for whatever her obviously stressed-out psyche could throw at her.
She walked down the same path as before, only now she wasn’t gawking at the nature surrounding her. Alex was paying attention to the fact that there were no damn birds.
Okay, a little detail like that might have escaped most people’s radar, especially most dreaming people, but Alex was an experienced hiker and was used to birds chirping away as she hiked. In her dream world, there were no sounds at all, not even the sloughing of wind through the thick green leaves of the ancient trees that formed a living canopy over her head.
“Same place, but it’s like someone pressed the mute button,” Alex said. “Well, at least in my dream I’m not hungover.” She had just decided her previous experience must have been wine-induced craziness when his voice drifted down the path to her.
“Come back to me…”
Had Alex reasoned out what she planned to do on her next visit to this made-up dream world, she would have said that she was going to be logical. She’d demand the man materialize, and if he didn’t, then she’d simply ignore him and go on about her dreaming, still hoping her subconscious would come up with a tryst with Aragorn.
But the dream wasn’t reasonable. It defied logic. The man’s voice had Alex reacting on a visceral level.
“I’m here! I came back! Where the hell are you?”
“Come back to me…I need you!”
“This is just ridiculous!” But even as Alex grumbled, she increased her pace. His voice was coming from down the path in front of her. This time she wasn’t going to wake up until she found out what the hell was going on in this dream.
The fog began to slither across the path.
“Damn it, no! This happened last time and I’m not putting up with it again! Hello! Where are you? Hello!” Alex was jogging now, shifting her gaze from the path to the misty space ahead of her, all the while straining to see through the soupy grayness.
The mist enveloped her. This wasn’t the romantic, cozy fog she liked to dream about lifting from low spots of the prairie on cool fall mornings. This mist was almost sentient. It was grasping, touching her with frigid fingers that crept into her clothes and down her spine, surrounding her body and soul until, panting, she stumbled to a halt.
“Where are you and what’s happening to me?” she whispered as she gasped for air, trying to catch her breath and regain her composure.
“I need your help. You must have the courage to come back to me.”
“Well, tell me who you are and where you are, and I will!” Alex blurted, utterly frustrated by this dream version of cat and mouse.
Ahead of her the mist cleared for just an instant and an image materialized. It was a symbol in the shape of an S, with both ends of the letter curling in and around to form a thick spiral. Its color was a deep sapphire-blue and she knew that this image held answers for her—somehow the S was his.
Automatically, Alex reached up, wanting to touch the pattern she glimpsed within the mist, wondering if the thing could be a part of a ghost. She’d never had a spirit get into her dreams before, but after almost three decades of seeing the dead, she figured nothing would surprise her.
Out of the mist someone grabbed her hand! Alex yipped a surprised “Yikes!” and tried to pull away, but the disembodied whatever kept a firm hold on her.
“Just do not say no. You must come back to me.”
And then Alex’s hand was lifted up into the mist, and she could swear that she felt lips—warm, firm, intimate lips—brush her skin. The touch somehow grounded her, settling her nerves and making her feel calmer, and surer that she was where she was supposed to be. Everything would be okay. This wasn’t a ghost—they couldn’t touch her. This was a man—a sexy dream man she’d conjured to entertain her sleeping mind. Through his strong grip he telegraphed need.
Alex grinned.
Of course he needed her. Of course he was calling for her. She’d dreamed him up. Now all she needed to do was relax. No doubt the mist would be whisked away—probably to the tune of the theme song from the cool old Lerner and Lowe version of Camelot. Oooh! Maybe that was who she’d dreamed up—King Arthur! Yep! He was definitely King Arthur. This dream world was a perfect pretend ancient England. No wonder he’d kept disappearing when she’d been imagining him as Aragorn—silly her! She was having a dorky historical fantasy, not a dorky sci fi/fantasy fantasy!
“All righty then,” Alex said happily, squeezing the hand that still held hers, “I’m ready. I’ve come back to you.” Still grinning, she braced herself, sure she’d figured out her dream version of the Gordian Knot, and everything would clear right up in an instant.
“It won’t be that easy, daughter of man!”
The new voice blasted Alex. Whoever had her hand dropped it, and, thrown off balance by the force of the voice and by the absence of the comforting presence that had anchored her in the dream world, Alex stumbled backward. And there was nothing behind her. Her arms windmilled, but she couldn’t stop herself from falling…falling…falling…
“Hey there, Ms. Patton! You’re awake now—everything’s okay.”
Alex jerked away from the old guy whose big, beefy hand was resting on her shoulder.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that you were making some real strange noises and I thought you might be having a doozy of a nightmare.”
Alex blinked up at the man—thinning gray hair, silver unibrow, lots of nose hair—and reality rushed back into her frazzled brain.
“Oh, Mr. Thompson, you startled me.”
“Were you having a bad dream, dear?” Mrs. Thompson, a plump woman who looked as if she’d be the perfect grandma, peered down at Alex over her husband’s shoulder.
“I—I guess I was. I don’t really remember.” She stood abruptly, brushing nonexistent dirt and grass from her khaki work pants. “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she said, trying not to sound as disconcerted as she felt—especially when she realized she was the center the half dozen city folks’ attention.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been out like a light for the better part of two hours!” boomed Mr. Meyers, a retired butcher from Tulsa.
“Oh, Frank, leave the girl alone. I was just thinkin’ how tired she looked while we was hiking up here.” Mrs. Meyers, who insisted Alex call her Trixi, patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We all need our beauty sleep.”
“Okay, well, are we ready to head back?” Alex said, wishing she could crawl under the nearest rock.
“Yep, sure are! And I’ll bet you can set a quicker pace than you did on the way here, after that nap you took!” Mr. Meyers chuckled and slapped Alex on the back.
Thankfully, none of the tourists were staying the night, so Alex’s duties were done after she deposited the group in the prairie gift shop. Still feeling out of sorts after the weird repeated dream, she decided to indulge herself in one of her favorite pastimes—watching old BBC Masterpiece Theatre specials on her widescreen iMac. She’d popped some extra-buttery popcorn, poured a huge glass of iced tea—no wine today!—opened her new Netflix envelope and was just getting ready to pop disc one of The House of Elliott into her computer when the screen bleeped, telling her she had a new e-mail. Without really thinking about it, Alex clicked on the logo and saw that the new mail was from [email protected].
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered at the screen. With an annoyed jab, she clicked on the e-mail.
There was one line, which read: If you want to find out more about this, come to Flagstaff. It was signed A. C.
Alex