Bloodstone

my dream. “He’s going to transfer my life force to Pryce.”

“Child, you must get out of there at once.”

“I can’t, Mab. I can’t even move. I’m strapped down to some table, and Myrddin has given me a sedative so I can’t concentrate enough to shift.”

Mab jumped up from her chair and paced in front of the fireplace, both hands pressed against her face.

“It’s okay, Mab. I’m not expecting you to solve this for me. It’s hopeless. I called you because I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. To say good-bye.” I paused. “To say I love you.” Those were words I’d never said to my aunt. Love wasn’t part of the vocabulary of our relationship, even though it was something I’d always felt for her. Not long ago I’d thought Mab had died, but even after I got her back I still hadn’t managed to say the words. Saying them now gave me a measure of peace.

Mab didn’t reply, but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to end your feud with Gwen. I don’t care what caused it—you and she are family. It looks like Maria might become a shapeshifter. If she does, she’ll need guidance. Promise me you’ll give that to her.”

Mab paced silently.

“Give Jenkins and Rose my love. And . . .” I took a deep breath, thinking about Kane. For a moment, he was next to me in the dream, his lips nuzzling my neck, his warm hand covering mine. His image faded. “Please contact Kane for me. Please tell him—”

“Stop it!” Mab’s sharp voice cut me off. “Just stop. I don’t want your farewell messages, because I am not going to let you die. Do you understand?”

“There’s nothing you can do. So don’t go blaming yourself.”

“There is something I can do. However, it would be dangerous to you. And I’m not certain it will work.”

Did she mean it? My aunt’s expression was dead serious—and deeply worried. But a spark of hope flared inside me. “Whatever it is, let’s do it. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

She pressed a hand to her chest and spoke softly, as if to herself. “If you didn’t survive . . . and I were responsible . . .”

“If we don’t try it, I won’t survive.”

Mab gave me a long, searching look, like there were things she wanted to say to me and didn’t know how. Then she nodded briskly. “All right,” she said, sounding like herself again. “I’m going to get you out of there by pulling you through the dream.”

“You can do that?”

“In theory. I’ve never attempted it in practice.”

“Why not? You could’ve saved me a fortune on transatlantic plane fares.”

“This is no joking matter, child.” She put a hand inside the neck of her dress and pulled out a necklace. She reached back and unfastened the clasp, then let the pendant slide from the chain and drop into her palm. “Now, pay attention. I’m going to test the process by sending you this bloodstone.” She held up the pendant. It was an oval stone, about two inches long, highly polished but irregularly shaped. The gray stone, mottled with spots of green and dark red, didn’t look like jewelry—more like something a jeweler would toss onto the reject pile.

“Hold on to the bloodstone,” Mab continued, “and whatever happens, don’t let go. Do you understand? Do not let go. It will guide you safely through the dream regions.”

I nodded. “What’s so dangerous, Mab?” As a demon fighter, I was familiar with the dream world. I’d been in other people’s dreamscapes hundreds of times.

“The danger is in traveling from your dreamscape to mine. You must pass through the collective unconscious.”

Shit. Now we were talking dangerous with a capital D. An individual’s dreamscape is generated from the dreamer’s subconscious, the mind’s basement that stores all the emotions, symbols, themes, and archetypes that emerge in dreams. That subconscious can be a terrifying place. I’d once fallen into a client’s subconscious during a Drude extermination—and it was an experience I never wanted to repeat. But if the subconscious is bad, the collective unconscious is a hundred billion times worse. It’s the storehouse for all the fears, nightmares, fantasies, and terrors of everyone who’s ever lived. Worse, it’s populated by forms. A form is an amalgam of essences—basically, it’s a big blob that absorbs everything it touches, then burps out those essences in new configurations.

If I had to cross the collective unconscious, the forms would be the real danger.

Mab must have seen the change in my expression. “Listen to me, Victory. It’s good that you understand the danger. But you must set aside fear. In the collective unconscious, fear will rip you apart.” She gentled her voice. “Don’t think about it now. You don’t have to cross that territory yet. First, we must test whether I can pass the bloodstone to you. So take a moment to relax. Use the meditation technique I taught you.”

Relaxation isn’t easy when you’re trying to decide which would be the worst fate: having your life force transferred to your enemy, being ripped to shreds by the worst nightmares humanity has ever imagined, or being sucked into a gross blob of nothingness. But even if the collective unconscious killed me, I’d die knowing Myrddin had failed. That alone was worth the risk.

I focused on the center of my being, going inward, counting my breaths. Slowly, my mind relaxed. My breaths became longer and deeper. When the last dollop of fear melted away, I nodded to Mab.

“Good,” she said. “Now, look at the lake. Watch the water.”

I did. All was still, except for the sparkles of sunlight playing across the surface. Then, several yards from the shore, ripples stirred the water. A hand emerged, curled into a fist. Its arm wore a tight-fitting sleeve of a white, silky material. I realized I no longer sat on the shore, but in a small boat. The arm glided toward me, and I marveled at its beauty and grace. The white fabric, shot through with gold and silver threads, caught the sunlight and made the arm glow.

The arm stopped beside my boat. I tried to peer into the water to see the rest of the person, but all I could make out was a hazy white shape. The fist shook itself—once, twice, three times—as though impatient. I held out my open palm. A stone dropped into my hand. Immediately, the arm disappeared beneath the water.

The boat rocked gently under me as I examined the stone. It was gray with green and red spots, set in silver. Mab’s pendant. I curled my fingers around it.

“Now, child, I need you to do something that’s a bit difficult, so you must do it very carefully.” Mab’s voice blew across the lake like a summer breeze. I couldn’t see her anymore, but I knew she was close by. “Stay in the boat—that will keep you in the dream. You must stay in the dream, but I need you to check your physical body. I’ll hold you here, but take a moment to peek back into your waking world. See whether you have the stone there. Do it now.” Her soft voice went on, murmuring a word-painting of my dreamscape, describing the lake, the sky, the woods on the shore.

Holding on to Mab’s words like Ariadne’s thread, I let a corner of my consciousness travel back to that dark, silent room. I still lay on my back on a hard table, unable to move. My right fingers were curled into a fist. I squeezed them gently. Yes. I could feel the pendant in my hand.

I shut my mind to grim reality and let Mab’s voice reel me back into my dreamscape. I lay in the bottom of the boat, my heart hammering. My body felt rubbery, like I’d run hard for miles. But my journey hadn’t begun yet.

“I’ve got it,” I panted. “Out there, I mean. It’s in my hand.”

“Good.” Mab’s face hovered over me, huge, like a painting on the sky. Her lips curved as though she were trying to smile encouragement—an odd expression I’d never seen on my aunt’s face—but worry lines creased her forehead and the corners of her eyes. “I’m going to steer this boat toward the far shore, out of your personal dreamscape. Relax as best you can.”

Mab’s face faded, and I felt the boat move. I lay back and watched the sky. It was blue and dotted with clouds—white, puffy, picturesque clouds, not the heavy kind that threaten rain or snow. The boat glided through the water with a gentle rocking motion. I smelled pine woods, and the scent reminded me of Kane.

A small bump, and the boat stopped. I sat up. Mab stood in water up to her ankles, holding a rope tied to the bow. The shore behind her looked nothing like the woods I’d conjured around my lake. Billows of dark smoke churned, lit by flashes of lightning. The smoke roiled, thick and opaque; my vision couldn’t penetrate it at all.

I looked over my shoulder. Behind me, the placid lake reflected the blue sky. Tree branches swayed in the breeze. I wanted to stay there, but I couldn’t. My dreamscape was an illusion, one from which I’d awaken into the