters peopled the area now, once upon a time Echo Park had belonged to the new bohemians. Sadly, what was once a home for all the liberal-thinking, left-wing-leaning communists, artists, and politicos of Los Angeles had changed its makeup completely. A restaurant at the bottom of Echo Park Avenue called Red Hill was the only reminder of what Echo Park had once been.

Time marched forever onward—and it waited for no one. It hadn't taken her long to realize the old neighborhood was changing again. Slowly but surely it was being absorbed by the rest of Los Angeles, and soon it would lose the last remnants of its bohemian charm.

Oh, well, it was inevitable,
Lyse thought as she made her way past the dirt and scrub grass that made up the floor of the glen, her eyes on the willow tree. Her heart lifted even though she couldn't see the swing, which was obscured by low overhanging branches.

Take us humans. We live and die and live and die on an endless loop. Nothing, not even love, lasts forever.

As she reached the tree, Lyse stopped in her tracks. Someone had viciously cut one length of the thick rope anchoring
the swing to its branch, so it half hung in the dirt. The same someone had taken a can of spray paint and covered the wooden plank in a dripping layer of black, obscuring the words that had made Lyse smile as a teenager—no matter how miserable she'd been on the inside.

Lyse felt eyes scuttling along her back. She looked up and saw a lone house on the far side of the field. Lyse could just make out the shadow of a person standing on the porch. They seemed to be watching her. She wondered if they even knew the swing existed, or that some jerk had destroyed one of the most magical places in all of Echo Park.

Lyse was heartsick. Seeing that kind of destruction in a place she loved so well made her livid with anger. She whipped around, hair flying, and began to walk away from the tree, Jeff Buckley wailing in her ears. Her anger drove her to walk faster and soon she was running, feet pounding the dirt as she tried to escape the rage rippling through her. She hit the edge of the field at top speed and, in her blind fury, almost slammed into the guardrail. But some sixth sense kicked in and she was able to stop herself before she cracked her shins on the metal.

Breathing hard, she sat down on the guardrail's precarious edge, her back to the road. Somewhere along the way, one of her earbuds had popped out and was hanging at her side, only a few inches from the dirt. She made a grab for it, but, like a pendulum, it swung away from her grasp.

“Stop it!” she snapped at the earbud, feeling an irrational spike of rage toward the inanimate object.

It swung back in her direction and this time she was able to scoop it up, jamming it back into her ear. Distracted, she was unaware of the figure standing behind her. It wasn't until the person dropped a tentative hand on her shoulder that Lyse realized she was not alone. This, coupled with a well-developed fight-or-flight instinct, made her jump up off the guardrail, a scream lodged in her throat.

“Who the what—”
she cried, the words all jumbled in her
mouth as she backed away, almost tripping over her own feet. The earbuds flew out of her ears in the confusion of the moment.

It only took her a few seconds to realize this was a friend, not a foe.

Her coven mate, Lizbeth, stood on the street side of the guardrail, staring back at her. She obviously hadn't expected this kind of reaction from Lyse because she looked terrified.

“You scared me,” Lyse said, feeling guilty for scaring the girl.

Lizbeth frowned.

“What're you doing here?” Lyse continued, not expecting a verbal answer because Lizbeth was mute and could not reply in words.

Lizbeth shrugged, pulling a small Moleskine notepad from the bib pocket of her faded cream overalls. With her scarf, purple thermal shirt, and a grungy orange-checked flannel looped around her waist, she looked like an escapee from a Pearl Jam music video. Lyse watched as the girl produced a violet-colored pen from another pocket and began to write.

She ripped the page out of the notepad and handed it to Lyse:

Following a dream. Are you okay?

“I couldn't stay in the bungalow. Alone . . .” Lyse said, trailing off as she folded the piece of paper and put it into her pants pocket. “I needed to escape.”

Lizbeth nodded her understanding, and Lyse wondered if the girl had ever felt a similar urge to run away from her life and disappear into the shadows.

“But then I came up here and someone had vandalized my fucking swing—”

Lyse's throat tightened. She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached and the urge to sob disappeared. Lizbeth, in her infinite patience, waited for Lyse to continue.

“Sorry about that,” Lyse went on, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “You know the swing, right?”

Lizbeth nodded, her long braid slapping against her back. Something about the girl's eyes, the way they shone in the sunlight, pierced Lyse's cracked heart and all her hard fought composure melted away. First the swing and now the innocent look of pity on Lizbeth's face . . . it broke Lyse open. She felt hot tears burning the corners of her eyes, but she refused to wipe them away.

“I killed someone last night,” she whispered, the need to confide her sin greater than she'd realized. “I mean, at least, I
think
I did . . . and now I'm not so sure.”

She found no recrimination in Lizbeth's eyes. Instead, the teenager reached out and wrapped her arms around Lyse's shoulders, hugging her tight. They stood like that for a long time, the sun cresting over their heads as it lit up the whole of the L.A. River basin. From their vantage point high in the Echo Park hills, they did not see the water meander slowly down its man-made channel, or the 5 freeway come to life with the flow of morning rush-hour traffic.

*   *   *

Lyse was on edge as she made coffee in the stovetop espresso maker. She sat down at the round oak kitchen table to drink it and felt like thousands of pairs of eyes were watching her, spying on her comings and goings, so they could file away information about her every move. Maybe some giant computer somewhere was collecting all the info for further tabulation, turning her life into a series of ones and zeroes—which sounded rather comforting if it got rid of all those pesky emotions like guilt.

Guilt. She was tortured by it. The image of her uncle David crushed and bleeding underneath the Lady of the Lake statue filled her mind. The way his fingers twitched, bloody and pale white in the moonlight; the sound of stone driving flesh and bone into asphalt, compressing a living being into mush. His scream had been the worst. Like an earwig tickling her
eardrum, it wiggled around inside the labyrinth of her ear canal, repeating itself over and over again.

She fought to push the image out of her brain, to banish it to some nether region of her cerebral cortex where she could pretend it didn't exist—even though the whole strange night was, of course, burned into her gray matter for eternity. She had hoped that telling Lizbeth would make her feel better, but it had only done the opposite: She felt crushed underneath the weight of her own anxiety.

Because even though there wasn't a body and the statue was still intact, Lyse
knew
she didn't dream her uncle's death.

The ringing phone cut into these morbid thoughts, throwing her a lifeline. Someone out in the real world was thinking of her—or, at the very least, was thinking of Eleanora—and wanted to connect.

Lyse got up from the table, the scrape of her chair competing with the jangle of the telephone. She grasped the receiver of the avocado-green corded telephone that hung on the wall by the refrigerator and slid it from its hanging cradle.

The jarring noise stopped midring.

“Hello?”

It was strange to stand there, an adult in the house where she'd spent her formative years. The last time she'd really used this phone, she'd hidden in the cupboard with the door closed, the cord wrapped around her finger as she'd tried to get some privacy. That was what it was like being a teenager: You felt constantly harassed, were always looking for an escape (especially from your own head), and you didn't want
anyone
knowing your business. The adult version of Lyse was an entirely different person from the angsty teenager, and she found it hard to reconcile the two aspects of herself.

“I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you were holding up okay?”

Dev's voice was warm and reassuring, and she could imagine her friend in the kitchen of the cozy Victorian she shared with
her partner, Freddy, and their two daughters, holding a mug of something hot and autumn-spicy in her hand.

“You must be psychic,” Lyse said, then realized the old adage actually kind of applied in this situation. Dev was a diviner, the tarot her divination tool of choice. Though Lyse hadn't seen Dev at work, from what Eleanora and the other blood sisters said, she was very talented at her craft.

“What's wrong?” Dev asked, instantly picking up on the fact that something was amiss.

Lyse twisted the rubbery telephone cord around her finger. She was desperate to pour out the horror of the previous night's encounter with the man who claimed to be her long-lost uncle David. She'd tell her story—the kidnapping, the attack, the ghost causing the Lady of the Lake statue to topple and crush her uncle to death—and Dev's maternal instincts would kick in and she'd tell Lyse it wasn't her fault, that her uncle's death was his own doing. And this would happen before she'd even told Dev the worst of it: that this horrible human being, this uncle she'd never known, was the murderer responsible for Eleanora's death.

Something he'd told her, wearing a look of glee on his hateful face, before he'd tried to murder her, too.

“It's not something . . .” She paused, unsure of how to put it. “I mean, uh, maybe I can come to you. We can talk? I don't want to do it over the phone.”

“Of course, come now,” Dev said. “Come whenever . . . I just want you to know you can tell me anything and I won't judge. It's always a safe space at the Montrose house.”

Lyse wasn't worried about being judged. She was worried about going to jail if a body ever turned up.

“Give me an hour—I wanna shower and get dressed.”

“Of course,” Dev replied, a breathless quality to her voice.

“And get hold of the others,” Lyse added. “I'm really sorry, but I think we're in way over our heads.”

Even then she knew the sentence was an understatement.

T
he knock at the door scared her.

Showered now and dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of old acid-washed jeans, she made her way through the living room, finding that the sunlight streaming through the skylights gave the space a hazy, ephemeral quality. Like looking at the world though a layer of gauzy cotton fabric, or a camera lens greased with Vaseline in an attempt to blur the edges of an already dreamlike reality.

A second knock on the door made Lyse jump. She stopped at the stone fireplace to scoop up the black wrought-iron poker and held the makeshift weapon aloft, feeling its heft in her hand. No matter who was at the door, she wanted to be prepared, and just holding the heavy poker made her feel more secure.

Moving with as little sound as possible, she crossed the hardwood floor, reaching the front door just as another volley of knocks echoed through the bungalow. She stopped at the threshold, letting the abrasive knocking wash over her. Holding her breath, she hoisted the poker in front of her like a lance.

“I have a weapon, but I don't want to hurt you!” she yelled, her words ringing with what she hoped was authority.

The banging stopped.

Her heart, which was already beating faster than normal, started to hammer in staccato sixteenth notes—so fast Lyse began to feel light-headed. She waited for the person on the other side of the door to say something.

There was only silence.

She reached out with her free hand and unlocked the deadbolt. Her other arm was shaking from the effort of holding up the poker, so she let the weapon drop to her side—but that didn't mean she couldn't brandish it again at a moment's notice.

I'm an idiot,
Lyse thought.
I should go call the police. Only a vapid scream queen opens the door when there's clearly something monstrous waiting on the other side.

She grasped the handle and turned, but didn't open the door. Instead, she stood there, hand on the cold metal, willing herself not to be a coward. She slowly began to count to ten under her breath, steeling herself to rise to the occasion—and as the number eight passed her lips, she threw open the door.

There was no one there.

Of course there wasn't.

She sagged in the doorway, and the adrenaline, which up until a few seconds earlier had been coursing through her veins like fire, evaporated. She felt nauseated and weak with exhaustion, her legs boiled noodles that could barely hold her up. Black dots flickered at the edge of her vision, and if she hadn't just downed two espressos' worth of coffee, she might've given in to her body's demands and passed out.

Then she noticed the tarot card poking out from underneath the woven sisal doormat. She knelt down, her fingers sliding the card from its resting place. She held it up so she could get a better look at The Fool from the Rider-Waite tarot deck.

She turned the card over and saw someone had scrawled a message in black pen on the back.

Beware the Fool.

She stood in the doorway for a few long minutes, back pressed against the doorframe as she peered out into the late-morning light, the tarot card held tightly between her fingers. A prickle on the back of her neck told her whoever had left the tarot card was still in close proximity, watching her carefully. She squinted, eyes roaming the confines of the wooden deck and koi pond, looking for some sign of her visitor.

Nothing. Only the lingering scent of a spicy men's cologne.

Her eyes cut through the wall of bamboo separating Eleanora's bungalow from the neighboring house, but she couldn't discover her watcher's hiding place. Human eyes can only see so far, and, in the end, Lyse was not a formidable adversary. Cold and sick-feeling, she finally gave up the search and went back inside, closing the door behind her.

The
click
of the deadbolt being thrown into place was quick and sharp, the sound dying almost as soon as it was born. Anyone who was close enough to hear it would know its meaning:

Lyse was scared.

*   *   *

Lyse placed the tarot card on the kitchen counter faceup. She didn't want to see the spidery writing on its back, and holding it made her feel strange.

She began to pace, not sure what her next move should be. She didn't want to leave the house, but there was nothing for it. She'd told Dev she was going over there, to the old Victorian that had been in the Montrose family for over a century, and Dev would've made sure the rest of the coven—Arrabelle, Daniela, and Lizbeth—would be coming, too.

Wait.

Daniela lived across the street. If Lyse asked, she would totally come over and walk with her to Dev's house.

She felt foolish as soon as the thought entered her head. She
was a grown woman, not a child. She should be able to leave her house without an escort. But once she'd had the idea, it wouldn't leave her mind and so she crossed the kitchen, picking up the phone receiver one more time.

She realized she didn't know Daniela's phone number—but Eleanora's old handwritten address book was still sitting on the shelf below the telephone. She thumbed through it, recognizing few of the names inside. Finally, she found the page where Eleanora had written Daniela's name and phone number. It looked more recent than many of the other entries, written in pencil instead of the blue ink Eleanora had used for the rest of the address book.

She dialed Daniela's number and waited, holding the receiver tightly to her ear. The line rang three times before Daniela picked up.

“Lyse?”

She must have Caller ID,
Lyse thought.

Daniela was an empath, and that meant her magical abilities were completely unconnected to fortune-telling or precognition. Caller ID was the only way she could've known Lyse was on the other end of the line.

Thank God for technology.

“Hey, yeah, it's me,” Lyse said, twirling the cord tightly around her finger, so the tip went a bloodless white. “Not sure if Dev called you or not, but I'm heading down to her place and thought we could walk together?”

“What's up? You don't sound so good.”

Daniela was astute when it came to reading human emotion. She didn't have to touch Lyse to know something was wrong.

“Long story,” Lyse replied. “Long one that's best told to everyone at once. And I'm gonna need you guys to tell me what to do. Some bad shit . . .”

She stopped there, her throat constricting as she felt hot tears burning her eyes.

“Lyse?”

Real concern in Daniela's voice.

Lyse fought back the tears, pushing all the swirling emotions away.

“I'm okay,” she said, fighting to sound a little brighter. “Nothing we can't figure out.”

“When do you wanna go?”

Lyse thought for a moment before answering, then decided she didn't care how immature her vulnerability made her seem. She really didn't want to be alone.

“Can you come get me now?”

She hung up the phone and felt better almost immediately. The coven mates Lyse inherited from Eleanora were more than just friends now, more than family even . . . it was as if they'd become a part of her soul. Her connection to these women went beyond the physical world.

Another knock at the door drew her from her thoughts—but something was wrong. It was too soon. There was no way Daniela could've gotten ready and made her way over to the bungalow in such a short amount of time. True, Daniela only lived across the street, but in her gut, Lyse knew the petite, rainbow-haired woman was
not
the person standing outside.

The knock came again and Lyse grabbed the poker, moving to the door. She pressed her palm against the wood.

“Go away! I'll call the police if you don't get out of here!”

There was a slight hesitation and then:

“Lyse? It's Weir. Will you open the door, please?”

She dropped the poker and unlocked the door, disengaging the deadbolt with a loud
thunk
. In a moment he was standing in the doorway, filling it with his strong, solid presence. His blond hair was mussed, sticking up at odd angles, windblown because he'd walked over from the house he shared with his sister, Lizbeth.

Weir was gorgeous, firm, and
real
when nothing else in her life felt that way. She liked him, liked the way he looked and smelled. Liked that he was covered in beautiful nautical
tattoos—something she'd meant to ask him more about but hadn't gotten around to doing yet.

“Is Lizbeth here?” he asked, his voice taut.

She shook her head.

“Is something wrong?” Lyse asked. Weir wasn't here for her, and she felt disappointment bloom in her heart. “I saw her this morning. Up by the swing. But that was a while ago.”

“Dammit, I told her to stay in the house today.”

He turned to go, distraction like a film over his eyes.

“If she's not here, then maybe she's in Elysian Park,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then addressing Lyse: “Two detectives came by the house—a man and a woman. There was something really creepy about them. They wanted to talk to her, but when I went looking . . . she was gone. They were not happy.”

The mention of the word
detective
shot a bolt of fear through Lyse's heart.
Had they come to question Lizbeth about Lyse's uncle? That didn't make any sense—how could they have known Lyse mentioned anything about the previous night to Lizbeth?

Weir turned to leave, but Lyse grasped his arm, her fingers wrapping around the thick bicep underneath the light corduroy jacket. Touching him—even through fabric—made her shiver.

“Wait, I'll go with you.”

He nodded.

“Okay, yeah, more eyes the better.”

She released her grip on his arm and he went for the door. It appeared her touch didn't ignite the same electric feeling in him that it did in her. She knew he was worried, that fear might be jamming the circuits—or maybe it was just the terrible way they'd left things the last time they were together.

“Wait. Daniela. She was coming over,” Lyse called out to Weir as she grabbed one of Eleanora's shawls from the coat rack by the door and slipped it around her shoulders. “We can stop and pick her up. More eyes, right?”

She realized she'd almost forgotten her keys on the kitchen
counter. She quickly scooped them up, then locked the door behind her.

“Wait up!” Lyse called, jogging to catch up with Weir, who was already halfway across the street to Daniela's house.

Running made the wound on her calf split open again—the damn thing just wasn't healing properly—and she had to slow down. She crossed Curran Street at a limp and headed for the front door where Weir was already waiting. The girls, Verity and Veracity—Daniela's two gorgeous black cats—were lazing on the rickety front porch, but they both snapped to attention as soon as Lyse and Weir arrived. Apparently they liked the cut of Weir's jib because before Lyse could call out to them, they were twining around his legs like two sensuous snakes.

“Daniela?” Weir called, and knocked on the front door.

Lyse knelt down and stroked the two cats, who were meowing for attention.

“They sure seem to like you,” Lyse said, using the stair's handrail to keep herself balanced.

“We're friends.”

And what does that mean?
Lyse wondered. Why was Weir friends with Daniela's cats? She thought Daniela didn't go for men.

Just for you,
Lyse's mind teased.

She knew her coven mate thought she was cute. It was obvious from the way Daniela looked at her. As flattering as it was that Daniela found her attractive, Lyse only had eyes for Weir.

Lyse felt the blood rush to her cheeks as the door opened and Daniela stared down at her. From the quirk in her friend's lopsided grin, Lyse began to worry that Daniela had a hidden talent for mind reading.

“I thought I was coming to you, hotcake,” Daniela said in a teasing voice. Then her face became serious as her eyes shifted from Lyse to Weir. She frowned. “Okay, the vibe you're giving off? Not good. What's going on?”

She stepped onto the porch, joining them, and Lyse thought her paint-spattered Dickies and wifebeater made her look about twelve years old—but then she slipped on a Members Only jacket, and that, coupled with her black leather gloves, took her from “teenybopper” to “Hillside Strangler” in the blink of an eye.

“The police came to their house. They wanted to talk to Lizbeth, but Weir can't find her. We think she might be in Elysian Park,” Lyse said.

“I don't think they were real police,” Weir said quietly. “Something was off about them. I don't know what the deal is, but since Eleanora died, things have been strange up in these hills.”

“Shit,” Daniela said, eyes wide. She shot Lyse a look that said:
This is not good.

“I know LB likes to go for walks up in the park,” Weir continued. “And yesterday, she was chomping at the bit to get out to the Dragon. I think she might've gone out there on her own.”