Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (20 page)

             
“You say ‘most of us’. The Wraith don’t live the way that you do?” I asked.

             
“No. The Wraith are warped. They’re thieves, murderers, psychological rapists.” His breath caught at his loose use of the violent word and he glanced up to measure my reaction. I tried not to flinch. He slid closer and took both my hands in his. This was why he’d been reluctant to share this kind of information with me. “Nightmares invoke an electrical impulse that differs in chemical makeup than in regular dreaming. The Wraith use this chemical as an intoxicant. It gives them incredibly corrupted power. So, they intentionally weave nightmares in order to get their fix, and to gain this power.”

             
“Like Sabre did to me?”

             
“Not exactly. Sabre was testing if he could extract a memory and manipulate it while you were awake. He didn’t mean to scare you. He was just—being Sabre. The Rephaim, they haunt people’s nightmares and amplify them. Then, feed off the fear and magnified brain waves produced. They don’t care how it affects the dreamer. Or the end result.”

             
I tilted my head slightly, like Eddyson hearing a strange sound. “End result?”

             
“Mental disorders, paranoia. Insanity.” His voice was halting. This was really not information he wanted me to know.

             
“You’ve had personal experience.” I squeezed his hands to reassure him.

             
“I have.” He tried to hide a twitch of tension, hesitated to embellish.

             
I continued to eat in silence, pondering this new information. “Nick?” I whispered hoarsely.

             
“Mm hmm?” He was obviously somewhere far away.

             
“If a Nightmare Wraith used a memory of, say, a python strangling a human to death…” I winced at my own macabre thoughts, “Could the memory be used to kill?”

             
Nick groaned softly and rubbed his face as if trying to clear away a nightmare from his brain. His breath heaved wearily as he suppressed a response.

             
“I’m sorry, that was really morbid of me,” I apologized, sure that I had stepped over an invisible line.

             
He glanced up at me. Regret darkened his eyes. He neither confirmed nor denied my question. “It’s not that. I’ve told you too much about us already. It would be so much safer for you if you knew nothing.”

             
“Why? They wouldn’t come after me, would they?” I didn’t have to elaborate on who ‘they’ were, we both knew. I hoped he would reassure me, hoped he would tell me ‘no, no way,’ but we already knew one of their kind had been skulking around my home recently.

             
His eyes apologized again.

             
“But they won’t, right? They don’t have a reason. Right?”

             
He brushed his warm, soft lips across my knuckles and forced a smile. “Right,” he lied unconvincingly. “They have no reason. Besides, I’ll be here to take care of you.” I looked into his eyes and read a deep sadness, then he blinked and it was gone. He pushed his plate away, stood, and tugged at my hand. “There’s been enough bad stuff. Let’s talk about more pleasant things.”

             
I stood and faced him. “All right. What do you suggest?”

             
Nick led me to the couch where we snuggled in a blanket. He quietly explained the intricacies of the human brain in layman’s terms; about how memories are compartmentalized and Weavers don’t automatically know every memory a person has, but that they have to search with specific terms to find memories like an internet search engine. Each of them has learned the area of the brain to access short and long term memory, and how to separate recent and past memories.

             
“Humans typically don’t have the ability to hide a memory,” he explained, “Though they can, intentionally or unintentionally, bury them very deep under emotions. A Weaver is able to choose which of his own memories are accessible to others. Their minds function as living libraries and they can access every memory they’ve ever picked up from people in their vast archives, whether human memories or ancient memories passed down from Caphar to Caphar.”

             
My heart pounded at the idea of sharing a memory of someone who had lived hundreds, if not thousands of years ago. What a rush to see how someone lived that long ago, to know what they thought, how they felt?

             
“
We
can enter your mind, and read your memories, then change or erase those memories at will.” He paused assessing my face. “If we have an archived memory, we can twist that memory until it's yours, and you’d never know the difference—if we didn’t want you to.”

             
“So, if I had a fantasy of visiting a time or place that matched a memory you’ve collected, you could make me believe it was my memory, not someone else’s?”

             
“Essentially, yes.”

             
“If I wanted a moonlit stroll on a warm Cali beach…”

             
He leaned forward. “Been there, done that. I can go you one better. How about a beach somewhere in the South Pacific?”

             
I closed my eyes and laughed. “Anything to escape this miserable snow!”

             
He chuckled, and led me back to my bedroom, gesturing grandly toward the bed. “Hop in.”

             
“Um, just curious, but, we spend an awful lot of time in bed for two people who aren’t having sex.” Embarrassed, I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

             
Nick stepped up to me and lifted my chin. His warm lips gently brushed mine. A surge of adrenaline shot through my body, short-circuiting my breath. Nick backed away, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “It’s simple. The bed is just more comfortable. That’s all.”

             
“Oh,” I managed, feeling dumb, and numb, and dizzy. His lips always shied away from mine. Maybe this was why. Maybe it had something to do with the high amplitude brain waves he dealt with. Maybe there was some kind of amperage behind his kiss, as well.

             
He chuckled and launched himself onto the bed, flopped down against the pillows and patted the spot next to him. “Let’s go, my little toy.” I tumbled into the bed at his side, rested my head on his shoulder, my arm draped over his chest. He chuckled again, a soft rumbling sound, like the purr of that Cheshire cat.

             
“I don’t usually do this to humans who are awake. It should be interesting. Most Weavers have an eidetic memory, so this will be an exceptionally vivid, realistic experience, as if you were actually there. You’ll feel the warm, humid breeze, the hot sand between your toes, smell the pungent salt of the ocean, see individual blades of grass, and taste the sweetness of a margarita.”

             
“I’m more of a straight shots kind of girl.”

             
He leaned closer and kissed my forehead. “Straight shots it is. Vintage island rum. Very smooth. I’ll even warm you with a nice little buzz if you like.”

             
I giggled. “Mmmm, maybe just a little.”

             
“A little it is,” he murmured, “And no hangover in the morning.”

             
I collected my thoughts with a deep draught of air, and willed every muscle sedate with its slow measured release.

             
Sultry, radiant heat seeped into my skin and drenched my heart with serenity. Hot, white sand as sparkling and crystalline as sugar flowed away on either side of me and dissolved into the sea on the distant horizon. Turquoise waves lovingly stroked the beach. The clear golden sun glinted and danced off tumbling breakers. The sky was vast and endless, an untainted, glowing cobalt blue. No wisp of cloud or plane contrail marred its celestial arc. It was sheer perfection; a heavenly, resplendent day.

             
The warm tide wrapped its gentle fingers around my feet and ankles and splashed delicately up my calves, while tiny bluegill nibbled at my hot pink polished toes. Laughter—a buried, forgotten treasure—broke free from its prison deep within me.

             
Nick hovered silently a few feet away in the shade of a thatched bungalow. He smiled triumphantly at this token of solace he had gifted to me. Even his joy became a palpable sensation in this place.

             
“This is beyond amazing,” I whispered as though the taboo of speech would break the spell of splendor. My senses pulsed, baptized in the beauty of the place, overwhelmed at the pure artistry that encompassed me. Nick truly had an eye for detail. Even a choir of kaleidoscopic birds preening in the trees charmed my ears; the fragrance from a rainbow of exotic flora saturated the soft warm air.

             
Nick led me down the beach. The tepid waves defused the beads of sweat extracted from my skin by the blazing sun and white-hot sand. We followed the curves of the alabaster shore, content just to hold hands in quiet company and savor paradise.

             
In the distance, grey rock littered the ivory sand and the beach ascended away from the ocean. Foaming waves broke against a rocky reef, and misty spray hissed into the air with each convulsion of the sea. At the highest point of the land, a gleaming white pinnacle pierced the heavens. An ancient lighthouse, built to guide seafarers in bygone days, blazed against the azure sky.

             
Nick culled the history of the place, the memories of its keepers trapped forever on its raiment. His hands lovingly stroked handrails and equipment as he wordlessly transferred the stories to me. We compassed the lighthouse and its grounds, reliving antiquated memories and extinct waves that had once crashed upon these shores.

             
The day slid slowly into the ocean as the sun submerged under dark waves. It cast a golden orange and pink glow across our private, tropical universe. Playful and laughing, we returned to the beach and made the trek back to the bungalows. Under the dark canopy of the evening sky, a heavy blanket was spread out invitingly on the sand. A low table adorned with a platter of exotic fruits and breads, and a crystal flask of amber liquid with two shot glasses awaited us.

             
The night sky erased the day, and darkened into deeper shades of ebony every moment—a reflection of Nick’s eyes. The stars sparked to life one by one at first, then the whole sky erupted with multifaceted jewels. We lay on the blanket nibbling on fruit and bread, pointing out the constellations, and listening to the roar of the waves.

             
Nick rolled over to face me, delicately tracing his fingertips from my shoulder to my wrist. He took my hand, pressed it to his lips, and gazed intently into my eyes. His eyes blazed with a fierce affection and his lips found mine with the same fire.

              My heart was pounding in my chest like the roar of the surf, yet my body lay limp and heavy, relaxed against the sinewy ripple of his. I basked in the memory of the beach. Despite the coolness of the room, my body glistened with a fine mantle of sweat.

             
Nick tipped my face up to his, brushed away straggling wisps of hair that stuck to the sheen on my face. Gently, he pressed his mouth to mine with tender, passionate kisses. He hovered above me, his eyes penetrating my soul, willing me to see his heart. His lips returned softly to mine, his body pressed to mine, his hand caressing the small of my back. I couldn’t help but respond to him, to return the passion he ignited within me. My heart thundered in my breast and my breaths came fast and shallow, my skin burned with fever. Yet deep down somewhere inside me a tiny tremble shuddered into life.

             
Nick’s fingers entwined in my hair, and he pressed his body harder to mine. His kisses grew harder, the passion enflaming us both, its heat suffused our skin with sweat. Yet the tremble inside me continued to grow.

             
The tiniest sensation tipped the scale. Something that would have otherwise been irrelevant it was so minuscule. It was a minute flash of pain, a tug at a single hair, but it ripped loose the tremor, racking my body so hard I whimpered.

             
Nick froze.

             
“I can’t…I can’t do this.”

              He pressed his forehead to mine, stroking my cheek with his thumb, his breath heavy with the fire that engulfed his heart and body.

             
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, feeling like a tease. “I’m sorry.”

             
“Shhh.” His breath rippled, fast and shallow through my hair. “Shh. Sweetie. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

             
“I’m sorry. I just can’t. It’s too soon. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” My sobs devolved into panic.

             
Nick’s breathing ebbed slowly, his fevered expression softened. “It’s all right, Em. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who should be sorry. I started it. I just got carried away. I didn’t mean to push you or frighten you.”