Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares (18 page)

Poet was stricken with guilt, but kept his head down. He was so close now. He didn't dare check behind him. He could hear the rumble of several cycles, but not nearly as many as had started. The tunnel was a maze, the shape constantly shifting, obstacles appearing in his light just in time for him to avoid them. He stopped counting the crashes he heard.

But then, there was a growl, deep and thick. It crawled over his skin. Poet didn't have to look to know; he felt it in his gut. A Night Terror dove into the tunnel behind the riders, galloping towards Poet and laying waste to any bikes in its way.

“Shit,” Poet spat and looked behind him to see the beast gaining ground, its horrible figure outlined in the shadows the bike tires cast. Poet didn't know how the Night Terror had found him, but he put down his head, willing the bike to go faster.

A few yards ahead, he spotted a jagged scar in the floor of the tunnel—a four-foot gap in the track. He pulled up the handlebars and jumped it, landing with a thud on the other side as he raced forward. Behind him, there was a loud explosion and the feeling of heat on the back of his shirt.

At the next turn, Poet's nostrils flared—he smelled something. Flowers? Lilacs. His mind swirled as he tried to place it.

“Jonas,” a soft voice called, echoing through the tunnel. Poet's heart kicked up and he pressed on the accelerator, knowing he needed to get out of this race. Knowing he needed to win it. “Is there room in your dream for me?” he heard her say.

Poet felt a brush on his side, but when he looked there was nothing there. But he could feel Samantha next to him.

No, he thought. Don't come in the dream. Not now. Poet cursed and his gravity-bike began to skid, losing power. Reacting to him. Poet looked over his shoulder and could see the track vibrating, the Night Terror hot on his trail. His eyes rolled up in his head as Samantha's leg brushed his thigh as she curled up against him, her head on his chest.

“No, fuck,” Poet cursed, forcing himself to stay in the dream. “Not yet,” he demanded. He could sense the Waking World closing in around him.

And then, just ahead was a small loop, the sky behind it. The end of the tunnel. With a sense of relief, Poet put everything he had left into the bike. Every emotion—love, fear, anger, bravery. He was the only rider to fly out of the tunnel—waking up before he ever hit the ground.

Chapter Nineteen

J
onas shot up in bed and there was
a startled scream next to him. Sweat had gathered on his skin, his body shaking from the near miss with the Night Terror. His entire face ached.

Samantha's eyes were wide as she stared at him. “Are you okay?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.

“Don't ever wake me from a dream,” Jonas said, trying to clear his head. He was still half-asleep and disoriented. “You could have gotten me killed.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam said. “You were hurt. I wanted to help.”

Jonas threw off the blankets, and stood, wincing at the pain high up on his cheek. A quick look around told him he was in Samantha's bedroom. Pale blue walls and antiqued white furniture. A framed pressed flower hung on the wall and assorted jewelry was strewn across her dresser top.

Jonas closed his eyes, pressing away the ache in his head. The gravity-bikes and Night Terrors started to fade, but Jonas concentrated and found, to his surprise, the dream didn't completely disappear from his consciousness. And one Dream Walker in particular stood out in his memory: Flint. When Jonas saw him again, he was going to punch him in the face, even though he wasn't quite sure what for.

Jonas approached the mirror standing in the corner of Sam's room, seeking out the source of the pain on his cheek. He caught his reflection and groaned. Under his eye was puffed up and red, the edges already bruising. It would look nasty tomorrow. Alan would kill him for fighting.

“Alan,” Jonas said miserably, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress and hanging his head. Jonas remembered a bit more of his dream. Flint had told him that he was trying to find out where Alan was. But Jonas hadn't seen his brother, not since the accident. He was starting to worry that he never would.

“Your brother?” Sam asked. “Did you find him?”

“No,” Jonas said. He was hurt, pissed off, and disappointed with himself.
If it was the other way around, Alan would have found me by now
, Jonas thought.
I'm failing him.

“You can sleep again if you want,” Sam said. “I won't wake you. I didn't know—”

“How did I even get here?” Jonas asked.

“I dragged you to my car,” Sam said. “A couple of kids helped. I may have…you may have bumped your head on the way in here, though. Sorry.”

“And what about Dan?” Jonas asked, looking over at her. Even though it wasn't her fault, Jonas's involvement with Samantha had just gotten him knocked out.

“Dan?” Sam said, annoyed. “I don't care about Dan. I told you that, but you couldn't just let me handle it. Instead you acted just like him. And now…” Sam stopped, running her hand over her face.

“You don't get it,” she continued in a quieter voice. “I know things are hard for you, Jonas, I really do. But those assholes at school are never going to let me live this down. Rumors, gossip, even the ones who claim to be your friends—they all turn on you in the end. The person with the most power wins. I watched it happen to my mother. And now I'll have to watch it happen to me.” Samantha stood and walked to her closet, pulling it open and staring in absently. She rubbed her wrist like it hurt.

Jonas understood cruelty, but maybe not the kind she was talking about. The kind that was delivered with a smile. His chest weakened, aching with concern. “Did you hurt yourself?” Jonas asked, his voice softer.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I think my wrist is sprained.”

Jonas clenched his jaw, a bit of rage clouding his judgment. “I'll kill him,” he said. “I can't believe he pushed you. He's—”

Sam turned to him, incredulous. “I didn't hurt my wrist when I fell,” she said. “I hurt it when I punched Dan in his stupid face after you were on the ground.”

Jonas stared at her a minute, and then shook his head. “I didn't need you to stand up for me,” he said.

She scoffed. “I wasn't standing up for you. I was standing up for myself.” Sam turned away, staring into her closet once again. Jonas thought maybe she didn't want to look at him anymore. That she regretted letting him into her life.

Jonas could see the mud streaked across the back of her skirt, her tights torn at her left thigh. There was a circular blood stain on the elbow of her cream-colored sweater. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted her to look at him again.

Samantha sighed, her breath hitched like she might cry, and she pulled off her damp sweater and tossed it aside on the closet floor. Jonas stilled, her back exposed to him. His eyes traveled over her and paused at the dried blood on her elbow, the scraped skin near her ribs. The arch of her low back. The way her dark hair grazed the strap of her pale-blue bra. Samantha didn't move.

Jonas swallowed hard, and slowly got up from the bed. He'd been insensitive. Sure, Samantha's friends sucked, but she'd carefully constructed her world, just like he constructed his dreams when he was younger. And in a matter of days, Jonas had managed to unravel Samantha's entire life. For that, he was sorry.

The wood planks of the floor creaked when he paused behind her, the heat of her skin radiating to his. His body felt electric this close to her. Alive and awake. Samantha lowered her head, but didn't turn to him. Tentatively, Jonas reached to run his fingers over her arm, wanting to comfort her in some way. Show her, rather than tell her, that he was sorry for being an asshole.

To his surprise, Samantha exhaled and leaned her back against him, the sweet smell of her hair surrounding him. Jonas would have smiled, but he was entirely too caught up in this girl. Completely and utterly captivated.

He ran his fingers down the length of her arm, and Samantha winced as if anticipating pain when he paused at her injured wrist. Jonas lifted her hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissed it gently. The taste of her skin, the soft sound she made when he touched her…

Jonas kissed the inside of her elbow. Her shoulder. He felt her heaving in breaths, and then Samantha turned and looked up at him, her lips parted.

Oh, fuck
, Jonas thought.
She's gorgeous
.

Samantha licked her lower lip and then she got on her tiptoes and kissed him. She was hot against him, and Jonas got lost in the smoothness of her skin, the smell of her hair, and the taste of her lips. His senses spun, and he kissed Samantha harder, his fingers sliding into her hair. They were both frenzied, as if they'd been waiting forever for this. Samantha stumbled back a step, and they fell into the rack of clothes, breaking their kiss. They stared at each other for a second, and then laughed before crashing back together in another frantic tangle. Jonas put the toe of his sneaker on his heel, kicking off his shoes so he could pull off his jeans.

Samantha was smiling through the kiss, laughing as she worked at Jonas's belt. “This will be so much better than a dream,” she murmured, unlooping the buckle.

“I'll never forget this,” Jonas said, looking over her body and wondering where would be the best place to start.

There was the double beep of an alarm in the hallway, and Samantha gasped, and pulled back. She lowered her eyes as she listened. A second later, there was the sound of the front door opening.

“Shit,” she said, reaching out to grab a random sweater off the hanger. She quickly pulled it over her head, and swiped out her long hair from the collar. Jonas was still standing, no shoes, his belt undone. Sam smiled at him, and draped her arms over his shoulders and kissed him sweetly on the lips. “You'd better make yourself more presentable,” she whispered, before pecking him again and walking toward her vanity.

Jonas stared after her, watching as she attended to her appearance in the mirror. His thoughts were still in the closet. “Why, exactly?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Because,” she responded, gliding on soft pink lip gloss. She turned to him and smiled. “You're about to meet my parents.”

Jonas sat at the
dining room table, his hands folded in his lap. Alexander Birnam-Wood stared at him with no concern about politeness. He was tall with thin blond hair, dark brown eyes. Molly had told him that Samantha's dad used to be a Dream Walker and a Poet killer, but right now, he just looked like an uptight businessman with serious control issues.

The dining room itself was grand. It was nothing like the quaint, small home Jonas had grown up in. Hell, his house didn't even have a dining room. The block wood table with carved legs, the white walls, and gold finishing. Even the centerpiece on the table was elaborate and gaudy. But Sam and her family ate as if not noticing it.

Jonas looked over at Sam, and she smiled, taking a bite of the Thai take-out her father and stepmother had brought home. Samantha's stepmother, Felicia, seemed like a nice lady—soft spoken and gentle, and far younger than her husband.

Jonas shifted his gaze to his food but found he couldn't taste under the pressure of Alexander's stare.

“So, Jonas,” Alexander said. “You've told me you work as my doorman, and that your brother is in a persistent vegetative state…”

Jonas looked up fiercely and saw that Alexander was purposely trying to agitate him. “Alan's in a coma,” Jonas repeated. “And the doctors are hopeful.”

“Of course they are,” he said dismissively, taking a bite of food from his chopsticks. “So how did you and Samantha meet?” he asked.

“English class,” Sam said for Jonas. “He needed to borrow a pen.” They looked at each other and Sam smiled.

Alexander nodded as if this was interesting. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And that black eye,” he said to Jonas. “How exactly did you get that?”

“I got in a fight,” Jonas said, daring Alexander to continue with his questions.

“It was Dan,” Samantha spoke up. “All Jonas did was talk to me and Dan knocked him out.”

Jonas shot her a look, letting her know she didn't need to emphasize his clear loss in the fight. Across the table, Alexander smiled.

“That's because Daniel Morgan is a Neanderthal,” he said. His wife snorted a laugh and took a sip of her red wine. “He belongs in a zoo, not at my dinner table.”

Samantha's mouth fell open, and she looked between her parents. “I thought you liked him,” she said, accusingly. “You always told me I should go out with him!”

“No, honey,” her stepmother said. “We tolerated him because the other students at your public school are—” She glanced uncomfortably at Jonas and then leaned in, as if he wouldn't be able to hear her. “Well, they're beneath you. Daniel's parents at least own a successful company.”

Samantha stared at her, contempt in her expression. She had told Jonas that he wouldn't fit within her world, and considering her stepmother's words, he saw that she was probably right. He took a bite of his Pad Thai.

“Where have you been, Jonas?” Alexander asked, startling him. Jonas tightened his jaw and turned to him. They locked eyes, and in his expression, he read that Alexander knew that Jonas had spoken to Molly. He knew that Alexander Birnam-Wood was a Dream Walker and that he shouldn't be trusted.

“We were moving here from Portland,” Jonas said, purposefully vague. Sam and her stepmother continued eating, oblivious to the tension building between the two men. Alexander took a sip of wine, not breaking eye-contact.

“And before that?” he asked. “You've moved around a lot.” When his daughter looked at him questioningly, he clarified. “I'm assuming,” he said with a tepid smile.

“We have,” Jonas said, a fire growing in his gut. “After my parents died, Alan had to find work, so we've been all over.”

“Your parents?” Felicia said, covering her mouth. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Jonas nodded a thanks for her condolences, but then returned to Alexander. “My parents used to work for you, actually,” he said. “My mother was a maid at your hotel.” Alexander stiffened, obviously surprised that Jonas would open up that part of the conversation.

“Must have been years ago,” he said, going back to his food. Jonas noted the loss of color in his cheeks, the sharp angle of his jaw as if he was chewing too hard. “I don't remember her.”

“I didn't know your parents worked at the Eden Hotel,” Samantha told Jonas. She turned to her father. “Dad, you know everyone,” she said. “You have to have known them.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “But I don't know any Andersons.” He tossed his napkin beside his plate and laid his chopsticks over his food. He looked around and saw most of them were finished eating, so he asked his wife to clear the plates. She gave him a questioning glance, and reluctantly agreed. Jonas figured she wasn't normally charged with cleaning up after people.

The fact that Alexander denied knowing his mother hurt. Not only did she work for him, but they were Dream Walkers together. He'd been there the day she died. How dare he pretend that never happened?

“I think it's time for Jonas to go home,” Alexander said to his daughter. “Although I'm glad you helped him after Daniel's attack, you may want to do some damage control with your friends.”

Samantha scoffed. “What do I care what my friends think?” she asked. “You know it's too late anyway.”

Her father stood, and Jonas was reminded of his formidable height. Samantha's resolve visibly wavered. “What's the alternative?” he asked. “You become a social outcast and your grades fall, your admission papers look less and less appealing. You stay in Seattle forever. Is that what you want? Or should I just pull you now so you can attend Saint Catherine's and—”

“Yeah, I got it,” she snapped. “But you know they're horrible people, too.”

“Horrible people often go on to be important people, Samantha,” he said. “You have no idea how essential it is to know those important people later in life.”

Sam didn't look convinced, but she pushed back in her chair angrily. “Let's go, Jonas,” she said. “I'll drop you off.”