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Authors: Amanda Downum
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Blake?
“He is a very old power,” the man said, “whose star is rising again. His shadow is darkest here in the land of dreams, but your world is not untouched by it.”
“Who are you? A priest?” He looked the part, but none of the priests she’d met smiled like that, so sleek and knowing and dangerous.
“Not exactly. You may call me Seker.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Are you a god?”
Pearl-black eyes narrowed in amusement. “Conventional wisdom encourages me to say yes, doesn’t it? But I’m only borrowing the name.”
“Do you guide souls through the underworld?”
“I prefer to guide the living. The priests of the Ancients may offer comfort, but stronger measures will be needed as the shadow grows.” His gaze held hers, and she felt her heart being weighed and measured. “What about you, dreamer? Will you fight for what you hold dear?”
She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. Her reflection in his eyes was so small. A little rabbit of a girl. “If I have to.”
With that the dream dissolved around her, and she opened her eyes to the hotel ceiling and watery light rippling down the walls.
“If you have to what?” Alex asked. Liz turned her head to see him leaning against the doorway, holding a damp paper bag. “I brought breakfast.”
R AIN WASHED THE windows while they ate. Liz spread cream cheese across a bagel and watched water sluice past the balcony. Clouds hung low, enfolding the city in grey wings. Through the mist and sifting rain Vancouver was as unreal as any dream city, and less familiar.
“What would you like to do today?” Alex asked.
She turned the idea over in her head. She ought to think of something distracting, a movie or a museum to take her mind off Blake. But even if the weather had been less bleak, the thought of sightseeing made her neck muscles tighten. It’s not as though she would enjoy it anyway.
“I want to go back to the hospital.”
Alex nodded, but his lips thinned. She couldn’t blame him—grief wasn’t a spectator sport. “You don’t have to go with me.”
He took his glasses off to clean them, frowning down at the frames. The sideways light gilded the tips of his eyelashes, turned his irises pale and silvery as water. “I should find something to wear to this gallery opening. Other than that, I wouldn’t mind staying in today.”
Liz nodded. She’d heard the strain in his breathing as she fell asleep the night before, and his voice was rough around the edges. “Of course.”
He looked up and smiled, lenses flashing as he slid his glasses back on. “Don’t worry. This is still better than being home for the holidays.”
L IZ ’ S VOICE HELD through the first two chapters of the novel she’d picked up in the gift shop—a time traveling romance, full of questionable anatomy and even more dubious historical accuracy, on the off chance she could annoy Blake into waking up—but a lump kept forming in her throat. If he would just open his eyes, make a joke about Geneva conventions...
She finally let the book fall shut, breathing in the comforting scent of new paper and ink. It couldn’t ease the helplessness gnawing at her stomach.
At least she wasn’t making anyone else suffer; Blake had been moved to a private room. Was Rainer paying for that? She doubted the province would be so generous to a wayward American indigent.
For all its privacy, the room wasn’t much cheerier than the ICU. It smelled the same: plastic, bleach, floor polish, something sour and organic she couldn’t identify. At least it had a window. She’d dragged the single chair next to the bed, out of the square of weak sunlight.
She took Blake’s cold hand in hers, abandoning the book. Had the staff guessed which hand was dominant? Had they looked at the calluses and ink stains? He could sketch left-handed, too, had taught himself after his father broke his right wrist when he was fifteen.
She tried to take comfort in the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, its constant
“He is a very old power,” the man said, “whose star is rising again. His shadow is darkest here in the land of dreams, but your world is not untouched by it.”
“Who are you? A priest?” He looked the part, but none of the priests she’d met smiled like that, so sleek and knowing and dangerous.
“Not exactly. You may call me Seker.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Are you a god?”
Pearl-black eyes narrowed in amusement. “Conventional wisdom encourages me to say yes, doesn’t it? But I’m only borrowing the name.”
“Do you guide souls through the underworld?”
“I prefer to guide the living. The priests of the Ancients may offer comfort, but stronger measures will be needed as the shadow grows.” His gaze held hers, and she felt her heart being weighed and measured. “What about you, dreamer? Will you fight for what you hold dear?”
She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. Her reflection in his eyes was so small. A little rabbit of a girl. “If I have to.”
With that the dream dissolved around her, and she opened her eyes to the hotel ceiling and watery light rippling down the walls.
“If you have to what?” Alex asked. Liz turned her head to see him leaning against the doorway, holding a damp paper bag. “I brought breakfast.”
R AIN WASHED THE windows while they ate. Liz spread cream cheese across a bagel and watched water sluice past the balcony. Clouds hung low, enfolding the city in grey wings. Through the mist and sifting rain Vancouver was as unreal as any dream city, and less familiar.
“What would you like to do today?” Alex asked.
She turned the idea over in her head. She ought to think of something distracting, a movie or a museum to take her mind off Blake. But even if the weather had been less bleak, the thought of sightseeing made her neck muscles tighten. It’s not as though she would enjoy it anyway.
“I want to go back to the hospital.”
Alex nodded, but his lips thinned. She couldn’t blame him—grief wasn’t a spectator sport. “You don’t have to go with me.”
He took his glasses off to clean them, frowning down at the frames. The sideways light gilded the tips of his eyelashes, turned his irises pale and silvery as water. “I should find something to wear to this gallery opening. Other than that, I wouldn’t mind staying in today.”
Liz nodded. She’d heard the strain in his breathing as she fell asleep the night before, and his voice was rough around the edges. “Of course.”
He looked up and smiled, lenses flashing as he slid his glasses back on. “Don’t worry. This is still better than being home for the holidays.”
L IZ ’ S VOICE HELD through the first two chapters of the novel she’d picked up in the gift shop—a time traveling romance, full of questionable anatomy and even more dubious historical accuracy, on the off chance she could annoy Blake into waking up—but a lump kept forming in her throat. If he would just open his eyes, make a joke about Geneva conventions...
She finally let the book fall shut, breathing in the comforting scent of new paper and ink. It couldn’t ease the helplessness gnawing at her stomach.
At least she wasn’t making anyone else suffer; Blake had been moved to a private room. Was Rainer paying for that? She doubted the province would be so generous to a wayward American indigent.
For all its privacy, the room wasn’t much cheerier than the ICU. It smelled the same: plastic, bleach, floor polish, something sour and organic she couldn’t identify. At least it had a window. She’d dragged the single chair next to the bed, out of the square of weak sunlight.
She took Blake’s cold hand in hers, abandoning the book. Had the staff guessed which hand was dominant? Had they looked at the calluses and ink stains? He could sketch left-handed, too, had taught himself after his father broke his right wrist when he was fifteen.
She tried to take comfort in the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, its constant
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