FIRE. BLOOD. PALE EYES.
Archer Keaton gasped awake, his top sheet and blankets tangling around him as if they were living things, serpents bent on strangling the life out of him while he slept. Everything was drenched in sweat, especially near his back. And it stung. Archer half-reached over his shoulder, probing for the source of pain. A new line of fire streaked up his back, making him flinch. What in the world?
He squirmed a bit on the edge of the bed and shrugged his shoulders slowly. A lash of flame sliced through his thoughts. He shook the image away, but the memory seemed nearer than ever before.
“Hold it!” Archer blurted out. He snatched up at his windowsill and came back with the compact UV light he always kept close to his bed. His breath held captive, his heartbeat seeming to pause, he flicked on the light. Legs clear, he thought. Torso, arms too. He slid out of bed to stand before the mirror. A few more sweeps of the UV light . . . and Archer exhaled.
“No tendrils,” he whispered, switching off the power. “Not still in the Dream.” He exhaled a long, relieved breath and flopped back into bed. Dreamtreading was full of dangers, but tendrils were among the worst. Leech-like parasites, about six inches long, but invisible to the naked eye, tendrils infected their hosts with a kind of psychological toxin. Not only did this mental poison hinder the Dreamtreader’s ability to wake up, but it hit the imagination and senses, making it nearly impossible to tell dream from reality.
A siren wailed somewhere, maybe just a few streets away from Archer’s home. He shuddered involuntarily. As Archer would put it, sirens weirded him out. It wasn’t just the sound—unsettling, shrill, and mournful—but more the potential behind the sound. The potential for tragedy.
Archer shivered again, and again felt the sting on his back. “I really need to see what that is,” he whispered. But just then, the wind kicked up. Not some little breeze to stir the wind chimes—this was a fist of buffeting, hammering air. It struck the side of Archer’s house causing the shutters and siding to rattle like a machine gun. And it kept coming.
A derecho.
Archer had never heard the term before science class the day before. Dr. Pallazzo had described the rare atmospheric condition: a line of powerful thunderstorms stretching hundreds of miles up and down the East Coast, the derecho was fueled by a volatile sudden mass of cold air surging down from Canada and sweeping into a cauldron of hot, moist air.
This violent collision often caused thunderstorms and sometimes spawned tornados, but there were exceptional occasions when these conditions would unleash a derecho. Dr. Pallazzo had said that all the weather models pointed to the likelihood that a derecho would form, probably deep into the night.
Archer glanced at the red digital display of his bedside clock. Three in the morning. The wind continued to howl. “Man, Dr. P was right,” Archer muttered. He listened to the pounding wind. “I hope—”
Flash. Bang!
The thunderclap slammed before the lightning flash faded.
“Snot buckets!” Archer exclaimed, blinking and trying to catch his breath. As if I need anything else to accelerate my heartbeat.
The lightning had pierced his curtains and lit the room in ghostly white, leaving a visual phantom of pale eyes.
Those eyes. The memories returned. Defeat. The Nightmare Lord’s laughter.
The storm roared outside, gathering strength. Hard rain pelted his bedroom window. Lightning flashes and thunder blasts competed against each other, trying to give Archer a heart attack. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for safety, for him and his family.
An odd musical trill floated across his room.
“What—is—that?” Archer wondered aloud as the tune carried on. It sounded vaguely familiar. Annoying, but familiar.
Wait, he thought. Is that . . . is that the Bob the Builder theme song? Oh, no. Not again.
Archer sat up, sending a strip of searing pain blazing up his back. He groaned. The image flickered into his mind again: Vorcaust, the flaming whip. But he wasn’t still in the dream. “Why do I still feel it?” Archer whispered. He arched his back and rolled his shoulders.
The music tinkled again. Archer spotted his cell phone on the charger atop his desk. His back still smarting, he managed to pad across the room and snatch up the phone.
“Dang it, Kaylie,” he mumbled. He knew good and well what had happened. His little sister had changed his ring tone again. And again, she’d changed it to the most annoying ring tone imaginable. Sure, he’d tried to lock her out of the phone. But when it came to technology, he was no match for Kaylie. Few people were.
At just seven, Kaylie had tested off the charts in every school subject. She’d skipped three grades and had to get county-sponsored private tutoring because the regular Gifted and Talented curriculum wasn’t challenging enough. Kaylie wasn’t just smart. She was scary. She sent other prodigies running home to their mamas.
And no matter what Archer did to protect his computer, iPod, game systems, and phone, Kaylie always managed to hack in. It was never malicious, but it was almost always an eleven on the Pesty Scale.
Another clap of thunder made Archer jump. He shook his head, exhaled, and looked down at the messages: two, both from his best friend, Kara Windchil. Archer again noted the time. Way late for texting, he thought. But that didn’t stop him from checking the messages anyway.
Scary storm. Save me.
This wind is crazy. Jk about the save me part. Lol.
Archer snorted a laugh. He detached the phone from the charger and ambled back to bed. Kara had been his best friend ever since they were in day care together before starting kindergarten. They’d climbed trees together. They’d caught fireflies and built snowmen. They’d fetched crates full of little milk cartons together in elementary school and done morning announcements on camera in middle school.
Now, many years later, they went to the same high school and shared numerous classes. Kara was a little different in high school, more worried about being cute and popular. But, in the neighborhood, she was always the same old friendly Kara.
The middle-of-the-night text was unexpected though.
Storms still spook you, Kara? What are we, still in kindergarten?
Always the funny guy, right? Except not funny. My house is shaking.
Archer laughed, but it was painful laughter. My back, again, he thought, still at a loss for an explanation that made any sense.
He texted:
Storm shouldn’t last too much longer. Dr. P said derechos move fast.
A few seconds pause and Kara texted:
Hope so. Creeping me out.
Archer sent back:
Everything else okay?
“Dude, what are you doin’ on your phone?” came a voice from the doorway.
Archer’s eyes bounced up. “Buster, get back in bed.”
“Why?” Buster asked, cocking his head sideways. “This storm is righteous.”
Archer shook his head. “Righteous? I don’t get it,” he said. “Our family has lived in Maryland for all of your life. In fact, we Keatons have been in Maryland, well . . . ever since our ancestors came over on the boat. And you talk like you’re a surfer raised on the breakers in California.” Buster ignored him.
“Look, Brosef, if I can’t bang on my games this late, you can’t be messin’ around on your phone.”
Brosef? Archer rolled his eyes. But it wasn’t a put-on or an imitation. It was just the way Buster spoke. And, in spite of the dominant red-hair, fair-skin Keaton genes, ten-year-old Buster had somehow managed to get blond hair and the ability to tan like a beach bum.
The trilling text message music sounded again.
“Dude, tell me that is not the Barney theme,” Buster said.
“Kaylie did it,” Archer muttered. “She—” A sudden flash. Sharp, crackling thunder followed.
“Cool,” Buster said.
Yeah, thought Archer. Way cool. “Okay, little bro,” he said. “Back to your room.”
“Better not let Dad catch you with your cell,” Buster warned.
“It’s no big deal,” Archer explained. “Someone just texted me, that’s all.”
“Who?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Who?” Buster asked again.
“None of your business.”
“I’ll tell.”
Archer glowered at his little brother. “It’s just Kara,” he muttered.
“Ewww,” Buster said. “Kara’s a girl.”
“Uh . . . yes,” Archer replied. “Pretty much.”
“Grody,” Buster said, and he scampered back down the hall making very little a sound.
The storm continued to rage on, but another siren pierced the night. Archer cringed as he lay down on his side. He glanced at his phone. The little envelope icon was blinking.
Kara’s most recent reply:
Well, on top of this freak storm, I just had a really bad dream.
It felt like an ice-cold needle ran up Archer’s spine. He texted Kara:
What kind of bad dream?
A few rumbles of thunder later, the Barney tune announced Kara’s reply:
You’ll think I’m a nut. It was just a dream. No big deal.
Come on. Tell me.
After several heart-racing moments, Kara texted:
There was this scary guy with white eyes. He had someone tied down to a table. I’m not sure who it was, but somehow, I knew it was someone I cared about. The white-eyed guy he stared at me. And he had . . .
Archer clicked on the text twice, but that was all there was. It just cut off. Then came another Barney text chime.
. . . a knife.
Archer caught another chill as a new text came in.
I thought he was going to murder the person on the table. But, Archer, he handed me the knife. And I did it . . .
Did what? Archer wanted to scream at the phone.
The text came at last:
I killed someone. I can’t believe it, Archer! Why would I do that?
Kara’s dream flooded Archer’s mind. He wasn’t afraid. He was angry. And he was making it personal. He texted Kara back:
That’s so messed up, but listen: it’s just a dream okay? Not real.
But it seemed so real.
Listen, I know you. You would NEVER do something like that.
The wind whistled and howled outside. Kara’s next text seemed to take forever. Sheets of rain slapped at the house, and there was one final stone-shattering crack of thunder. Then all went quiet.
Kara’s text finally came:
K. Thanks. I needed to hear that. Night.
And that fast, the surging anger came back. Archer popped up out of bed, strode down the hall, vanished into the blue bathroom, and shut and locked the door. He flipped on the light and took off his shirt. Keeping his head turned so that he could still see in the mirror, he rotated his shoulders . . . and then hissed.
A stinging, pencil-thin welt striped his back. “How did you do that?” Archer whispered. He began searching his memory, the years he’d spent Dreamtreading. He’d been injured a hundred times while on missions, but it had never turned into something real.
“I have got to finish this,” Archer muttered. The Nightmare Lord had begun pushing the envelope. He’d gone too far. Kara’s dream and the burning wound on his back had made that clear. Something had to be done. Something drastic . . . and soon.
Back in his room, Archer started for his closet but stopped at a bright flash of lightning. It had startled him again, but that wasn’t why he stopped. In the flickering light, he’d seen something on his bed. Now, even in shadow, among the rumpled sheets and covers, alien shapes stood out. “What?” he whispered, flipping a corner of a sheet. He grabbed up his cell and aimed its waking light to see better.
Two dead leaves. A black feather. A segment of cold, iron chain. Archer blinked away a memory of ravens, swirling darkness, and fire. Then, he whispered, “I’ve never brought anything back before.”
His cell phone held high, spraying the bed with light, Archer reached for the chain. He jerked his hand away once, involuntarily reacting. But when his fingertips brushed up against the metal, there was no shock. It was just cold. So was the feather. The leaves too. It was as if these things had been outside in the night. He placed the items on his bedside table . . . carefully.
With a shudder, Archer went to his closet, moved the boxes heavy with sports cards and trophies, and found a particular metal suitcase. Archer turned the three combination wheels in turn. The container opened like something inside was taking a deep breath. Pale blue light shone through the crack as the lid lifted. Archer reached inside and removed a book covered in worn, dark leather and bound with silvery thread. The lettering of the title, The Dreamtreader’s Creed, still glowed faintly.
“This is what I need,” Archer whispered. “I can always get answers here.” He removed the book. The cover was well worn from all the time he’d spent studying. Right from the beginning, the Creeds had helped him understand things.
Archer had known he was different all along. He dreamed differently than other people. He could do things in the dreams, control things, make things happen. The Creeds had explained all that. He’d been born a Dreamtreader, one of three people on earth given unique gifts to be used within the Dream to protect—well, everyone. Turned out, dreams weren’t the harmless things most people thought they were. They could be dangerous. And there was a lethal enemy in the Dream.
“And I am way behind in my reading,” Archer whispered. He took the book in one hand and closed the case. He hadn’t taken three steps back to his bed when he heard sniffling.
And there was Kaylie standing in his bedroom doorway. Her strawberry blond pigtails seemed to droop, and her puffy, cream-white face was as sad as melted ice cream. She clutched her quilted pink blanket and Patches, her scarecrow dolly, as if someone might try to steal them away. Tears ran down her cheeks, her tiny button-sized bottom lip stuck out, and her chin trembled.
Whatever anger Archer had felt toward her from the cell phone incident ebbed away at the sight of her. “Awww, Kaylie,” he said, glancing from his little sister to his book and back. “What’s wrong? Is it the storm?”
Her head bobbed. “The quasi-linear convective system produced a series of microbursts and straight-line winds near hurricane intensity . . . and it scared me.”
In spite of her genius-level mischief, Archer couldn’t help himself. He put the Creeds back in the closet, went to Kaylie, and scooped her up. “I think the storm’s pretty much over,” he said, hugging her close.
“I know,” she said, sniffling. “But I’m still scared. Can I sleep on the floor in here?”
“Uhhh . . .” Archer sighed inwardly. He needed to get back to The Dreamtreader’s Creed. He desperately needed to train his mind, needed to get stronger . . . but . . .
“P-please,” Kaylie mumbled, a sob threatening to break out.
“Oh,” Archer said, putting her down. “Okay, but you’ll have to keep quiet. I have to read—”
“Tell me a story,” Kaylie said, her blue eyes glistening, huge, and hopeful.
Archer sighed. “Okay. One story coming up.”
Kaylie’s tears seemed to vanish, replaced by a luminous smile. She ducked out of the room and returned in a flash with two blankets and several pillows. She snuggled into the whole pile right beside Archer’s bed.
“Okay,” he said, staring thoughtfully at Kaylie upon the pillow bed. “Ah, yes. I have it now. I am going to tell you a story about a princess who lived in the clouds. But first, here.” He handed Kaylie his cell phone. “I need you to fix this. No more Barney.”
“Have any candy?” she asked.