KARA WINDCHIL LOVED SEEING THE MOON’S LIGHT reflecting off Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. She lay atop her California king bed and stared through the crystal-clear glass of her penthouse window. The way the lunar gold shimmered on the dark water was entrancing.
Something glimmered in the sky to the west. Kara turned, shifting on the bed just in time to watch the light dust tail of a shooting star fade in the dark canopy of night. Ha,she thought, I made that.It had been a simple thing, really. Just a few lines of code and voila! Twenty percent more comets visible in the western hemisphere. Next month, she planned to give northern lights to North America. It made sense.
She flipped over onto her back and sighed, happily marveling at just how far she had come in the last few years, particularly the last. It had been close at times, but she’d managed to stay one step ahead of them all: Doc Scoville, the Nightmare Lord, Rigby, Archer, and all of the other Dreamtreaders.
Kara bounced off of the bed and strode toward her double-wide closet with mirrored doors. She watched herself twirl, and in the first spin she wore the stardust white dress, the same one she’d worn when she danced with the Nightmare Lord in the sky. With another whirl, she became adorned with the gray cloak she’d always clothed herself in for visits to the Inner Sanctum of Garnet Province. There, she’d learned so many interesting things. Thinking they were assisting a Dreamtreading Master, the Sages had been ever so helpful.
She reversed course and spun back toward her bed, clothing herself in what had become one of her very favorite visages: the bold, rose-red dress of Lady Kasia. “Oh, Archer Keaton,” she purred, “you are so very gallant. But you simply must stay for tea.” Archer had bought the act—hook, line, and sinker. That silly Nick Bushman had as well.
Just before passing the last mirror panel, she changed into the garb of the Wind Maiden, a spectral gown created from long, flowing translucent petals, each one moving as if from a different breeze. Kara had loved that role.
As she flew to the bed, she changed into an oversized hooded sweatshirt and comfortable jeans. She landed softly on the bed and reminded herself that none of her roles were gone. She could be those and any other she wished now. The world was better with her in charge and so much more interesting.
“Wait,” she said to her reflection. “You’re doing it again.” She shook her head. “I . . . I am doing it again.” Gloating, mocking, reveling in her superiority to them all—her stomach turned. But maybe,she thought, maybe it’s not so bad.
The thought had hardly left her mind when Kara heard muttering from the hall that led to her private elevator. The voice stopped, but she heard the familiar swish of small feet on the carpet. Bezeal entered the room, his cloak fluttering like the gossamer pectoral fin of a sea skate ghosting across the ocean floor. The merchant paused in the middle, his beady eyes glimmering, but it was a cold glimmer, like ice on steel.
“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Kara said. When she sat up on the bed, she was again dressed in an exquisitely tailored business suit. “We need to talk.”
“I am here to listen, Kara, my friend. Here with my cunning mind to lend. Here for you . . . until the end.”
“Rigby Thames is dead.”
Bezeal’s eyes glinted, grew a size, and then shrank again. He did not smile. “Are you certain?” he asked, a tremble in his voice.
“Of course, I’m certain,” she said, a little off-balance from Bezeal’s lack of rhyme. “He’s dead, so I can’t ask him about the Veil.”
Bezeal turned away from her and ventured slowly toward the window. He seemed to shake a moment. Then he grew still and said, “There is another we could query about the Veil. One of greater knowledge we can assail. Fear not, my lady, your plan won’t fail.”
“Scoville,” she muttered. “I thought about that, and I’ve taken measures to make certain he doesn’t discover his nephew has died. If we can just get past this . . . this boundary, it won’t matter anyway. Speaking of which, how’s the court case going? You’re sticking it to Keaton, I hope.”
Bezeal did not reply at first.
Kara took a deep breath. “Bezeal?” Kara whispered. “Is it done? Is Keaton out of the way?”
He still didn’t answer.
“Well, Bezeal?” she asked. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Archelion, so high and mighty,” he muttered, “clings to his justice ever so tightly, and dealt with Bezeal most unkindly.”
“I don’t get it,” she said, her voice taking a hard edge. “Stop with the riddles. What’s going on?”
“My lady,” he said. “My queen, alas, I bear news of the terribly obscene. The high court was not high, only mean.”
Kara stood up. “You blew it?” she barked. “How did I know you would mess this up?”
Bezeal bowed halfway and said, “The judge was unjust; he was not fair. Though Archer was guilty, he just didn’t care. He wanted Bezeal on trial . . . something I just could not bear.”
For ten minutes, Kara continued to interrogate Bezeal. In his rhyming, roundabout way, he communicated several frustrating pieces of information:
Master Gabriel had not been in the court to represent Archer.
Archer had defended himself by turning the court against Bezeal.
And Bezeal had just barely escaped being incarcerated himself.
Kara threw up her hands. “I can’t believe it. We had the evidence stacked so high against Archer that you could see it from Kansas. Do you know how hard I worked to set this all in motion?”
“Clearly, your design was from beginning to end. Your plan was profound, I must defend. But, alas, not all comes about as we intend.”
“So what’s up with Archer?” Kara asked. “Did the judge just let him go?”
“I do not know. I could not stay to see. In fear for my life, I had to flee. But I expect, yes, young Archer is free.”
“You couldn’t even keep him locked up for six days?”
Bezeal shook his head.
“Six days, Bezeal?” Kara raged. “That’s all we needed. Six days. Couldn’t you have just delayed the trial six days? I thought . . . I thought that’s what you intended to do.”
Bezeal did not answer, but his eyes shrank to pinpricks of light.
“What are we going to do—?”
Kara stopped mid-sentence and stared at her windows. The interior seam of all her penthouse windows glowed bright red. “Something’s wrong. Somebody’s coming.” She glared at Bezeal. “This is your fault. It’s probably Keaton banging on the Dream Tower’s front door.”
“So what if it’s him?” Bezeal queried, his voice low and wispy. “Why act so grim? You’ve beat him before. You’ll do it again.”
Kara ran to her security console, hit the touch screen, and flew through a dozen different interface windows. “The Harlequin Veil is still fully operational,” she muttered. “Pole stations are clear. No, no, it’s definitely here, definitely the Dream Tower. They are inside!” She turned and sent a flurry of hate darts screaming toward Bezeal. Only with Kara, these weren’t figurative hate darts. They were real.
Bezeal deflected them all with a flick of his hand, and the darts buried themselves in the penthouse ceiling.
Kara went back to the touch screen. “I’m going to scan with EMF.” After a few finger taps and one finger slide, she hissed. “I’m getting four signals, Bezeal. Four! Three of them are approaching Tesla strength and . . .” Kara went very still. “And one of them is close to Halbach level. That’ll be Kaylie. I can’t believe this! How did they get in? And, wait, who else? Archer, Nick, Kaylie . . . and who else?”
Bezeal joined her by the security console and said, “I do not know why there are four, but this time, Kara, it’s time to make sure. We must usher them all through death’s door.”
Kara caught her breath. Kill the Dreamtreaders? For a moment, it seemed the wickedest thing she could imagine. But, somehow, with Bezeal by her side, it didn’t seem such an unusual conclusion. Everything she’d worked so hard to do, the beautiful new world she’d provided for people to enjoy, these—intruders—were coming to tear it down. They were guilty of trespassing and sabotage . . . and worse. They needed to be stopped. They needed to be ended. Kara turned to the merchant. “For once, Bezeal, I totally agree with you.”