Night Lights (Dreamweaver Book 3) Read online

  NIGHT

  LIGHTS

  BOOK THREE OF THE DREAMWEAVER SERIES

  BY

  HELEN HARPER

  Copyright © 2017 Helen Harper

  All rights reserved.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  For Christine, who was taken far too soon

  Chapter One

  Just when I think I have learned the way to live, life changes.

  Hugh Prather

  Routine shapes our lives in every sense, from the miniscule to the majestic. The sun rises and sets every day; the tide washes in and sweeps out; the seasons guide nature, setting their own predetermined schedule for crops and flowers and bees and bears. As much as we might tell ourselves that we live by the seat of our pants and do what we want when we want to, we couldn’t survive without routine. It’s one of the first things we learn, when new parents with bruised, tired eyes try to settle babies into life. It’s one of the last things we experience in a hospital bed or an old people’s home, where mealtimes and doctors’ rounds and even The Antiques Roadshow help to tell us where we are and what we’re doing.

  As individuals, routine removes the requirement for motivation or willpower. When you do something often enough, it becomes habit and with habit, we work on automatic pilot. Maybe there was a time when I despised the need to brush my teeth before I went to bed but now I do it with barely a conscious thought. I know I brushed my teeth last night; to recall the specifics, however, would be nigh on impossible. Routine guides us but it isn’t memorable.

  Wake up. Stretch. Or don’t stretch, slump instead. Perform ablutions. Dress. Maybe with Monday’s shirt. Maybe with the tie or necklace or watch or belt which you’ve been wearing for years. Drink coffee or tea or juice or water or churned-up grass. Whatever. Eat. Do the dishes or throw them in the sink with the others or leave them for your butler. Either way, it’s the same. Work. Listen to Mary or Ahmed or Jacques or Mariko complaining. Have lunch on your own or with a client or in the canteen avoiding the lumpy gravy. Work more. Complain about your boss. Suck up to your boss. Maybe you are the boss. Go home or to the gym. Kiss your wife or husband or children or goldfish. Eat again because your stomach tells you it’s time. Watch TV or text your friends or have a pint or go for a walk. Everything is a variation in some way of everything else. It’s not dull or monotonous or boring, it’s safe. It’s comprehensible. It’s structured and calm.

  You can learn a lot about routine by watching a cat. Stay at home for a few days on the trot and pay attention to what your feline friend does. Sleep here in this spot. Eat. Move and sleep in another spot. Go outside and stare at birds. Sleep over there. I guarantee that the sleeping locations and times of waking or moving or pouncing will follow a pattern. These things will change over time but not dramatically so. At the end of the day, we all like routine. We’re all creatures of habit.

  A break in routine can be exciting. The shocking news event that makes everyone stop in their tracks. A surprise party. A squirming, butterfly-inducing, quivering flirtation. But too many breaks and you can end up exhausted. How many times has someone said they need a holiday to get over their holiday? Routines aren’t soul-crushing; it’s your partner or your job or your own deep-seated unhappiness that is getting you down. Try it. I dare you. Try to live without any kind of routine for a few days. It’s chaos. It might even kill you.

  ***

  I pull up the car by the deserted crossroads. This is by far the nicest mode of transport we’ve experienced so far. Trying to get hold of any working vehicle without leaving a paper trail is extraordinarily difficult. Up till now it’s involved making dodgy deals in dodgier pubs, seeking out the shifty-looking bloke who’s counting pennies for his next round of drinks and sidling over for a whispered negotiation. It’s not a perfect system. We are all, however, getting better at it.

  ‘Which way?’ I ask, glancing round.

  ‘Left,’ my mother says, at the exact same moment Rawlins firmly states, ‘Right.’ They flash narrowed eyes at each other for the briefest second before pasting on fake smiles.

  ‘As long as we find somewhere that sells food,’ Adam says, slumped against the window, ‘I couldn’t give a shit.’

  My mother gasps in mock outrage. ‘Adam! Language!’ She pauses for a beat. ‘Although, darling, I could really do with a fucking big gin.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Ha. Ha.’

  She blinks at me. ‘I’m perfectly serious. I’m completely parched. We haven’t stopped for three days straight and I think it’s time we took a break.’

  ‘We stopped last night,’ Rawlins points out.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. We need to rest properly.’ She leans forward, inadvertently nudging the Chairman’s carrier and causing him to meow in protest, while giving me an earnest, pleading look. ‘I know you’re afraid, Zoe…’

  ‘I am not afraid,’ I snap, before regretting it. Fear is a touchy subject as far as I’m concerned. I need to learn to loosen up.

  ‘Wary then,’ she amends. ‘I know you’re wary but there has been no sight of anyone following us. I know you’ve told me they might be tracking you when you sleep but if they can’t catch you when you’re awake, then we have nothing to worry about. We should all go home.’

  This is becoming a recurring theme. I’m not even convinced my mother still doesn’t believe I’m making all this up. Even after I entered her dreams a few nights ago to prove it to her, she has a distinct aura of scepticism every time I bring up my dreamweaving. I can hardly blame her.

  Neither Adam nor Rawlins say anything; they have obviously had enough of being on the run as well.

  I sigh and push back my hair. ‘The Department is after us. Dante is after us.’

  ‘It’s you they all want,’ Adam mutters.

  He’s perfectly correct. For a while the Department believed that the dreamweaver was Ashley, my friend from the Dreamlands. They abducted her and held her for several days. With Dante’s betrayal, however, there’s no longer any doubt that they know my identity ‒ and that they’ll stop at nothing to get me to work for them. ‘They will use you to get to me. They’ll hurt you. They might even kill you.’ Despite my words, I remain calm. This is nothing new. ‘We’re safer if we stick together.’

  The three of them exchange glances. The unspoken question of how long we can keep this up for hangs between us. Sooner or later we’ll run out of money. Sooner or later we’ll need to stop moving. This kind of lifestyle isn’t sustainable.

  ‘We stay with the original plan,’ I say firmly. ‘We get to Eastern Europe and then I can use that time zone to find out more about the Department. Maybe negotiate with them. Or make a deal.’

  ‘Or blow them up,’ my mother suggests cheerily.

  If it came to that, I could be persuaded but this isn’t the time to suggest it. ‘Right now,’ I continue, ‘we need to make sure we’re not being tracked either in dreams or in the real world. I can’t make a move until I know we’re completely safe, even temporarily. Anonymity,’ I remind them. ‘It’s the only way.’ It’s why we aren’t using airports. It’s why we are taking the most circuitous route known to man and why we have no set destination other than the next t
ime zone.

  Adam gestures behind us. The long straight road is completely empty; we haven’t seen another car for hours. ‘We’re in the clear,’ he says. ‘We’re not being followed.’

  I grimace. ‘Yes, we are.’

  Rawlins sighs, digs in her pocket and takes out a coin. ‘Heads for left, tails for right. Okay?’ She doesn’t wait for a response. She flips it, catches it then glances down. ‘Left.’

  I put the car into gear. ‘Great. Let’s go.’

  We keep moving for another couple of hours, eventually pulling into a small campsite which at least looks like it has running water. I check my watch. ‘I should find some people,’ I say.

  Since we crossed into Germany, I’ve been trying hard to conceal our whereabouts. As the only dream tracker, Dante has the ability to follow me through different dreams once I’m asleep. If he finds me, he can hurt my real self by hurting my dream self. The mind is a complicated thing; any pain I sustain in dreams manifests itself in reality because, for me, both places are one and the same. Both places are real. Even if Dante doesn’t catch me up, he can still tell where I am based on the nationality of each dreamer’s mind he trails me through. If I pass across the dreams of lots of Germans, it wouldn’t take a genius to realise I’m physically in Germany. It does complicate life somewhat.

  Hiding from Dante is the reason why I’ve not yet stopped to seek out other Travellers. I’m determined to make sure I’ve done enough to keep him away before I venture into the Dreamlands where dream Travellers naturally congregate. The trouble is that, in order to avoid the Dreamlands, I have to touch the skin of other people so I can apparate into their dreams. The more people I touch, the more dreams I can zip through and the less chance there is that Dante will be able to track me.

  My system is not perfect; he managed to catch up to me four days ago and appeared on the edge of a French shopkeeper’s dream. I disapparated out before he could do anything, although his voice as he shouted after me rang in my ears for hours afterwards.

  ‘Have you touched anyone from another country?’ Adam asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No. But there have to be other people staying here.’ I glance round dubiously. ‘Maybe it’s a tourist spot.’

  There aren’t any signs in English but, using my rudimentary school German, we locate the tiny reception shack. A bored-looking man with a lined face and greying hair grunts in our direction and heaves himself out of his chair, reluctantly abandoning his book. One for my mother. By unspoken agreement, she pushes forward and plasters on her prettiest smile.

  ‘Hello!’ she trills. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Ja.’

  She claps her hands. ‘Excellent!’ she beams. She turns to us. ‘Didn’t I tell you that people on the Continent are much more educated than we are?’ We nod and murmur in agreement, chorus-like. She returns her attention to the man. ‘We would like to pitch our tents, if you please.’

  ‘Twenty Euros.’

  ‘Perfect.’ She digs into her purse, pulls out a crisp new note and hands it over.

  ‘Passports,’ he grunts.

  Her face collapses into the perfect picture of dismay. ‘Our tent was burgled at the last place. We’re on our way to Berlin to the embassy but until we get there, we have no identification.’ She looks at him sadly. ‘We’re fortunate we had some money hidden away that the thieves couldn’t find. Thankfully we’ve met so many very helpful people or we’d be completely stuck.’ She leans forward. ‘Is this place secure? I’m rather traumatised by the thought that all our throats could have been slit while we slept.’

  The man stares at her unblinkingly. ‘German?’ he asks. He’s clearly not particularly ebullient.

  My mother frowns. ‘The thieves? We’re not sure. We think they were English.’

  He nods, satisfied. This is all part of our set-up: it’s in our best interests to keep all our hosts on our side so we blame other nations, usually our own, for our ‘stolen’ identification. So far we’ve succeeded wherever we’ve stayed. People are generally too kind to turn us away. We could probably push them and say that all our money was stolen as well but I’m determined not to take advantage even more than we already are. I’m not going to let Dante and the Department turn me into a villain. I’m better than them and I’m going to stay that way.

  I scribble a fake name in the guestbook, carefully allowing my fingers to brush against the man’s when I pass back the pen. If he notices my action, he doesn’t react to it. Instead, he points out directions and, while my mother makes one last bid at flirtation, the rest of us troop away.

  At our first camp, inexperienced as we were, it took hours to set up the tents. Now, eighteen days later, we’ve all become professionals. In less than half an hour, everything is ready. There are a few other tents around us so I cross my fingers that their occupants haven’t vanished off for a day trip and release the Chairman. Happily, he’s very skilled at seeking out human contact. Perhaps he’s bored with our company all day long in the car. I don’t blame him.

  He quests forward, sniffing at a lurid pink tent about the size of a small house. There’s a squeal from the distance and a young girl of about seven or eight comes skipping forward. ‘Chat!’ she yells.

  I try not to smile. A French family. Perfect. I wander over and encourage the child to stroke him. Some cats would take this as an opportunity to make a run for it, dash into the nearby woods never to be seen again. The Chairman’s too smart for that; he knows where his next meal is coming from.

  He lets her touch him, even though her little hand rubs back and forth in a manner he normally hates. I crouch down and show her how to pet him more effectively, my own hand covering hers. The Chairman purrs in delight and arches his back.

  It’s not long before the girl’s family appear, clutching tennis racquets and with the gleam of sweat on their foreheads. I push away my jealousy at this display of simple pleasures and introduce myself in stilted French, shaking hands as I go along. If they’re bemused that I’ve brought my cat on holiday either they don’t mention it or I don’t hear it. Caring about what others think of me stopped around the time people started trying to kill or kidnap me and my friends.

  As night falls, I’m satisfied that I’ve collected enough dreams to keep us safe for another twenty-four hours. And that’s all I need.

  ***

  The more I train myself and practise, the better I’m becoming at dropping off within moments, regardless of the time. The SAS would be proud of me, I think sardonically, as I lie down on top of the sleeping bag and close my eyes. At least I no longer have to rely on Valium or sleeping pills to enter the land of Nod. I let my body relax, from my toes up to my facial muscles. Then my ears prickle. I’m in.

  I can never tell what sort of dream I’m going to end up in. Sometimes they’re completely surreal, jumping from scene to scene with no apparent underlying reason. Sometimes, however, it’s clear what’s going on inside the dreamer’s head. I’ve been in my fair share of nightmares too, although at least the Badlands are now being held at bay and I can even chat to their nightmare-creating denizens from time to time.

  On this occasion, I begin inside the head of the German holiday camp owner. When I open my eyes, he’s standing right in front of me, as quiet as he was in real life. We’re in a dusty marketplace surrounded by hawkers yelling out in an indecipherable language. It’s stiflingly hot and I can smell the distinctive aroma of barbecue in the air, which makes my mouth water. Travelling through dreams is as real to me as travelling anywhere. And I don’t have to put up with grumpy passengers along the way either.

  A fat, turbaned gentleman appears out of nowhere and hands the German a sack. He twirls his moustache with squat fingers, every inch the stereotypical villain, before gesturing to the burlap. Someone’s been watching too many dodgy films. The German scratches his head, places the sack carefully on the ground at his feet and starts to undo the knots. His hands are trembling. I hold my breath and step back. Whatever’
s inside, it’s not going to be cute kittens and rainbows.

  There’s a hiss and both the German and I jump. Snakes. Yuk. I peer closer, counting three of them in total, one large brown creature with pretty, iridescent scales which catch the light and glitter, and two smaller ones of similar colouring which I presume are the snake kids. I eye the German consideringly. He looks too old for these to represent his own children. Grandchildren, perhaps?

  The turbaned man reaches down, grabs one of the babies and tosses it onto the dirty street. It freezes for a moment then takes off at a tremendous speed, zigzagging through dozens of pairs of feet and raising clouds of dust around its body. I watch it hustle away until it lunges underneath a nearby market stall and disappears from sight. The man then takes the other little snake and does the same thing. Unfortunately for the second snake baby, a wagon chooses that moment to trundle past; its heavy wheels squish the vulnerable snake into a perfect pancake. I wince.

  The German isn’t paying any attention, however. He’s focused on the mother snake, who’s apparently decided to blame him. She rears up with one violent movement, spitting and baring her gleaming fangs. Uh-oh. Whatever’s about to happen, I’ve seen enough; I can’t linger here any longer. I offer him a sympathetic smile, which of course he doesn’t see, then I disapparate as he dodges the furious snake. The chaos of the market is replaced by the calm, quiet green of a forest. Thank goodness.

  There’s a peal of silvery, joyous laughter from deep within the trees. It has to be the girl who petted the Chairman. I grin and head after her. Kids’ dreams are fun. Whether it’s because they’re not old enough to realise that the world will disappoint them or whether they’re simply less bowed down by the expectations of life, their subconscious minds are a lot more light hearted and I tend to enjoy myself a lot more. It’ll be good to have a pleasant distraction for a while.