The second “her” was not about me, I thought, and that was confirmed when Messenger said, “A glimpse would be all the rest I would need. I had heard she was in Carcassonne. I performed my duties—I did what I must do. I just wanted . . .” But then, with a sigh that trembled coming out, he conceded. “I will rest, Daniel.”
Daniel then did what I had thought no one could do. He laid a hand on Messenger’s shoulder and said, “Not long now.”
“Just tell me if she lives!” The words came out as a cry of pain, a pain I would never have believed Messenger capable of.
Daniel did not answer, but left his hand on Messenger’s shoulder until the boy in black let his chin fall all the way to his chest in a pose of exhaustion and defeat.
Around us the room unfroze. Once again there were shouts and cheers and people eating nachos.
But there was no Derek. His disappearance must have seemed inexplicable. His wrestling opponent was looking around, baffled, the referee doing likewise.
I was done. Done with it all. Without asking permission or waiting for Messenger, I fled the room, passing through a heavy door that should have led to the outside but led instead to the room that was not my room and the bed that was not my bed, but was bed enough to catch my body as I collapsed.
I DREAMED. HAD I THOUGHT ABOUT IT, I SUPPOSE I would have expected to experience nightmares. But I did not. Instead I found myself walking along a beach. There were tall buff-colored cliffs to my left. To my right, waves crashed and each time they did, the sound was a joy to me. A crash followed by all the sounds of suction drawing water back into the retreating wave like an inhalation. The sounds of pebbles rolling endlessly in the water, in and out, in and out, slowly, inexorably being ground down from rock to pebble to sand.
It was not hot, though the sun was in the sky, still well above the horizon. A stiff breeze blew the salt off the white foam, just cold enough to raise goose bumps from my exposed arms and legs. I looked down, in this dream, and saw that my feet were bare and coated in a layer of adhesive sand. I felt something in my hand and turned it palm-up to look at the half dozen mismatched shells I had there.
I was happy. I could feel it. I smiled in the dream and smiled into my pillow.
The beach was a crescent, not very long, one of a dozen such small, hard-to-reach beaches along the coast north of Santa Cruz. In my dream I knew that’s where it was. Santa Cruz. We went there sometimes. We. Whoever “we” was.
I looked down the beach and saw an old couple with low folding chairs, the man with a long-billed cap and sunglasses, the woman in the odd combination of down parka and sundress. No, they were not with me; I was not with them.
I looked back along the path made by my bare feet in the sand and saw a woman and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old. The woman was Asian, like me; the girl I couldn’t see clearly enough to identify beyond the fact that she was wildly energetic, running in mad circles that cut through the white fringe of the crashing wave.
My mother? My sister?
I longed to run to them—it was foolish of me to feel that I needed time alone, off hunting for shells. Didn’t I realize how much I would need them? How much I would crave their conversation, their still unremembered faces? I wanted to run to them, but even in the depths of the dream I knew I could not.
I looked up, craning my neck, bending my back, and shielding my eyes with my hand, to survey the top of the cliff. He was up there, the boy in black, Messenger. He had never been to this beach, I was sure of that, and the lucid part of me, the aware part of me that knew this was a dream and knew that I knew, felt his presence as an intrusion.
And yet I was not resentful. He was gazing out to sea, looking for her. For Ariadne, as if she could be out there somewhere. At that thought I turned to follow the direction of his gaze and spotted three surfers, two already paddling like mad to catch the wave that pursued them, while the third, a girl with auburn hair, sat astride her board waiting for something better to roll in.
I didn’t call up to him, and he did not look down at me. I wondered if he was merely an image carried over from the day I had just endured, or whether he was actually present and aware inside my dream. Under normal circumstances that would never have occurred to me, but this was Messenger, and there was very little the boy in black could not do. He could freeze time and warp space.
And yet, I knew, he was as trapped as I was myself, as unable to escape. A fellow penitent.
I woke in darkness, rolled over, and stared up at the ceiling. What had Messenger done to earn this punishment? What did it have to do with the mysterious Ariadne? Was he even from my own time and space or was he a traveler from long ago or a long time yet to come? Was he the age he appeared to be, or was he older, maybe even much older? It was clear enough that I could not trust entirely the evidence of my eyes. This was a universe of illusion, of distortion and deception.
I thought of Oriax, pictured her, a beautiful young woman, but was she the mesmerizing, unforgettable, unequaled beauty I felt her to be when I was in her presence? Messenger had told her to let me go. Had she held some power over me?
What was Daniel? How had he known—if he did know—that poor Manolo was doomed? How had he known with a touch that Derek would be lost to sanity for at least a while?
What was the Shoals? And what, in the name of all that was either holy or rational, was this ridiculous Heptarchy and what’s her name? Isthil.
I held my mind to these speculations for fear that, without a task on which to focus, my thoughts would veer toward darker, more awful things. Derek. Samantha Early. The fate that must befall Kayla.