The Dream Crafter (11 page)

“They challenged the gods?”

“Nothing challenges the gods.” Master’s voice was a whip crack, snapping at the statement. “Which is why crafters no longer exist. Except, perhaps, this girl at your side.”

Merc took in Amana, curled up on the bed and so fragile in appearance, the occasional shiver across her frame making her curl ever inward. “How do I know if that is what she is?”

“A walker is not capable of what you described, and even necromancers could not get past your defenses without your awareness of them. She is either a crafter or a god. Which do you believe?”

Not a god.
He’d never had the pleasure, but this didn’t seem to be a game for a god, not from what he knew of them. Those who were upright would have taken the Spellbook directly. Those that enjoyed subterfuge were too flighty to let this game play on so long, and would never have allowed him to grab them and run. “Tell me about dream crafters.”

“The knowledge I have is slight. Do not allow her to dream, and do not allow her in your dreams again. Does the Guild know she is a crafter?”

“They’re the ones that sicced her on me, and now they’re asking double to get her back? I can’t imagine they wouldn’t.”

“If they know, it is only a short time until others know. And if others know, you are in as much danger by having her at your side as you are with the Spellbook. To claim a dream crafter, some would lay waste to nations in their pursuit.”

“I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, would you please research crafters? I’ll take any knowledge.”

Shisen gave a nod and disconnected.

This assignment kept getting better and better. Merc pushed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, frustration gnawing through his system like a million tiny needles hitting every nerve center at once. First time he disregarded his instincts and look where it got him – in mortal bound with a fuckwit, carrying a Spellbook that might kill him if he opened it, and holding hostage the first woman who interested him in years, a woman who had some control over the world through dreams.

He needed help. Shisen would research, sure, but that was more for his own knowledge base. Even after all these years, Merc couldn’t guarantee the man would help him in the end.

Opening up a message app, he typed a quick
Need to talk in person – available?

It took a good minute before the reply popped on the screen.

when

Tomorrow night, same conditions as the Halsing job.

you better not get my ass kicked this time

For the first time since he’d woken up to find himself cuffed to the bed, humor lit through Merc, enough that a smile tugged at his mouth as he answered
I make no promises.

never do mañana darlin

It was too risky to keep going, so Merc closed down everything and settled beside Amana, getting comfortable for the rest of the sleepless night. Tomorrow, they were going to chat, and he’d get the answers that would determine his next step.

‡

A
s she opened
her eyes, only the hazy disorientation that followed a poor sleep clung to Amana, the light lethargy dissipating as she stretched limbs and blinked sleep from her eyes. Her gaze fell on Merc, and a lazy jump of contentment sizzled down her nerve paths for a moment. Only a moment. Only until yesterday’s memories crashed into her, lifting the haze and throwing her body into skittish readiness.

She pulled up on the bed, a ball of waiting, watching him as he watched her.

There was no welcoming smile on his face this time. This time, his eyes were shadowed, all light in them darkened, half covered by black and red bangs. His body was still, but any pretense at relaxation was belied by the too straight lines his body held.

But as of now he hadn’t harmed her, and still alive was a good sign. She could work with that. Anything else would be figured out with time. “Have you decided what you’re doing?”

Merc’s head lifted, giving her a clearer picture of his eyes, but there was no more light in them now than there had been before. “Do the words
Dream Crafter
mean anything to you?”

The last ten years had been spent learning to read people, to offer them what they wanted, no matter if they expressed those desires in truth or covered their true wants with lies. To promise them their dearest dreams – whether the promises were meant to be fulfilled or not. That more than any other skill had allowed her to survive – even thrive – in a world that would use her to the last of her power and throw her away when the usefulness ended.

Here, now, with Merc, she couldn’t read him. Their shared time in the dreams only confused the issue. Was the Merc she had laughed with, held hands as the waves rolled over their feet, was that the core of the man, or was any hint of man nothing but a mask for the mercenary?

Words, explanations, pleas, all rained down from her mind, a tornado of choices where the correct one would calm the storm but choosing wrong would leave a far-flung path of destruction, where her brother’s freedom – perhaps even her life – would lay in the ruined wake.

“I was in a gambling hall when I first heard that title,” Amana began, uncurling her body and meeting his gaze with the full force of her own. “Almost two years ago. I was arm candy for this high roller. You know those girls, the ones who smile even as people run their hands over them like they’re chattel and aren’t thought to have a brain in their head.”

Merc’s expression showed no change, no heightened interest. He only nodded.

So she continued. “They talked about the rumor one existed. Then they talked about the many ways they could make money with such a person.” A quick burn rose from her stomach up her throat as the horrific examples they threw back and forth reared themselves in her brain. And they had laughed as they suggested them. They
laughed
, and placed bets that were more than most people made in a year, and ran their pudgy, too-soft fingers from her knees to her inner thigh as she stood beside them. “There isn’t much information about dream crafters. I didn’t look too hard because I didn’t want any questions from people asking why I was interested.”

“Some would say a dream crafter is as much myth as a dragon, but while there are no dragons, we both know dream crafters are real, don’t we?”

Here it was, the decision how to play this, which side of the line to fall. Merc was all
less
 – emotionless, expressionless, reactionless – but though it had to be her imagination, or her memories of their time together before it all went to hell, she could swear something in him called out to her, begged her to make this right for them.

“I don’t know what I can do. Some mysterious master never knocked at my door and told me how I was a magical
One
who was destined to greatness. Anything I think I know is pieced together from this or that. I can tell you I think I’m a Dream Crafter, but I don’t know. I’ve never trained, and before you, I only affected the real world once.” Before him, and she had sworn never to do it again. How quickly vows fell before terrible choices.

“Mysterious masters do not lessen the questions in your life.” There was a faint strand of resigned knowing in his voice, and if they were on the beach, she’d question him further about that statement. Now, though, she awaited his verdict, this man who was unexpected judge, jury, and possible executioner.

Even with the early morning coolness, Amana’s skin prickled and beads of sweat formed along the hairline at her neck as Merc kept his still vigil in front of her. He asked nothing else, his eyes once again shielded by bangs so no hint of possible thoughts could be seen.

With her nerves stretched like an old rubber band, his sudden rise from the seat had her jump in response. His hand came up in an instinctive sign of
stay, easy
though the facial expression remained blank. His voice was tired when he spoke. “Come here.”

She rose and took the seat he pointed to, a stiff chair with hard slats and handcuffs already attached. He cuffed her in and said, “I’m napping for ninety minutes, and then we’ll be on our way.”

She waited, but nothing else, nothing that told her of when to expect that other shoe from the sky. “So what are you going to do with me?”

“You work for the Guild, no matter for how long or for why. Technically, you’re my enemy right now. Until I figure out my plan from here, you’re staying with me.”

Relief jolted through her system, waking her up as efficiently as caffeine. He wasn’t going to kill her. “I understand. Thank you for letting me sleep first.”

His expression was puzzled, perhaps because of her lack of yelling or threats or any of a hundred-and-one ways she could be annoying in her helplessness. It lasted only a moment before he fell into bed and went to sleep with a quickness that spoke of a soldier’s training to sleep wherever and whenever the opportunity arose.

She made a token pull on the cuffs, but they were too sturdy for her to get them off, and any serious try would have him up and out of bed in moments. She’d have to keep her eyes open for chances while they were traveling.

He was a mercenary. Whatever happened between them in the dreams was useless here and now, and she needed to remember that. Dreams were over. Reality was here, and any confusion between the two would only lead to her downfall.

‡

T
he building was
nondescript. Big and blocky and brown brick, and not even with magical intervention would she be able to describe it in any other detail.

Pulling in between a hot rod on one side and a group of motorcycles on the other, Merc put the minivan in park and got out. Since at this moment discretion equaled self-preservation, Amana waited until he circled the van and opened the door for her. “Why are we still in the minivan?”

“It’s roomy, it’s comfortable, and its acceleration and handling are finer than anyone in pursuit would assume. That throws off the pursuer’s calculations and gives me an edge.” Merc rattled off data like he’d been through this several times before. Considering his profession, he probably had.

It still seemed goofy. The car couldn’t have stuck out more if there had been a spotlight shining down on it. Since she had hopes of rescue this worked in her favor, but it did suggest Merc wasn’t as good as he’d been portrayed.

It seemed their connection wasn’t only in dreams, because after a quick look at her face, Merc said. “Defying expectation is one way of avoiding getting caught. You’d be surprised how often hiding in plain sight works.”

Merc adjusted the strap of the messenger bag currently slung across his chest. The Spellbook was inside, and every so often he tilted his head to look back at it, a slight frown on his face. He did so again, and Amana asked, “What’s wrong? Is it hurting you?”

“Do you feel it?” Less than a second after the question was asked, Merc’s lips thinned and he gave the tiniest shake of his head.

So he hadn’t meant to ask her or let her know anything was amiss. Still, it was out, and it was best to acknowledge the fact before he could start to brood over conspiracy theories. “I don’t feel anything, but I’m not magic like you either,” she said, motioning to the black lines on his arm.

After a few moments of silence, his only answer was a nod, and then he was leading them to the front door, which opened into an underground club. Unlike what she had expected from the exterior of the building and the quality of cars parked around, this place was stylish, women dressed in full hair and make-up and men in something other than jeans. Amana’s tug on her rumpled white blouse and quick hand through her hair didn’t quite settle the low hum of embarrassment running through her blood, especially with the catty double-takes a few women favored her with as she passed by.

Merc was just as conspicuous, but the double-takes given him were of a different nature. Was it normal to want to trip a woman because she was giving lascivious looks to the man who was technically your captor? Of course, nothing about this scenario could even point to
normal
, so why worry about it now?