Dreaming Death by J. Kathleen Cheney

Author:J. Kathleen Cheney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-01-15T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mikael Lee smelled of soap, wool, and, oddly enough, lemon.

He was afraid—always afraid he’d slip away and die, with everything forgotten and no purpose served. The fear beat through his mind like the frantic wings of a bird trapped inside the house. He wanted to live, but it was hard to let go when they died.

Shironne tried to tear away, shocked at the strength of the pull he exerted on her, unlike any mind she’d ever felt before. Mikael Lee’s thoughts wrapped themselves around her, pulling her down with him into sleep.

He was the woman. Suddenly his terror became very clear to her. He became the victim, tangled into the woman’s feelings and fear. The colonel had told Shironne that, but she’d never truly understood until now. Together they shared the woman’s confusion and fear. They felt her numbness and utter helplessness.

Mikael’s memories of the dream flowed around her, blurry and tattered. The faces of the woman’s killers were flesh-colored smears, holes already stretching into the fabric of them, doorways into nothingness. The memory had begun to rot away, like moldering leaves found under a hedge in spring.

Someone watched it all, familiar but unformed, another of those tattered faces, but apart from them.

One of the attackers reached out a crumbling hand then, touching the woman’s face, a violation that felt worse than the helplessness. She couldn’t understand why that one touch should be so terrible among all the others, but to Shironne it seemed as if that hand reached into her mind as well as the victim’s.

Shironne felt the woman’s decision to give herself up to death, to escape the fear and humiliation. Suddenly calm, she knew she wasn’t alone. She was going to die, but Mikael would remember it all for her. He would avenge her.

I have to escape; we’ll all three die together, even in this tattered memory.

Shironne screamed at Mikael to wake, but he stayed with the woman, refusing to give up on this chance to understand, to preserve something of her. The third presence in the dream hung on as well, trying to reach them—almost as if he could extend his touch through the victim and, in doing so, reach Mikael himself.

“Wake up!” Shironne yelled at him, determined not to let that other presence have him.

Her lungs failed, forgetting how to breathe. Her time had run out.

Shironne reached into her pocket and wrapped her hand around her focus. She forced herself into the crystal, seeking its calm to escape the horror of the dream. Anchored, she tore Mikael away from the dying woman.

Shironne woke, drawing a deep breath into lungs that felt broken and aged. Disoriented, she discovered she’d sat down. Then, realizing she’d sat down in Mikael’s lap, she tried to jerk free. The top of her head cracked against his jaw. He yelped and pushed her away.

She tumbled onto the floor, one slipper catching in the other trouser leg and keeping her from rising.

“I bit my tongue,” Mikael mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

He helped her stand, placing one hand under her elbow and pulling her up with his other hand.

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