Dreamfire (6 page)

“Bleh,” she groaned, falling onto the unmade bed. She'd gone upstairs after talking to her grandmother and immediately fallen asleep in the armchair in her bedroom. Now her body felt hesitant to wake up, as if confused by the lack of sunlight. Her clothes had lost all of their stiffness and breathed with her.

Okay, clean clothes before Louis gets here.

But as she dragged herself into a sitting position, she remembered what she had thought she heard as she woke up.
I saw a gate beyond the arch.
She'd been hearing Ian say it for months, his voice cutting through the instant between sleeping and waking.

She stood up and started to get undressed, but the usual questions ran through her mind.
A gate beyond the arch? Beyond the arch that opens into the Dream? What sort of gate?

There would be no sorting it out tonight—not when she had an apprentice to greet. Josh changed quickly into black jeans, a maroon shirt with half-length sleeves, and a black sweater. She grabbed the journal her father had given to her as a birthday gift: a sturdy, inch-thick book bound in black leather, and a golden ballpoint pen to go with it.

Josh debated a moment over the contents of the wicker basket on the bathroom counter. She wasn't planning to enter the Dream tonight, but better safe than sorry. She put the compact and Zippo in her pocket.

After collecting a blanket and her coat, Josh went out to the front porch. The night was chilly and the stars were still hidden by thin clouds. The porch swing was set at a right angle to the house, giving it a long arc. Josh sat down on the padded seat and chucked her shoes before tucking her feet under herself. Wrought-iron lanterns hung on either side of the front door, shedding just enough light by which to write.

Dear Diary
,

I tried, but I can't write to a book. It feels weird, and more than enough things feel weird right now. I'm going to start over.

My name is Joshlyn Dustine Hazel Weavaros. This is my first journal.

I've never kept a journal before. I've read all the journals of famous dream walkers, but they're so formal and smart and everybody sounds like they know what they're doing. They always start with something like, “Today I turned seventeen years old and assumed the mantle of responsibility that is my birthright. From this day forth I will record all my deeds for future generations.”

But I don't know what to write.

I don't feel like an adult.

I'm sitting on the front porch, waiting for my apprentice to arrive. Dad says it makes no difference if I know the apprentice is coming or not, but it does. It does to me. If he just showed up, fell through the ceiling, or saw somebody coming out of the Dream and flying through the archway, and said, “Hey, I'd like to learn that. Would you teach me, Josh?” then I would be like, “Yeah, I could show you a couple of things, if you're interested.” And it would be … casual, or natural, or something. There wouldn't be this huge responsibility on me: You must have an apprentice. You must train the apprentice. You must keep the apprentice alive.

I can't handle that kind of pressure. And the worst part is that Dad and Kerstel keep saying I'll be great at it, I'll be fine, it's not a big deal. I'm not as good as everyone thinks I am. Just because I'm a good dream walker doesn't mean I'm a good teacher. It doesn't even mean I'm a good person.

I wish I had a role model or something, somebody who had an apprentice who could tell me how all this works. But I don't even know any apprentices. It's not like this happens every day. I think the only way to get an apprentice is to have one written into your scroll, and that's pretty rare. Not unheard-of, just rare.

Wait a sec. What am I talking about? Wasn't Grandma an apprentice?

“Am I interrupting?”

Josh glanced up and saw Winsor standing in front of her. Her shining hair caught the light and amplified it. “No,” Josh said. “Sit down.”

Winsor wore cotton pants and a faded T-shirt, and instead of a coat, she had wrapped a thick throw blanket around her shoulders. She looked a little run-down, a little less like her collected, unfathomable self. Faintly more approachable.

“Deloise woke me up,” Winsor said. “She'll be down in a minute.”

Josh nodded. She wasn't super-excited to see her friend, whom she assumed had showed up to gloat in the event that Louis didn't arrive.

Winsor hesitated before sitting down on the swing beside Josh. “I don't mind if you don't want me around for this.”

For the first time in months, she didn't sound mocking or sarcastic. “Why wouldn't I want you around?” Josh asked.

“Because…” Winsor tilted her head, and then a ripple passed across her face, as if uncertainty lurked beneath her expression, disturbing her calm. “You might think that I'm trying to butt in where I don't belong. But … I know my place.” She paused again and added, “In this.”

Josh's gaze was drifting over the flagstones beneath her when she finally understood what Winsor meant. “Are you talking about what happened with Ian?” she asked, looking up.

Winsor's hands knotted together in a rare display of unease. “I realize that … I should have stayed out of your problems.”

Because you hooked up with him behind my back? You think that might have been a bad idea? Really?

Josh spent so much time feeling guilty about what had happened to Ian that she sometimes forgot she had reasons to be angry. But she avoided confronting her own anger the same way she avoided confronting Winsor's—by saying nothing—because she was terrified of the damage she might do if she spoke.

When she failed to reply, Winsor said, as if by explanation, “I'm not apologizing.”

Josh looked out over the dark yard so her friend wouldn't see the pain on her face. “Then don't apologize, Winsor.”

Another minute passed in silence before Winsor let out a long breath between her teeth. “Josh, we can't just go on not talking about it forever.”

“Yeah, we can.”

“That's—”

The sound of tires on gravel jarred them both. “Is that our drive?” Winsor asked as Josh climbed swiftly off the swing and walked over to the porch's railing.

One headlight grew as it came near, closing in on the house with steady speed. “What time is it?” Josh asked.

“Twelve twenty-nine and forty-nine seconds. This has to be him.”

“But it doesn't look like a car.…”

The front door opened. “He's here,” Winsor said, and Deloise squealed with delight as she came to stand by Josh's side.

“I thought I'd missed it,” she whispered.

They all waited breathlessly while the light turned, and then Winsor said, “It looks like a motorcycle.”

But it wasn't a motorcycle. It was a motor scooter.

The scooter stopped in front of the porch, a padded green box strapped to the back. The person riding it put down the kickstand and turned off the engine.

Will Kansas took off his helmet.

Josh turned and glared at Deloise.

“You ordered
pizza
?”

 

Five

“Am I at
the wrong house?” Will Kansas asked, seeing the look on Josh's face.

She barely heard him. She was still staring at Deloise in horrified disbelief.

“What?” Deloise asked. “You said you wanted it to be Louis. So I called Serena's Pizzeria and arranged for him to deliver a pizza to the house at twelve thirty. Win, what time is it?”

“Twelve thirty-one,” Winsor said. Josh heard her distantly, as if from a great height.

“See? He's right on time.”

“
That,
” Josh said, pointing at Will and gritting her teeth to keep from shouting, “is
not
Louis Poston.”

Deloise glanced toward the scooter. “Are you sure?”

“
I'm
sure,” Will mentioned.

Josh finally looked at him. He was wearing jeans with the knees missing—torn so badly he was about to lose one pant leg—and had a Serena's Pizzeria shirt, unbuttoned, thrown over his tattered white tee. His toes poked out of the ends of his shoes and his auburn hair hadn't been combed.

But he held her gaze with eyes as steady and perceptive as an owl's.

“It's him,” Winsor said, finally getting off the swing and walking to the edge of the porch.

“That's not Louis,” Josh said again.

“No,” Winsor said, lowering her voice. “I mean he's the apprentice. He showed up at exactly twelve thirty. No one else did.”

“But Deloise ordered a pizza for twelve thirty. Of course he showed up then.” Josh shook her head. “I can't believe you did this, Del.”

Deloise hovered on the verge of tears as she realized what was happening. “Oh my gosh! Josh, I didn't mean to, they said they'd send Louis—”

“They did,” Will interrupted, bringing everyone's attention back to him. “Louis got sick from some bad ravioli and asked me to cover for him. Is that a problem?”

Josh was starting to wonder if she hadn't eaten some of that ravioli herself. Her stomach was clenched so tight it could have fit inside a chicken egg.

“There's been a mistake,” she said. “There's been some kind of mistake. Louis was supposed to—”

“Deliver the pizza, I know,” Will told her. “Like I said, he's out sick.” He raised the boxes. “But the pizza is fine. The pizza is right here.”

“It's not a mistake,” Winsor said.

“It has to be,” Josh said in a near whisper.

“You never knew for sure that it was Louis.”

“But…”

Winsor finally shrugged and gestured to Will. “He's here. Now.”

Will watched each of them in turn, his eyes beginning to narrow. “Do you want this pizza or not?”

Josh turned to Deloise and muttered, “Just pay him already.”

Deloise bit her lower lip. “My purse is upstairs,” she admitted.

After closing her eyes until the urge to shove her sister out of the way passed, Josh stepped around Deloise and walked down the porch steps. She dug thirty dollars out of her back pocket and held it out to Will.

“Here,” he said, sliding two pizza boxes out of the warmer. He handed them to Josh and took her money. “I've got change somewhere,” he told her, digging through his own pockets.

Now that she stood closer to him, he appeared less generically scruffy and more distinctly poor. The belt holding his pants on looked like a hand-me-down from better days, and his shoes were falling apart because they were too small.

“Just keep the rest,” she said. “Sorry for the confusion.”

Will nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I'll tell Louis you were looking for him.”

“No, don't … it's…” She sighed and would have thrown up her hands if she hadn't been holding the pizzas. “Don't tell Louis anything,” she said. “It's not important.”

From the way he looked at each of them, as if fixing the scene in his mind, she could tell that he didn't agree.

“Why don't you come in?” Winsor suggested.

Josh's eyes flew to her. “What?” she asked.

“It's late, and that's a lot of pizza,” Winsor explained calmly. “Maybe Will could give us a hand eating it? He drove all the way out here, after all.”

Josh sent her a
What the hell do you think you're doing?
look, but Winsor ignored it.

“Yeah,” Will said, in a tone that meant,
no way
. He was watching them like a cop locked in a room with three suspected serial killers. “Nice offer and all, but it sounds like you guys have stuff to talk about.”

“This is all my fault,” Deloise burst out.

“Be
quiet,
” Josh said.

“Are you trying to get with Louis?” Will asked. “'Cause you could just ask him out. He'd be cool.”

“Oh my god, no.”

Josh couldn't tell him the truth. She didn't know how the situation appeared from his perspective, but she was certain it was bizarre. And yet, he kept looking at her with his steadfast eyes and a complicated expression that—while it was suspicious—seemed to suggest he was willing to think the best of her if she'd just confide in him.

Don't look at me like that,
she thought frantically.

“It's…” She stumbled over her words. If only he would look away. “We're recruiting. We need to hire someone. My family has a business, and we were hoping to get Louis out here and talk to him about it.”

“You couldn't just call and ask him?”

“No, because…” At least now he didn't think she was trying to lure Louis into a date. She was gaining back some credibility. “It's a hard business to explain. We have a workshop here, and we thought Louis might understand better if we showed him.”

Winsor nodded almost imperceptibly. Josh walked back up the front steps, still carrying the pizzas. Over her shoulder, she blurted out in a rush, “But since you're here you might as well have the job, so just come inside and I'll show you what to do.”

She stopped at the door. She couldn't reach the handle and hold the bulky pizza boxes at the same time, so she stood there on the stoop, banging the boxes against the doorframe over and over as her hand lunged for the knob. She felt Will's eyes on her back.

“Okay,” Will said finally. His voice was guarded now, as if he'd given up hope of coaxing the truth out of them. “I don't know what's really going on here, but I'll admit you've got my attention.” Josh heard his steps brushing the grass as he walked up to the porch. “People at the pizzeria know where I am tonight,” he added.

“Understood,” Josh said. She finally pushed the pizza boxes into Deloise's arms and opened the front door. “Come inside,” she said, gesturing to Will.