Dreamscapade
Milo
The salty coastal breeze whips through my hair, directing the longer layers into my eyes. Tucking them behind my ear is futile, as the very next gust of Atlantic air drags them back out, and sends them every which way. I let out a sigh and close my eyes to guard against the sharp tips.
When I next open them the vista has changed; for the fifth time, the sequence has reset.
Sarah Blackwood is, once more, seated on a simple chair in front of her pinewood dresser as she brushes through her long dark hair.
This isn’t like the last time I travelled here. No matter what I do, she can neither see nor hear me. We’re both stuck in some sort of repeating dream sequence in which she silently goes about her day, and I follow—undetected—behind.
Just like my studio-style apartment, Sarah’s home is also contained within one larger room.
Her single bed, pushed into the corner, has been neatly made, and only a few dried sprigs from the lavender and mugwort bouquet that compose her dream-pillow are visible.
Her bare floor is swept, and the hand-woven rug aligns perfectly underneath the window where rays of the early morning sun stream in.
Dust motes catch in the light as they dance through the air, lending a hazy and surreal quality above and beyond what I’ve gathered must be happening.
In a few moments, Sarah will place her brush down beside the large basin of water, twist her hair until it coils up against the nape of her neck, pin it, then secure it all under the cotton bonnet that hangs on the back of her chair.
There are no mirrors here, so the whole process is conducted by feel, a routine practiced so many times she now performs it easily.
Before she scrapes the chair across the wood floor to stand, I move closer to the door that will lead us outside and wait by her dainty leather boots.
While she readies herself, I look down at my socked feet and wiggle my toes—I’d taken my boots off before falling asleep earlier, and it’s an interesting observation that astral travel is conducted in whatever state of undress you’re in at the time.
Sarah eases into her boots, smooths down her long cotton skirt, loops her arm through the handle of a wicker basket, and settles it about her elbow before she steps out into the fresh, Roanoke Island air.
Our next stop along this predetermined route is a small herb garden, contained within a raised bed, not far from some kind of communal kitchen building.
Smoke pours thick and fast from its chimney into the clear blue sky, and multiple metal kettles rest on iron racks over a small fire beside the open door.
Ignoring them, Sarah bends to tug out a few errant weeds from between the herbs. There’s no point sitting, even though my legs are tired from the continuous nature of this circuit, because we won’t stay here long—we don’t remain at any of the various locations for any real length of time.
She edges slowly along the sturdy wooden frame, examining each plant in turn until she chooses one to rub gently between her thumb and forefinger.
It’s always the same one, a short and bushy looking herb with evidently soft leaves.
I’ve tried talking to her, asking her why I’m here and what the importance of showing me her herb garden is, but as I’m not really here, she continues about her business without so much as a glance in my direction.
After testing a few leaves, she selects the same ones each time to pluck from the plant. Bringing them close to her nose, she inhales their aroma deeply and closes her eyes in satisfaction, then lays them gently inside her basket.
Shielding her face from the sun by bracing her soiled hand against her forehead, she looks around as if to check for anyone who might be watching, then sets off northward through an overgrown grassed path.
Together—although I might as well not be here—we cut through the long grasses, and I wrap my arms around my torso to brace against the chill of the wind.
Sarah doesn’t seem bothered as we head inland, but she’s wearing a thick woollen shawl, and I’m only in a T-shirt because I discarded my leather jacket on the floor before crawling into bed.
Eventually, we come to a stop on the bank of a small lake. Here, the wind blows harder, and when Sarah sits beside the water’s edge to shelter from it, so do I. The salty coastal breeze whips through my hair, directing the longer layers into my eyes, and I give an exasperated sigh.
Ignorant of my plight, Sarah leans forward to gaze at her reflection in the still water.
Despite that I’ve done it before, I still can’t work out what she’s looking for under its surface.
Once again, curiosity wins out. Leaning close, I peer over her shoulder to see what she does, but all that stares back is her own image.
I raise my hand, intending to plunge it into the cold lake, but before I make contact, I wake with a start.
Heart pounding, breaths shallow, and room spinning, I jolt upright in an instant.
It takes a moment to orient myself; the room is almost pitch dark, with only the electric light that spills under the door from the hallway beyond to see by. Shuffling in place, the bed beneath me crinkles like a plastic bag with every twitch, but that’s when I remember where I am.
Everything in this house is covered in protective plastic, and the beds are the same.
I’d been too tired by the time I’d found the only room that wasn’t claimed by placing a heavy suitcase on top of the bed to bother stripping it off.
Neither did I unpack the parcel of bedding that still sits at the foot of the mattress, and instead used my backpack as a pillow.
My neck cracks when I stretch it out, it immediately throbs. Wincing, I grip the back of it with my hand and squeeze. Cautiously, I swing my feet down onto the carpeted floor, then continue massaging the muscles in my neck and shoulders, but it doesn’t improve much.
Stifling a yawn on the back of my hand presents a whole new ache. My entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, feels sore and bruised.
I frown, then a carousel of intrusive memories invades my mind. One after another, they blur by. Time Guy breaking into my room, the purple glow of his magic, and its crackle as he grabbed my wrist.
This is the whole reason I’m here, sleeping on a plastic-covered bed in a house filled with military werewolves. I scratch through my hair, fingers tangling in the knots, as I listen to the muffled noises of my keepers shuffling around in their respective rooms. They all seem a little… unhinged.
Rowan seems different than the other Dogs—more composed—but then again, he’s their leader, and he burst head first through a plate-glass window to take on Time Guy despite that he has no magic of his own. So maybe he’s every bit as unstable as the rest of them, it’s just that he hides it better.
Why is it always the hot ones? I shrug one-shouldered and absently rub the skin on my wrist.
He’s an intimidating man, but his wolf is even more so.
When the giant russet-coloured beast had landed protectively in front of me, I’d barely cleared his shoulder, and he’d entirely blocked my view of Time Guy.
Well, all but the purple glow of his magic that had been reflected in the polished concrete floor of the coffee shop.
I’d grabbed Rowan’s wolf’s tail instinctively, but when those violet bolts of lightning had bridged the short distance to him, something about our shared contact had prevented them from penetrating even a single strand of brown-red fur.
Time Guy’s Italian accent, when he informed me that the Luna del Lupo must be in my possession because that’s what made me immune to his magic, fills my ears.
Those aggressive crackles had raced over Rowan’s body, and mine, as if they were nothing more than the soft and heavy drops of summer rain. Their patter had bounced from my skin, and all I’d felt was the same strange itching on my left hip that had manifested in our first tussle.
My eyes widen, and my train of thought falls away.
Standing in a rush, I pop the button on my jeans. With one hand, I drag my zipper down, and the other I shove under my waistband.
The incessant buzzing of my phone vibrating with an incoming call stalls my act of undressing. Hands pretty much inside my pants, I turn in a slow circle until… The light from the phone’s display is mostly swallowed by the bedroom carpet it rests on, but it’s still easy to spot in the dark.
Attached to the port in the wall with the charger cable I stole from the barista, my phone continues to vibrate in place until I flip it over, and I smile at the caller I.D.
“Miles,” Ray says immediately. “I’m so sorry it’s taken me all day to get back to you.
The Witches Council didn’t leave until about an hour ago, and I’ve only just got home.
” He blows out a long breath. “I’ve ordered some food and finally had a chance to read your message.
Tell me, what’s this about the discovery of the Lost Colony? ”
Wedging the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I fasten my jeans.
It’s such a Ray thing to do—spend all day dealing with something as awful as murder and the Witches Council, but still make time for those lucky enough to be in his life.
He’s what Ethel would call “a good egg,” but it’s also what sets him up to be taken advantage of by his dickhead boyfriends.
Dickhead boyfriends like our ex-in-common.
I chew my bottom lip to refrain from responding out loud to the thought in my head, but right as I’m about to answer his question, I realise that I can’t. I can’t tell Ray about Roanoke, or Sarah, because Time Guy already found me once when the only personal item I’d had on me was my phone.
Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, my gaze darts out the window to the starlit sky.
Whatever it is I’m mixed up in, it’s safer for Ray if he doesn’t know. I don’t want Time Guy to fold Ray away in the fabric of time.