I knew as I climbed into our bed that night that I wouldn’t be able to astral project. There was no point envisioning myself on the back path. Camila wouldn’t be waiting for me. So as my exhaustion from the day’s events tugged me into the arms of sleep, I leaned into it and prayed for a dreamless night.
My psyche wasn’t in the mood to give me what I wanted. I dreamed of Horace, waking several times with sweat drenching my back and my legs tangled in the blankets, clutching my throat and struggling to breathe.
The third time it happened, Graham turned on the light. “It’s okay,” he soothed as I gulped for air. “There’s nobody else here. It’s just us.”
When I finally calmed down, he moved to switch off the lamp.
“Can you leave it?” I felt like a child asking, but I was sure I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if there wasn’t any light to hold back the darkness.
“Of course.”
With Striker purring comfortingly just above my head, I managed to fall back to sleep again. Whether because of the light or because my brain had gotten bored of torturing me, my dreams turned to the more abstract, disconnected scenarios I was used to. Searching through piles of equipment cases for a nonexistent piece of gear. Running down the hallway of my high school, desperate to get to class on time for an important quiz. Calmly listening to Striker explain that she was planning to marry Fang’s cat, Shadow, and that as parents of the bride, we were expected to pay for the ceremony.
Then, abruptly, I found myself in the parking lot of the Yurt in Luck Resort.
Bright sunlight shone down from overhead, and the desert plants in the gardens were alive with vibrant red and yellow flowers that hadn’t been there when Graham and I visited. The roar of the river was far louder than it was in real life, and the breeze carried the fresh scent of piñon pine. My surreal surroundings were a relief; this was a dream, not an astral projection, and I knew that when I woke, I would feel rested.
Someone tugged at my hand. My mother stood beside me, not looking at me as she yanked me toward the first yurt on the left side. She wore a cream-colored, flowing dress that fluttered around her knees, and her brown hair fell down her back in loose curls.
“Mom.” I tried to pull her toward me, but she resisted. I relaxed my stance and let her tug me to the door of the Shamrock unit, the same yurt where I had found Camila’s luggage.
My mother opened the door easily, no kick required. The room looked vacant; the bed was made, the chairs were tucked neatly under the wooden table, and the door to the bathroom was closed. I expected her to lead me to the tub where we would find Camila’s suitcase all over again, together, but she stopped and pointed at the painting above the bed.
“What is it?” I examined the field of shamrocks, which were even brighter and greener here than they had been the last time I saw them. They were nice, but nothing about them struck me as particularly noteworthy.
“Find him,” she said, not meeting my gaze. She kept her eyes fixed on the painting.
I frowned. For a moment, I thought this might be the kind of visitation Grey had described. I just wanted to sit down at the little table and talk to my mom. It would take hours, but I wanted to catch her up on my life and hear more about what hers had been like before I was born. Grey made it sound like a visitation was a conversation, but this felt nothing like I had imagined. As always, my mother felt distant.
Restrained.
“Can you talk to me?” I asked. “Really talk?”
She finally faced me, and her expression was pained. She looked like she wanted to say something—there was a depth of emotion in her eyes that made me think she wanted to say a lot of things—and she gathered both of my hands into hers, squeezing them tightly.
“There’s no time,” she whispered. “I can’t stay.”
I felt the truth in her words. Her form shimmered, and her hands felt less substantial around mine than they had a moment before.
She was fading.
“Tell me,” I urged. “Whatever you’re here to say, just say it.”
“He’s in trouble.” She let go of my hands and pointed at the painting again. “The Irishman.”
“Stephen?” Alarm flooded me, and my heart pounded against my neck.
The bathroom door fell open. Camila’s luggage lay open on the floor. Her clothes spilled out of it, and sitting on top of the messy pile of T-shirts and blue jeans was a wooden jewelry box with an open lid. I walked toward it, dread building in my belly, and peeled back the red velvet lining.
Horace’s runes were there, burned into the wood and fully intact. The world around me faded away until I stood at the edge of a dark forest, holding the box in my hands. Horace was striding toward me across a recently plowed field, his eyes glowing red and his cape fluttering behind him. His lips peeled back, and sharpened teeth gleamed in the moonlight.
“Go!” my mother’s voice whispered in my ear.
The frigid air pierced through my pajamas and numbed my limbs. The box slipped out of my fingers. Horace’s eyes locked on mine. I turned to run, but my feet were trapped, tangled in vines that snaked out from between the trees. I fell to the ground and thrashed, trying to break free.
“Help!” I screamed. “Help!”
A bright light blinded me. I squinted against it. Graham’s face appeared above mine, and his head blocked the glare from the overhead light behind him. His hands gripped my shoulders, and I became aware that he had been shaking me gently.
“Shh, you’re okay.” He leaned back and sighed. “Everything’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.” I untangled my legs from the sheets and leapt out of bed. “Get your shoes. We have to go right now.”
“Mac, it’s okay. You were having a nightmare. It was just a dream.”
“No.” I pulled a sweatshirt over my head. “We have to go get Stephen.”
“What? Why?”
“Because if we don’t find him now, he’s going to die.”