Milton’s arms and back ached from carrying Clementine for countless city blocks. The frosty gusts of wind and Milton’s wheezy breaths didn’t seem to disturb her. Aside from an occasional murmur, the girl slept like the dead.
There were no diners and no drug stores, only street after street of dark, lifeless houses. When his arms began trembling uncontrollably, he stopped and leaned up against a wooden fence with flaking white paint. He couldn’t go another step, but he couldn’t set Clementine down in the snow either.
Damn it, DJ, why did you involve your niece in this?
“Mama and Dada’s house!” Clementine started to squirm, leaving Milton no choice but to lower her to the ground. If the contact of her bare feet upon the snowy sidewalk bothered her at all, there was no trace of it in her beaming face. “Let’s go!”
“Are you sure this is…hey, wait!” Milton picked up his coat, which Clementine had shrugged off before racing toward the house. By the time he caught up to her, she had already bounded up the steps and was reaching for the door. “Clementine, are you certain this is your house?”
“Uh-huh.” She fumbled with the knob, and the door creaked open.
“I think we had better…” Milton swore under his breath as the girl ran into the darkness. He shouldered his way through the entryway. The screen door slammed shut behind him, striking him in the heel.
Milton took a tentative step deeper into the house and shielded his eyes when an end table lamp erupted in light. Clementine jumped up on a couch that might have been fashionable in the 1970s, crossing her legs under her. She certainly seemed at home in the living room, but he would have liked a little more proof they weren’t breaking and entering.
Does it even matter anymore? We’ve been wandering in a snowstorm for, what, an hour…two hours?
“We have to find you some warm clothes and food,” he said quietly. “Are you hungry, Clementine?”
“I want pizza pie,” she announced, all but bouncing up and down on the couch.
He flinched and waited for the homeowners—Clementine’s parents or otherwise—to storm down the stairs, baseball bats at the ready. But no one stirred. He decided to explore the first floor before venturing to the second. The lamplight was sufficient enough for him to traverse the adjacent room, a dining room, without his having to find another light switch. At the far end of the dining room, he found a doorway.
Holding his breath, he turned on the light. A bare light bulb reluctantly blinked to life, casting ghostly reflections across the white tiles surrounding a tub that, strangely, was filled with water. Without knowing quite why, he pulled a rubber duck from the pinkish bathwater.
“Webster!” Clementine, who had silently sidled up behind him, reached eagerly for the toy. He handed it to her. After kissing the yellow duck on the top of its head, she said, “I got a bad owie, Webster.”
Before Milton’s eyes, Clementine transformed. Water dripped from her drenched skin and her nightgown. Dark blood plastered her bangs to her forehead, trickling down her face in red stripes. He staggered backward until he hit a towel rack.
Clementine looked up at him. “Dada was sleeping, and I wanted to play with Webster.”
Speechless, Milton could only stare at the gruesome spectacle. Meanwhile, the light bulb began to dim until it was almost dead before bursting into new light. At once, the blood evaporated, and Clementine was dry again. Humming pleasantly to herself, she skipped past him and, rubber duck in tow, returned to the couch.
For several minutes, he remained in the bathroom, watching her from a safe distance. A furtive glance at the bathtub revealed it was empty. Back in the living room, Clementine lay on her back, holding the toy above her head and quacking merrily.
The same thing happened with DJ on the bus. One moment, the boy was covered in blood, as though he had been shot, and the next, he was fine again. What can it mean?
Milton knew he should go to Clementine and comfort her. But on the one hand, he was afraid the vision might return, and on the other, he was at a loss for what to say. He decided he must not have any children of his own. Otherwise, he would possess enough parental instincts to know what to do.
No children…or do I have a son?
He closed his eyes and concentrated. The conversation replayed in his mind.
“And you think I should be Odin, rather than you?” the man with gray-green eyes asked.
“It’s better this way,” Milton said. “Odin was never afraid to get his hands dirty, and before all of this is over, the waters are bound to become murky indeed.”
Pause. “Who will you be then, Milton?”
“Borr,” he replied. “Odin’s father.”
Infuriatingly, the conversation ended there. Milton tried to follow the memory to see where it led, but the trail took him to the familiar mental block. He didn’t bother trying to open the door. He knew it would be locked.
On his way to the living room—vision or no vision, he had to make sure Clementine was all right—he noticed a couple of grocery bags lying on their sides. Much of their contents had spilled onto the small oval table as well as the floor. He picked up a bunch of bananas teetering near the edge.
It’s not pizza pie, but it will do…
“Clementine,” he started to say, but as he drew closer, he saw her eyes were closed. Thumb in mouth, she cradled the rubber duck under one arm.
Milton covered her with an afghan that had been draped over the back of the couch. The rest of the house needed to be searched. For all he knew, Clementine’s parents were upstairs, asleep.
But seeing the girl sleeping so comfortably reminded Milton of how exhausted he was. Ignoring his brain’s protests, he sat down at the end of the couch. Almost immediately, his own eyes closed, and he let his thoughts wander.
To his astonishment, the door in his mind abruptly opened.
* * *
Milton creeps down the narrow, empty corridor. Every footstep is a sonic boom. The incandescent auxiliary lights above him might as well be searchlights. His eyes dart back and forth at every intersection, expecting to see a stream of agents, side arms drawn, charging toward him to cut off his advance and prevent his escape.
If caught, he expects to be arrested and locked up for life. Or worse.
He tries to calm down, calling to mind breathing exercises he learned in some psych class or another, but just shakes his head. Either they’ll catch me and stop me, or they won’t, he thinks. No use giving into panic.
Filled with a new sense of resolve, Milton quickens his pace, abandoning all pretense of stealth. No one is likely to be working in the labs at this hour anyway. And while it has been months since he has come to this part of the Compound, he has no trouble remembering exactly where the serum is stored.
He stops outside of his destination and takes a deep breath.
The door’s translucent window is dark; the room, presumably unoccupied. He allows himself a sigh of relief. If someone had been working late in the lab, he doubts he would have had the courage to come back tomorrow. He knows he has to do this now, before he can talk himself out of it.
Milton slides his keycard into the narrow slot. His entry into the lab will be documented in a computer somewhere. Questions will come later. But there is no use worrying about it tonight.
All that matters now is getting his hands on Boden’s serum.
A blinking green light and a metallic clicking sound inform him the door has unlocked. He enters, turns on the lights. An electric hum fills the room as, one by one, the computers and equipment lining the walls wake from hibernation.
His eyes linger on a large, padded table at the far end of the lab. He has met several of the test subjects who have lain on the table. Those agents—the valkyries—said the procedure was simple and painless. Milton prays they weren’t lying.
He approaches a nearby metal cabinet bearing a number pad and punches in his personalized six-digit code. Nothing happens. He tries again, carefully pressing each button in the proper sequence. His failure is reported by a series of agitated beeps. Then a voice.
“Access to the serum has been upgraded to a higher clearance level.”
Milton whirls around, sporting, he is certain, a guilty expression. “Earl, I—”
Boden cuts him off with an upraised hand. “Our last conversation did not sit well with me,” he says. “When I first told you about the successful trials of the formula, you could not contain your disappointment. So I had to wonder why, after disapproving of my objective for so long, you were suddenly so interested in the serum’s specific chemical compounds, observable side-effects, and the number of test trials completed.”
Milton searches Boden’s face for a sign of what he will do next. The two of them have been colleagues for more than a decade—first at Temple University and now at the CIA. They have made many wonderful discoveries together while mapping the more obscure areas of the human brain. But Milton recognizes the pain behind his friend’s gray-green eyes because these are emotions Milton himself has experienced firsthand.
The anger and hurt from being betrayed.
Milton scrambles to think of a viable excuse for sneaking into Boden’s lab, but he has never been a good liar.
“We have always had differing stances on the development of a drug that would grant non-naturals the ability to dream drift,” Boden says, “but I cannot believe that you would risk everything to sabotage my work.”
Pause. “And did you really think we wouldn’t be able to make more after you disposed of the serum in that safe? Or were you planning to contaminate the supply in order to slow my progress?”
Seeing the face of Boden—his protégé, the son he never had—contorted in rage breaks Milton’s heart. Before he can explain, Boden continues.
“In any case, it would be only a matter of time before you were discovered. Did you think they would just let you walk out of here? Project Valhalla owns us. Best you never forget that!”
Milton takes a step closer, arms extended in a placating gesture. “I didn’t come here to destroy the serum. I came here to steal it,” he confesses.
Boden recoils in surprise. “Steal it? Whatever for?”
Milton sighs. “Because I wish to use it.”
Boden runs a hand across his considerable forehead. “There is no telling what affect the serum will have on a natural.” Pause. “I can’t understand why you would attempt such a thing.”
“It’s William Marlowe,” Milton says at last. “About a week ago, I came across him and his cohorts—”
“The Clandestine Order for Psychic Exploration?” Boden interjects, spitting out the words as though they are a sour taste in his mouth.
“Yes, I believe so, though I recognized only William. They were doing something truly reprehensible, but until I can confirm what I saw, I won’t go into details. Suffice it to say, it has more to do with my earliest hypotheses than our current work.”
Boden’s brow furrows in confusion, but then his eyes widen as he says, “If souls can sleep…”
Milton smiles weakly, confirming Boden’s guess. “I’ve tried to contact William through conventional channels, but he won’t respond.” Milton takes another step closer to Boden. “I must stop William, but if I’m going to confront him…and, quite possibly, his allies…then I will need every advantage I can get.”
Boden shakes his head and frowns. “What of Project Valhalla? You have allies of your own. Why do this alone?”
Milton sighs. “I had the chance to stop William years ago. He came to me, asking for my help. But I turned my back on him when I might have made a difference. I owe it to William to talk to him, one-on-one, about what I saw before I report it to Project Valhalla. I might even be able to prevent the war for which we all have been preparing.”
Pause. “From everything you have told me about William Marlowe, I say you owe him nothing. However, you are not the first person to theorize that the serum might enhance a natural’s command of the dreamscape. Yet if you believe you will need an extra…boost when you confront Marlowe, it is all the more reason for you to bring backup. Take Heimdall, at least!”
Milton crosses his arms. “I won’t needlessly endanger anyone if I don’t have to.”
“Only yourself,” Boden says, his frown deepening.
“It is a risk I am willing to take. Please, Earl, do this as a favor to me.”
Boden remains silent for a long time. “You must swear to me that you will wake up at the first sign of danger, whether from Marlowe or side-effects of the serum.”
Milton nods. “I swear.”
Boden pushes past Milton, approaching the locked cabinet. “Get up on the table before I change my mind.”
Milton doesn’t have to be asked twice. Moments later, Boden, wearing a white lab coat and gloves, stands beside him, holding a syringe filled with a milky white liquid. Some of the agents of Project Valhalla have started calling the serum “mead,” but Milton thinks there’s such a thing as carrying a metaphor too far.
Boden takes Milton’s arm and rolls up his sleeve. “So much for not getting your hands dirty,” he says, penetrating Milton’s skin with the needle. “Perhaps you should have chosen Odin for your codename after all.”
The serum spreads like ice water through his veins. Before Milton can say thank you to his dear friend, Boden and the laboratory blur then fade away.
* * *
The screen door slammed, and Milton jerked upright. Beside him on the couch, Clementine rolled onto her side but did not wake up. He looked at the front door, where the silhouette of a man blocked out the moonlight.
“Sleeping on the job?” The voice, although somewhat muffled by a peculiar wooden mask, was unmistakably DJ’s. “Some babysitter you are!”