Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (33 page)

             
Just then, the children, Peter and Emma, ran into the room screaming my name. Peter was ten and Emma twelve, and both the perfect combination of both of their parents. I stood and braced for the onslaught of hyperactive hugs, and when we were done, I joined them in a close circle on the floor. Their parents sat back contentedly and listened to the conversation between us.

             
Emma grew progressively quieter, as she watched my face with stern concentration. “Emi?” she finally said, in a sweet quiet voice.

             
My heart stopped, and then thrashed around in my chest. I flinched as though my heart had exploded within me, though I couldn’t explain why, even to myself. “Yes, Em?” I remembered when she was eight or nine and we joked about being Em and Em, like the candies not the rapper.

             
“What happened to your face?”

             
The room grew thick with silence and tension. Celeste nearly choked on her drink as she tried to warn off her daughter.

             
I raised a hand to the panicking parents. “No. It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Adrian patted his wife’s shoulder and nodded. I turned back to Emma. “Well, Em, there was a very bad man who came to my store. He did this.”

             
“Was that you on the news?” Peter asked. I didn’t know ten year olds watched the news.

             
“Yes.” Succinct was probably best.

             
“Did it hurt?” Emma’s eyes were teary as her small fingers trembled alongside the healing gash on my cheek.

             
“Yes. But I don’t remember a lot of it.”

             
“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Emma said and pressed her hand to my cheek. She smelled sugary sweet, like candy canes and bubblegum and innocence. Her touch sent waves of healing heat throughout my body. I hummed a note of relief and covered her hand with my own.

             
“Me, too,” Peter chimed in.

             
“Thank you. That means a lot. I’m doing okay now. It was hard at first. Really hard.” Emma laced her fingers with mine and traced the veins on the back of my hand. Peter picked at the tread of my shoe.

             
“I miss Uncle Zeke,” Peter pouted, and plopped back down on his pockets. “He used to give me great piggy back rides and stuff.”

             
I thought Celeste was going to blow a gasket her face turned so red. She sputtered and gasped, as she choked on her drink. I waved her down again. Adrian nervously patted her back. “Me too. We did all kinds of fun stuff together, didn’t we?” I managed a genuine smile of fond remembrances, imagined ‘Uncle Zeke’ galloping around the circular drive in front of Adrian’s mansion with a much smaller Peter clamped to his back. Emma leaned against me, tucked her head under my chin and ran her sweet, warm hand sympathetically up and down my arm. This small gesture was miraculous. All my tension, all my sorrow melted under her touch.

             
The three of us sat in a small circle on the floor and exchanged stories about my parents; funny memories, scary moments, misguided adventures. I told them about my dad’s slingshot and his hunting trips with his .22 rifle and his adventures with cottonmouth snakes. Adrian looked on, his head cocked to the side, as if he puzzled over my recall of the stories. After a while, Adrian and Celeste joined in. The stories and anecdotes became a curative therapy, healing balm for all of us—long overdue.

             
“Oh!” Peter jumped up, “We got you presents.” He ran to the tree, and bundled the beautifully wrapped gifts in his arms. He returned to my side, flopped down on the floor and unceremoniously dumped the gifts in my lap. I smiled at his mother’s stern look.

             
“Thank you. I wish you hadn’t. I haven’t bought gifts for anyone this year. I’ve been a bit of a Scrooge, trying not to believe in Christmas at all anymore.”

             
“Quite all right, Emari,” Celeste chimed in. “We just wanted you to have something special for Christmas, to remind you that we’re here for you.”

             
“Thank you.” The muscles in my throat constricted and ached.

             
“Open, open, open!” chanted Peter and Emma joined in.

             
I unwrapped the paper and laid it aside, then opened the white jewelry box and tipped out the black velvet box into my hand. The hinges creaked quietly when I lifted the lid and I gasped. “Adrian. Celeste. This is…this is incredible.” On the white satin of the box rested a diamond-encrusted pendant on a fine white-gold chain. The pendant read, “Dream On.”

             
Adrian took my hand, pulled me from the floor and led me to a mirror. He delicately removed the necklace from the box. Standing behind me, he slipped the chain around my neck and fastened it. He looked at the reflection of my eyes as they glowed dewy green from my tears. “Your parents believed in following your dreams.” He fingered the charm at my wrist that still radiated with the warmth of my father’s touch. “They wanted you to dream big dreams and become everything you could become. We wanted to remind you that there is more to your life than nightmares. And though everything is hard, painful to endure, right now, there is still a life in front of you and you can do and be anything you want.” I let him wrap me in his fatherly arms, and sobbed into his chest.

             
“Thank you, Uncle Adrian,” I finally managed. Celeste joined us. “Thank you, Celeste.” This was the children’s cue to join the group hug. I kissed each of them on the head, Emma and then Peter. “Kiss the monkey. Eck! Hairball!” I teased through my tears. The hug broke apart with everyone laughing.

             
I finished opening the gifts. Emma made a poster for my bedroom wall, brightly decorated with stars, moons, and comets that read, “Dream! Dream! Dream!” The markers she used even glowed in the dark. Peter chose, with his mother’s help I’m sure, two ornately decorated combs for my hair with tiny silver moons and stars dangling from them. I recognized the theme. This was my inspiration to look ahead and leave the past where it belonged—in the past.

             
Yes, it was definitely time and the choice was decidedly mine.

*              *              *

              Later that evening, I sat at the window seat in my living room, Eddyson curled in my lap, as I watched the snow fall in huge chunks through the halo of light that surrounded my home. They say it's getting warmer when the flakes get big like that. Whoever the hell ‘they’ are.

             
There was still a gaping hole in the puzzle of my life and blank pieces still drifted in and out of place. The reflection of the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree drew my attention and, to my surprise, I was content to have the tree in my home; not as a reminder of the Christmases lost, but of those yet to come. For the first time since the crash, the ache in my chest felt almost bearable, not gone but manageable. For the first time, it felt like my life could survive this nightmare, like this one oppressively painful place was surmountable, no longer suspended in time or bound in ice.

             
I wasn’t a victim anymore. I
chose
not to be a rape victim for the rest of my life. I was a rape survivor. I was a survivor. Period. I had gone through the sudden, horrific death of my parents and the violent assault of my body, and I had lived. A little battered, bruised and scarred for life, but I had lived. I survived. Those things affected me and who I was, but I refused to let them define me. Only I could define me.

             
I picked up the phone and dialed, waited through progressive transfers and holds. Finally, the voice I’d been waiting for answered. “Hello. This is Collin Ryal, Store Manager for Cash’s Department Store. I’m not available to take your call, but please leave a message after the tone and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”

             
“Hey Collin. It’s Emari. Could ya use a couple of extra hands this week? Give me a call.”

             
The next call took all of my remaining strength. Ivy happily agreed to attend a Survivor’s meeting with me. After I hung up with her, I crawled into bed still dressed for the day. I contemplated the next night’s meeting…

             
“Hi, my name is Emari Sweet and I am a survivor….”

              No, there were no dripping vampire fangs, no werewolves or zombies, no nightmares to keep me forever anchored to the past. No angels and no demons. It was all me. Just me…                           

December 25             

             
So it seems that some Rephaim have increased in power and acquired new abilities. Along with their insatiable need for nightmare-enhanced brainwaves and an unending desire to inflict their madness on the human race, they are now able to detect burgeoning Caphar abilities from a distance, as well as the presence of developed Weavers within a vicinity.

             
In all likelihood, since the Rephaim are now able to detect pre-manifestation development, the potential exists for them to target these Caphar as mates, to procreate, whether voluntarily or not. A true, immortal incarnate. Incubus.

             
We MUST test ourselves harder, explore deeper, and learn to share gifts in the way that Rephaim have learned to steal them—without harm to one another. Weavers must have the ability to protect themselves and those around them. We must enhance the powers we now have and build our strength to equal that of the Rephaim, lest they annihilate us. With due caution, lest we yield and follow suit, becoming like them.

             
And what of the girl? So much that I could extract from her, learn from her—if not for Nickolas’ softness. His eye will be upon her, though she may never set hers upon him again—if his will abides.

             
So much to know…And the girl is the key.

Sabre

Epilogue

Emari

              “Good-bye” doesn’t make everything better. It heals. Some. But some mortal wounds are never fully healed. The pain is less, more bearable by the day. But it will never go away. Emily Dickinson called pain ‘ceremonious’, ‘like tombs’. Tombs are nearly immortal. They decay and crumble only after generation upon generation has passed away. Truth compounded reality; my pain would outlive me.

             
I tried to go back to work. But I only sat and hyperventilated in the parking garage, paralyzed by fear and psychical phantoms that no one saw but me. There were no warm arms to greet me, nor happy songs to cheer me. I wasn’t capable of going inside without their escort, like my body refused to move—betrayed me like my ‘forever friend’.

             
And so I drove home, and curled up with Eddyson in my window seat. I admired the sparkling snow—stared off to the south.  I felt drawn by some unknown force. An occasional glimmer captured my eye and sent my heart thundering in my chest, only to drift away in the frigid wind. I caught myself, more than once, as I bundled up and grabbed my keys, to head to…to I didn’t know where.

             
So how I ended up in a ditch alongside the long driveway that led to a house of a stranger eluded me. In a daze, I’d driven there, tugged by a fragile gossamer web. And though the freezing wind bit through my clothes, tore at my flesh, and my fingers turned crimson and hard, I stumbled on toward the house and…

             
I raised my frosted fingers to knock and imagined them shattering like frozen poly-alloy with the impact, but wasn’t sure I’d ever be warm enough again for the pieces to reconstitute. I wished someone would answer though I shifted to go, in fear that they would. Then the door opened with a vacuous suck and the light from within blinded me. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and beheld the silhouette of a man standing impatiently in the door frame.

             
“Yes?” His voice was thick and annoyed, like I’d interrupted a nap or something.

             
“I’m sorry. I just…” I dropped my hand and heard a quiet chortle.

             
“Well, well, well.” His hot, strong hands gripped my arms. Heat rushed through me, strange and familiar, disquieting and comforting. My body yielded, acquiescent as he drew me into his home like a spider reeling in its prey. The door slid closed behind me with a click of finality. The sweet scent of cedar and fireplace smoke drifted through my nose and across my tongue. He stepped slowly into the light and I could finally see the face of the man who brought me here; finally know the source of magic that lured me by the shard of a memory. His face was angular with a small cleft in his chin. His eyes were the color of warm milk chocolate and they crinkled at the corners. And in those eyes I beheld two things; home—safe and warm, and sheer stark terror.

             
“And so she drifts.” His arm wrapped around my shoulders and he led me deeper into his lair.