You’d said the same thing when Santiago belled your cats. Were you projecting your own feelings about your situation?
“Come along, come along, come along.”
You gave the tiger one last long stroke along its sternum, then gingerly removed its head from your lap. When you stood, your clothes were coated in tufts of fur. I’d been prepared to wrestle the animal with my bare hands if it came to it, but the tiger seemed utterly tame as you leaned down to place a gentle kiss between its ears. I bit my tongue so as not to disrupt whatever thrall you’d cast.
“I’ll visit again soon,” you promised the tiger.
Over my dead body.
When you were within my reach, I hauled you into my arms and sprinted all the way to the moat. I jumped in gracelessly and strode across it. On the other side of the fenced enclosure, I set you down carefully and struggled to catch my breath.
Xavier laid into you with uncharacteristic fervor, and I let him because you should have known better. By the end of his tirade, both you and he were sobbing. Xavier hugged you so tightly the flesh of your arms dimpled from his grip. Meanwhile, I’d collapsed on a bench and was fading in and out of lucidity while trying to stave off a panic attack. Even in my line of work, I hadn’t experienced that kind of terror in years.
Not since the last time Lena had threatened your life.
6
HENRI
“Was it in his journal?” Santiago demanded. I could always determine the man’s state of mind by the condition of his hair, and at the moment, his carefully coifed style was in utter disarray.
Xavier had called him home that afternoon to discuss the incident with the tiger while you played in the yard. We were in their living room, reviewing your journal while I kept a close eye on you and the fence that enclosed the property.
“Nothing.” Xavier scanned through the last couple of entries.
As soon as you’d been able to articulate your dreams, I’d suggested keeping a dream journal. It was now part of your morning ritual with Xavier to record what you could recall from the night before. I’d also insisted on meditation being part of your daily regimen, usually before bed so that you could wind down and rest easy. It was one way to connect with the spiritual realm while being grounded in the physical one, and it laid the foundation for developing your powers.
It also allowed for long-buried memories to surface, and I was on the lookout for those as well.
“It says here in his last entry, ‘the grapes are starting to ripen, and Mater says we can pick them soon.’ Nothing about a tiger or the zoo or taming a cat.”
“He must have left it out on purpose.” I glanced worriedly to where you lay on a blanket in the shade, reading one of your favorite books with your cats lounging around you like ladies-in-waiting.
“Perhaps he’s only blaming it on her?” Xavier suggested. “Because he knew he’d get in trouble?”
“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. The two of them discussed it, Santiago asking for details he’d already been given, while I formed a plan for making contact with Lena. She’d refused all of my summons, but I doubted she’d refuse you. By joining you in dreams, I could at least see where you went in your subconscious mind and make sure it was psychologically safe. I suggested the idea to your parents and outlined what it would take to accomplish it. Santiago offered to notify Azrael of my hiatus from duty, for I doubted this feat could be accomplished in just one night.
That occasion marked the beginning of our dream sharing. It helped if we made some physical contact. My hand would cradle your cheek as you drifted off to sleep, or you’d hook your slender finger around one of mine.
In the dream realm you showed me “Mater’s house,” which I recognized as our family’s ancestral home. A sprawling vineyard in the Campania region of Italy, bordered in the west by the Mediterranean Sea and situated in the coastal plains around Mount Vesuvius where the soil is rich and black from volcanic ash. My islands were there as well, gifted to me by Lena as a reward for a military promotion.
In my youth, we’d usually arrive at the vineyard when the apricots were just beginning to ripen and depart after the grape harvest concluded in late fall. My father was a chieftain of a Germanic tribe, but Lena claimed the Etruscans as her chosen people and had settled in the southern reaches of their civilization long before I was born. To this day, she had an ensemble of fate demons who maintained its upkeep, though I tended to avoid it when I visited, preferring to sojourn directly to my islands.
The details of the landscape weren’t crisp due to your limited abilities at conjuring dreamscapes, and my memories of my homeland were distant enough that I couldn’t add much context. On a few occasions, the blurred scenery would narrow into sharp focus so that every pointed ridge of the grape leaves could be distinguished. The frames supporting the grapevines bowed like old men’s backs with the weight of plump fruit, and dew glittered like jewels on the waxy grape skin. I could almost smell the cloyingly sweet air, pungent with the ripening harvest. During those moments, I knew Lena was nearby, monitoring the two of us but refusing to interact.
Such a maddening creature.
I toured the dreamscape with you. You showed me your “room,” an open-air gazebo adorned with bougainvillea, which was not native to the region but had become a favorite ornamental plant of the locals. The white marble floor was layered with furs and sheepskin rugs. Lena must have expended quite a lot of energy in making their textures so tactile, repeating the ritual often enough that you’d be able to conjure the sensation in her absence.
In addition to those creature comforts, there were platters of fruit and nuts grown on the property, but only those that were in season. I wondered if Lena was mimicking the harvest cycle so that she’d have the ability to track the passage of time from within her Shade Vale prison. She was nothing if not clever.
On one such platter was a sampling of our native grapes—Aglianico—along with figs, dates, and goat cheese threaded with basil.
“Can you taste those?” I asked.
You popped a date into your mouth and chewed for a bit before spitting out the pit. “Like candy but better.”
Was your description the result of your experiences in the material world, or had she become so advanced in her oneiric abilities that you could taste it? And if so, was there some nefarious reason for dedicating the time and energy to this pursuit, or had she simply wanted you to experience the palate of our homeland?
