Visioness (15 page)

The detective, as well as
the other policemen, all looked confused.

“The easier way to explain
it is if I get you all to imagine a stag.”

“Okay,” the detective said,
eyes turning to the ceiling as if he was imagining it above them.

“Now where does it exist?”

The detective grimaced. “In
my head.”

“And that’s where it will stay
because that’s where its reality is,” she explained. “So when my father was
sealed away, his body was destroyed, his reality became the dream frequencies,
meaning that he can still move and act from there once he was freed from the
sphere. Does that make sense?”

“It is enough for us,” said
the moustached one

Adabelle glanced to the
Senior Sergeant. He was impatient. He seemed unable to hide the look of
suspicion on his face. He sounded disbelieving; reluctant to listen, even.

My gosh,
she thought.
They think
I killed her.

This was why she had to be
questioned. They weren’t searching for the killer. They’d already found her,
according to their own thoughts.

“I didn’t kill her if that’s
what you think,” Adabelle said. “Why would I? She was my cousin. I have no
motive!”

“We’ll wait and see,”
replied the Senior Sergeant.

“Don’t worry, Miss Blaise,”
said Detective Olin. “We won’t be doing any arresting until we’re certain.”

“Very well then,” Adabelle
replied, settling back into her seat, not noticing how stiff she had become.
She slouched her shoulders once more and settled herself down.

“Now as I’m sure you’re
aware,” said the third officer, Mariette, who had up until now, not spoken,
“any information you give us today is vital in our search for the murderer.”

“Well it was my father, but
go on,” she said.

“Yes…well we need something
more concrete than
a dream monster did it
, if you understand. Anything
you withhold today could hurt your argument if we do find you’re the culprit.
She died in your arms, and until we get results back from the hospital as far
as the cause of death, we are stuck. So, what we wish to know is if there is
anything else we need to know before we let you go today. Anything that might
help.”

“Go to the Halls of the
Oen’Aerei,” Adabelle said. “Seek out Lady Morphier and question her. She should
be able to corroborate everything I have said today, and reaffirm what’s
happening. The only other thing I can think of mentioning is that you should
know my father is a dangerous man, and he will do anything to achieve his ends.
He’s…a powerful man, even if he only exists in our collective minds.”

Again, the police looked
confused, but they took notes and accepted her statement. They bade her a good
day and let her go.

Adabelle left the library
with a sick feeling in her stomach. She had not expected that outcome at all.
She had expected a few polite questions, and then for her to be off on her
merry way. But she was a suspect. A
suspect.
It made her feel ill inside
like she would empty the entire contents of her stomach, were there any to
empty at all. She wondered for a time if they would even bother going to the
Oen’Aerei at all.

You’re meant to trust the
police!
she
thought.
Not question them! They know what they’re doing.

Then why did she feel so uncertain
all of a sudden, like her father wasn’t the only enemy she had now?

Working in the café was much
easier with the weight of her father’s presence off her shoulder. Or, at the
very least, she was back to her bright, cheery self. Her co-workers seemed to
notice the difference, taking opportunities throughout the day to console her
for Larraine’s passing, but to also comment on her easier mood.

“How are you going?”
Georgette asked, between steaming milk and running a shot of coffee. “What with
everything that’s happening.”

“I’m okay, I guess,”
Adabelle replied. “I’m just hoping that once Larraine’s funeral is out of the
way I can start sorting everything out again.”

“And have those dreams…come
back yet?” She seemed to struggle with the question, like it was difficult for
her to wrap her head around. She was still getting used to the idea of Adabelle
being a Dreamer. Thankfully, though, she didn’t ostracise the girl. Instead, they
grew closer. Perhaps she was maturing after all.

Adabelle simply nodded.

The young man named Rhene
arrived to pick up his lunch, smiling at Adabelle as he left his order with
Nicolas.

“How are you?” Adabelle
asked while he waited. Today, he wore the most wonderful brown V-neck jumper
over a white shirt, and his dark hair was styled off to one side, curls forcing
themselves to show through the gel.

“I am well, and yourself?”

“I’m good,” she said, unable
to repress the stupid laugh that boiled to the surface. Georgette seemed unable
to hide her own smirk, too. He didn’t seem to mind it, though, and took a seat
at the far side of the room to enjoy his lunch. He sat with his back to the
window, facing her, and she wondered whether it was intentional.

Ben, a barista who was loud
and sang most people’s orders back to them, arrived on time to his shift, which
prompted Anna to call Adabelle out into the office. Ben quickly took over her
station, his light brown hair seeming in a constant state of movement as he
laughed and sang and in general brought up everyone’s mood.

“Please take a seat,
Adabelle,” Anna said, pointing to a chair opposite. She sounded serious, which
was odd given how cheery she normally was.

“What’s wrong?” Adabelle
asked.

“Oh, nothing’s wrong
exactly,” she said, playing with the pen in her hand as she spoke. “I just wanted
to make sure everything was okay. This is the first day back since Larraine and
you’ve seemed awfully cavalier about it. I’ve been many things in my life,
Adabelle, but never have I seen anyone get over a death as quickly as you have,
and it has me concerned.”

“I’m just trying not to
think too hard on it,” she replied. “I’ve got the funeral in a few days, which
will be tough. I’ve basically accepted it myself to read the eulogy, but while
I’m at it, I’ve got…so many other things to worry about.” It was the first time
that morning she had felt sad. Working as hard as she had was a welcome change
to all the troubles she’d had to face over the last few weeks. For a time,
she’d almost forgotten about her father and Larraine.

Anna nodded, her expression
softening, from one of seriousness to one of contentment. “Well that is okay,
then. I was worried. You do know if you need any time alone, just ask. I’m more
than happy to oblige.”

“I know that, and thank
you,” Adabelle said. “I will be sure to keep that in mind. But for the time,
I’m quite happy to keep my mind on work. It’s much easier to not worry about
any of that stuff for the time.”

Anna, still smiling, didn’t
look entirely convinced. She exhaled softly, looking down and away from
Adabelle.

“I had a call from the
police today. A Detective Olin.”

Already,
Adabelle thought.

“And what did he call
about?”

“He just wanted to know what
sort of person you were,” she replied, rather matter-of-factly. “And I told him
you were a polite, quiet young girl, who loved her sister very much. He asked
whether I knew about your Dreaming ability, and I said in all honestly that I’d
never really looked into it—it’s not my business to pry—but I’d assumed with a
surname like Blaise that you were connected, at least partially, to Therron.
And then I told them you were mostly private with your life. But I’m worried.”

“Why would you say that?”
Adabelle asked, already sure of her response.

“Because when I asked why
they wished to know they responded with the fact that they’re investigating the
death of your cousin and they just wished to inquire on your character.” There
was a significant pause that filled the room, and it was thick with fear. “Do
they think you’re a suspect? You can talk here. You know anything said in here
doesn’t go past those doors.” Anna reached out and rested a hand on Adabelle’s.
Her fingers curled around Adabelle’s palm, gripping lightly.

Adabelle nodded. “They said
they need to explore all avenues before they make any accusations, but I am a
suspect, yes.” She said it methodically, almost robotically, like she’d learned
a speech by rote and had been trained to spout it on demand.

“I am so sorry, my dear
girl.” She raised her arm and rubbed Adabelle’s shoulder gently. “Again, should
you need to talk, I’m here. I can be…” she paused, “…I can be your other
mother.” She laughed quietly.

Already got one of those,
she thought, cracking a
small smile.
But I suppose Mrs. Abeth could use someone to shoulder the
weight.

“Thank you, Anna,” she said.
“I really do appreciate that.”

“Glad to help, honey. Now do
you want a moment to get yourself together before you go back out, or are you right?
It sounds like Ben has got you covered pretty well.”

Adabelle laughed as she
heard Ben sing an order in a rich baritone.

“No, I’ll be fine right now,
thank you.” She rose, heading back out onto the café floor. At that moment, she
looked over at Georgette, who squinted knowingly and then nodded in the
direction of Rhene. Before him was an empty cup and a crumb-covered plate.
Adabelle rushed over to Georgette, quickly glancing away from Rhene.

“Well go on, empty the
table,” Georgette said with a wink.

“I can’t,” Adabelle said,
fighting the extreme desire to look at him again. “What if he wants to talk?”

“Well then you’ll breathe,
open your mouth and respond. It’s really quite easy. Some people call it
conversation. You should try it.”

Her sarcasm was entirely
lost on Adabelle. “I guess I could.”

“Yes you could, now go!”

With a shove, Adabelle was
pushed from behind the counter and out into the open. Suddenly, she felt
exposed, like someone had undone her blouse and told her to walk naked through
the middle of the café.

You’re being silly,
she thought, walking slowly
to Rhene’s table.

“How was your meal?” she
asked, picking up the plate.

“Just lovely,” he said,
looking up from the novel he was reading. “It is always an excellent meal
here.”

“Yes it is,” she said,
unable to muster up anything less stupid-sounding. She chided herself inwardly
for her fumbling and picked up his cup as well.

“Adabelle is it?” he asked.

“Yes, that is me.”

“I was wondering if you’d
like to get coffee one time?”

She nearly dropped the
crockery.

“But you’ve already had
coffee.”

Rhene laughed. “I mean
elsewhere. Go and get coffee. With me. Elsewhere.”

Idiot,
thought Adabelle.

A million questions drowned
out any other coherent thought, and every one of them was to do with Rhene. Who
was he? Where did he come from? What did he do for a living? She wanted to know
what she was going to wear, and whether he drove a car, or if she was meant to
take herself to where they were going. Heavens! Where were they going? What if
she hated it? A hundred questions piled on top of another hundred, and as she
considered every one, she realised she was silently staring and had been doing
so for more than a minute.

“I’m sorry, miss, have you
lost your voice?” Rhene asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “I’d
love to go out for you with coffee.” She paused, looking up and out the window
as she reconsidered her words.
Use your words,
she thought. Then, her
syntax in order, she spoke slowly. “I. Would. Love. To. Go. Out. For. Coffee.
With. You.”

“Excellent!” he said,
sounding genuinely happy. And for some reason, that shocked Adabelle a little.
“Are you free later on in the week?”

“Yes I am,” Adabelle replied.

“Well in that case, write
down your address there and I’ll send a telegram with a time and date soon.” He
proffered a notebook and a pen.

She scribbled down the
address of the University and the room number on the page. Her hand shook and
her handwriting was horrid, but she eventually managed the scrawl. Rhene rose
and left, smiling, quietly bidding Adabelle farewell as he went.

She stepped behind the
counter again, unable to contain the giggling excitement. Despite everything
bad that had happened over the last few days, something
good
was happening!
Things were finally starting to look up for Adabelle Blaise.

Rhene left the café with a
wide grin on his face and a fluttering in his chest. It was like someone else
had taken hold of his body while in the café, and had returned it now so he may
bask in his possessor’s achievement. He hoped that Adabelle hadn’t noticed the
way his hands had been shaking under the table, or the sheen of sweat that had
broken out across his forehead during that entire conversation.

He wrapped a coat around him
as the sky darkened with grey clouds, the wind beginning to bluster. It had
been a humid day so far, and the sudden shift suggested a storm. The rumbles he
felt shortly after those thoughts confirmed his suspicions. He would have to
hurry.

He pulled the notebook out
of his pocket, glancing at the girl’s neat handwriting and her address.

A University girl,
he thought, pausing. She
seemed so young to be at university. Then again, her name. Adabelle Blaise. It
seemed to shimmer in his mind’s eye, like a memory of a memory. That name was
important, though he could not yet put his finger on what it was. He tucked the
notebook away in his pocket, for it had begun to rain. At that point, he hailed
a taxi, clambering in.

“Where to?” asked the
gentlemen at the wheel.

“The Dreamless Barracks
please,” he said.

“Right away, sir,” the
driver replied.

Rhene smiled as he drove
through Odilla’s streets. It seemed things were really beginning to brighten
for him. Due for a promotion at the Dreamless Barracks, finally able to support
himself without any help from his grandparents, and now a date with a girl on
the horizon. Everything seemed to be improving. He never imagined he’d ever
feel as content as he did now, and yet a small part of him told him he ought to
wait and see how things turned out. Nothing was entirely set in stone. Not yet,
at least.

Come now,
he thought to himself.
I’m
allowed to be happy. Mama and papa would want me to.

He looked past his
reflection in the window at the passing city, as they drove by the River and
past the bridges that crossed it. In the distance, he could see the towering
stone spires of monuments and libraries and the House of the Oen’Aerei—the
fiends that they were hiding behind their façade of glowing white! Odilla was
such a beautiful city. It was a real shame the Oen’Aerei had to ruin it with
their horrid building of lies.

Mama, papa,
Rhene prayed in his mind,
you’d
be so very proud of me if you could see me now.

The taxi pulled up outside
the Dreamless Barracks, a squat, brown building of simple square design. The
windows were unadorned, the curtains within cream in colour, the façade of it
entirely plain. For a city that prided itself on its beautiful architecture,
artwork, food and monuments, the Dreamless Barracks was, indeed, a barren,
bland-looking place. Rhene made the short few steps between the sidewalk and
the front door, using a key to unlock the door and enter. The Dreamless were a
rather unpopular Guild in the community—and they knew it. For that reason, they
spent much of their time locked within the walls.

Rhene was unusual in the
amount of time he spent outside the walls of the Dreamless Guild. Most people
chose to stay in, for it was safer, and there were protections that insured
their dreams—if they ever did dream—could not be infiltrated. He enjoyed the
fresh air and the city, though. His life was a gift from his late parents, and
he intended to enjoy every breath.

He could still hear the
nightmares that ruined his childhood. They made him shiver. The thunder and
lightning outside seemed only to worsen the sense of memory of the night his
parents had died. But he didn’t let that affect him. He’d made it his mission
to not let his past influence him. He had the present and the future to look
forward to, and already it was looking brighter.

The insides of the Dreamless
Guild were relatively plain, like the outside, but Rhene simply saw it as being
practical. There was no need for great adornments or art or brilliant
architecture, when the building in which they resided was not permanent. Once
the Dreamless went to war against the Oen’Aerei, they expected to no longer
need a house for such things. Once the Oen’Aerei were gone, the Dreamless could
disband. They weren’t needed in a city without Dreamers.

A uniformed Dreamless,
dressed in the regulation forest-green coats, pale trousers and brown leather
boots sprinted up to Rhene, puffed from exertion.

“General Ferrant,” greeted
Rhene, with a smile and a nod. “You look wrecked.”

“Dreamless Matthon is
looking for you,” General Ferrant said. “One of our Snappers decided to forget
to mention he was not available today, and you’re needed to be present for a
Snapping.”

“Of course,” Rhene replied,
“so long as he does not mind I’m in civilian clothes.”

“Not at all,” Ferrant said,
laughing. “The one we’ve got here looks like a fighter. I don’t think he’ll
remember much after the event.”

Rhene nodded, following
Ferrant down the corridor towards a tall door at the very end. On a small
pedestal beside the door were masks, white and featureless, so as to hide the
identities of those who could be held accountable for any results from the
Snapping. Rhene donned the mask, and Ferrant did as well, pushing open the door
into the only room in the entire building that seemed even slightly
embellished. It was domed, but windowless, with artworks surrounding the room
and a huge chandelier in the centre. There were six pillars around the room,
each topped with what appeared to be a violet-coloured stone, and in the air
hung the scent of lavender. In the centre of these pillars was a man, lying on
the ground completely naked but for a thin sheet to cover his manhood. He was a
thin fellow, neither muscular but not scrawny either. Nothing appeared to hold
him down—no shackles, no chains, and no locks—and yet he could not move. His
eyes stared, darting about wildly within their sockets. He began to scream.

“And he is awake,” said
Ferrant, in a rather matter-of-fact tone.

Some people came to the
Dreamless to be Snapped willingly. This man, apparently, had not.

“General, Dreamling,” said
Dreamless Matthon, his burly figure recognisable despite the mask that hid his
face. “Please join the Snapping Circle, and see this man freed from his demons.”

“Yes, Dreamless,” replied
the other two, in frightening monotone. Outside the thunder rumbled through the
walls, and the chandelier flickered.

“Let the lights be gone!”
commanded Dreamless Matthon, and so the room went pitch dark. The man in the
centre screamed; screamed for sanctuary, screamed for mercy, but mostly, he
screamed out of fear.

“And may the Snapping
commence,” said Dreamless Matthon, whose voice echoed through the darkness, a
deep, commanding rumble above the roaring storm.

The ritual itself involved
chanting in Elder Speech—a language very few still remembered, but for a select
few phrases here and there—and involved much ceremony. Dreamless Matthon’s body
seemed to glow with a deep, red, inner light. That light was enough to reveal
the man in the centre convulsing and shifting on the floor. In Matthon’s hands
was a spike, similar to the one’s used in lobotomy. In the blunt end of it was
a sphere of green crystal. The orbitoclast began to glow, pulsing with green
light to the rhythm of the chant.

Rhene knew not what caused
the glowing; he assumed it had something to do with the words they spoke, the
Elder Speech being, apparently, the words upon which the rest of the world was
founded. Somehow through their chant, they were tapping into something deeper,
older and more secret than any of them understood. Except perhaps Matthon. He
was worldly, knowledgeable, wise. He was older than Rhene, though he hid it
well. He was an athletic man, and looked young for his age.

Matthon stepped forward with
the glowing orbitoclast, his face crossing between the emerald green glow of
the crystal and the deep, bloody red of the man bound on the ground. He lowered
it to the man’s head, positioning the spike on the spot between his eyebrows
above his nose.

The man fell silent as the
metal spike touched his skin, his eyes growing to a tremendous size, turning
red with that deep inner light, too. And then his face was entirely awash with
the green of the emerald. The redness was gone, but so were his eyes, replaced with
spheres of light. Like stars they shone brightly, illuminating the room with their
green glow.

He began to scream, too,
unable to move or struggle, but for the sound of his own voice. Rhene watched
on, still chanting, transfixed by the image before him. It was wondrous,
beautiful even, to see a Snapping. And this man was powerful—that he could tell
from the way his eyes shone. Only a powerful Dreamer could produce
that
sort of light.

Some would argue the ethics
on Snapping. Once the Snappee was released it wasn’t unusual for them to lose
memories or part of their mind. Some would wind up forgetting their family or
their friends, others their entire lives. Others would simply die, unable to
live separated from their Dreams. Some forgot how to think, no longer able to
hear that inner voice that helped them in their musings.

Matthon and the Dreamless
were careful in selecting their targets; always careful. What they were doing
wasn’t illegal at all—so far coroners were yet to find any connection between
the Snapping and the person’s death. But the group was allowed to run as
normal, and so they proceeded to save those who could enter Dreams. Sometimes,
men and women would step forth for snapping, unable to live with the burden of
their curse. The way the Dreamless saw it, they were vigilantes, saving the
people from themselves.

Rhene couldn’t lie to
himself and say he enjoyed seeing these people suffer—because in the end, there
was pain involved in Snapping. You were, after all, sealing away a part of
their mind from being accessed. But the knowledge that there were fewer
Dreamers in the world gave him a small sense of satisfaction, and made up for
the guilt he felt whenever a Snapped Dreamer died or lost their minds.

At the end of the day,
they’re better off dead than Dreaming.

The man in the centre of the
room stopped screaming, the light fading in his eyes. The room snapped dark
once more. He didn’t move or speak. He wasn’t breathing. The silence in the
room felt so out of place, given the contrast of what had just occurred.

“Lights,” Matthon commanded,
his voice cutting silence as a hammer breaks stone.

The chandelier slowly
brought light back to the room, in gentle increments so as not to blind the
Dreamless who had all become so used to the darkness.

“Someone check his pulse,”
said Matthon, voice aquiver. It was odd to hear that emotion coming from it. He
was usually so strong and stoic.

Ferrant rushed forward,
falling to his knees before the body. He extended a shaking hand towards the
man’s wrist, fingers quivering as they touched flesh.

“That’s odd,” Rhene saw
Ferrant mutter, almost too quiet to hear. Ferrant removed his hand, leaning his
head down to rest upon the man’s chest.

A sudden, jolting movement threw
Ferrant aside and the man in the centre of the room was up on his feet, eyes
wild, breath ragged. In amongst the anger Rhene could see in the man’s eyes, he
also saw a deep, terrible fear, like that of a dog before it was struck by a
car.
Or the eyes of a child before he sees his parents die.

It was an odd thought to
think now, but seeing Dreamers seemed to bring back memories in waves.

“Where am I?” said the man.
“Who are you?”

“Please be calm, sir,”
Matthon said, his voice commanding, yet strangely gentle, like a father to his
son. “I need you to be calm, else the process cannot complete. It will be
ruined, and you will not make it.”

“The process?” the man said,
straightening up, falling from an attack stance.

“You’ve been Snapped,”
explained Matthon, “and if you fight too much, the sealing will break and your
mind will be ruined.”

“Snapped? Snapped from
what?”

“From Dreaming,” Matthon
said, smiling. In that smile, Rhene saw grace and pity and kindness.

Yet the man’s expression
fell from confusion to horror. He closed his eyes, and in that instant, every
one of the Dreamless placed their forefinger and middle finger on the space
between their eyes, to ward off the man’s dark magic, in case he was able to
break through the Dream Seal. Normally, they would close their eyes too, but
for now, that was too dangerous. They could not risk a fight. Not with
someone’s mind at stake, and not with a dangerous, confused man before them.

The man roared with fury as
he realised he could not reach into his dreams to do as he wished. He was a
wilding, meaning the Oen’Aerei had not yet intercepted him for training, and
that made him dangerous. A trained Dreamer could be dangerous, but an untrained
one could be deadly. Sturdings didn’t know they were Sturdings half the time,
and the damage they could cause in the Dream Frequencies could be very real.