Dreamwalker. Part 14

WHEN THE WOLF REACHED the edge of the clearing, it stopped.

For a long moment it stood still, its nostrils flaring as it drank in the layered scents of the place. Then it began to pick its way forward, its sharp eyes taking in every detail of its surroundings. Many animals had pa.s.sed through here recently, leaving behind a host of traces for him to detect. Over there, to the far left, a wild cat had sharpened its claws on a tree. Over there to the right, several deer had foraged. On the ground directly beneath, a rutting squirrel had rested for several moments, leaving the damp gra.s.s perfumed with its l.u.s.t. There was another scent here as well. Not animal. The wolf felt its heartbeat quicken.

Human.

Slowly it turned its head about, tasting the air in every direction, seeking the source of that smell. In one corner of the clearing was a mound of leaves and gra.s.ses that did not appear natural in formation. The wolf walked over and sniffed, its indrawn breath strong enough to make the leaves stir. A human male had lain here recently. Beneath his scent was another subtle sign, deliciously familiar. Fear. Whoever had stopped here to rest had not slept easily.

But who, exactly, did the scent belong to? Many humans hiked through these woods during the summer, with the result that a thousand scent trails could be found along the moist, pine-laden trails. Under such circ.u.mstances, the wolf's chances of identifying the one trail it was looking for were low. The only memory it had of its quarry's scent had been pa.s.sed from species to species, and then dulled by pa.s.sage through the Gate, so it was all but worthless for comparison. The wolf needed to locate a clear, strong trace, before it could track its quarry properly. But would it recognize that trace when it found it?

It had to. There was no other option. The hawk had been unable to locate the fugitives, which meant they were likely under cover somewhere. If so, a thousand more flights would not root them out. A scent trail, on the other hand, could lead a Hunter directly to them, regardless of what path they had taken.

Circling the clearing, the wolf found two more carefully arranged beds of vegetation, each bearing the scent of a young woman. That was a good sign. Three empty gurneys had been found at the Gate, implying that there were three fugitives, and the letters from Terra Colonna suggested that a boy and a girl would be among them. So the numbers were right. And the location made sense: far enough from the Gate that three young people fleeing pursuit might have pushed themselves to get this far, yet not so far that exhaustion would have crippled them.

A lesser Hunter might have declared victory at that point and set off after his prey, but the one that was soulriding this wolf hadn't risen as high as he had in the world of the Shadows by jumping to conclusions. Following the wrong trail now could result in precious hours wasted, during which time the quarry might put enough distance between them that pursuit was no longer possible. The Hunter needed to be sure this was the right scent.

Around and around the clearing the wolf circled and sniffed, looking for more clues. It found a place where the humans had defecated, and a few crumbs of nuts and honey that ants were diligently dismembering. All of which neither confirmed nor denied the ident.i.ty of these particular humans.

Then, just past one of the bed-mounds, the wolf thought it saw something glistening in the brush. At first it looked like a sc.r.a.p of silver foil that had gotten lodged between two rocks. But as the wolf drew closer, it could see that its movement wasn't right for metal foil. Despite its mirrored surface it looked strangely lightweight, and it fluttered like fine tissue in the breeze.

As the wolf drew closer it could make out words, apparently the end of a sentence. Bright red block letters, s.h.i.+ny as gla.s.s.

The wolf stared at the torn plastic wrapper for a moment, then pushed it down further between the rocks and covered it over with dirt, so that no one else would find it. It didn't need to have the nature of the thing explained to it, because the Soulrider who was sharing its body had seen such things before, and the wolf had access to all those memories.

It had found its prey.

Together they began to search for the place where the scent trails of the three humans exited the clearing, so the real hunt could begin.

18.

THE WARRENS.

WE FOLLOWED THE BOY through a dizzying maze of alleys, past broken fences and through a few half-collapsed buildings. The neighborhood grew more and more slum-like as we progressed, and our route grew less and less comprehensible.

Now and then our guide would pause, look about intently, then suddenly change direction. At first it seemed he was leading us in a bizarre serpentine route just to skew our sense of direction, but as I observed more closely, I soon realized the truth: he was trying to keep us under some kind of cover at all times, to protect us from overhead observation. It was an unnerving discovery.

From what he'd said, it sounded like the bird that had been looking for us was possessed by some kind of hunter. Could that be the explanation behind the animal murders back in our own world? Had the deer, bees, and bears that killed DNA orphans been under the same kind of control? It would certainly explain a lot. But it raised many new questions also . . . like what those hunters wanted, or whether they were even human.

Now and then our guide would pause, cup his hands before his mouth, and utter a bird-like warble. I couldn't have picked it out from all the natural noise around us if I hadn't been listening for it, but apparently others could, for similar cries soon started answering him. Some kind of signal. After a few repet.i.tions he added new notes to his bird-song, and the answering cries also became more complex.

After picking our way through a final garbage-strewn alley, we came to what looked like an abandoned building. He scanned the sky warily, then directed us to scurry quickly across an open street, to a bas.e.m.e.nt window that had been masked by a carefully arranged pile of debris. The frame had been cleared of gla.s.s, but wooden planks had been nailed across it. Apparently those were just camouflage, for they pivoted on the anchoring nails as our guide pulled them to one side, and he motioned for us to climb in.

We looked at each other. I was less than certain about this new development. Then Devon shrugged: What the h.e.l.l.

He went first so he could help the rest of us scramble down, into what turned out to be a large, dusty bas.e.m.e.nt. A line of metal cabinets stood along one wall, most of them open, all of them rusted and battered. The doors of one were shut, and had been secured with a chain and padlock that looked newer. And there were crates filled with cans and jars stacked up nearby. Wooden crates, of course. I still had yet to see any plastic in this place. There were no other objects or items of furniture around, though the floor was littered with broken bits and pieces of things that might once have been meaningful.

There were people there, waiting for us. Half a dozen of them. They were all my age or a bit younger, and they watched suspiciously as we lowered ourselves down into the dark, dirty s.p.a.ce. I could sense a wound-up tension in them, like wary animals ready to bolt for safety, but also a readiness for violence that set my own nerves on edge. Right now they were all staring at Devon. Of course. I would have given my right arm at that moment to understand why everyone did that.

"What's this about, then?" one of them asked. He was the tallest of the lot, a lanky, olive-skinned boy with tangled hair down to his shoulders, almost but not quite dreadlocked. "Who are these people?"

"No clue," said our guide. "But there's a Hunter might be looking for 'em, and I figured we should find out why."

A blonde girl with short-cropped hair and a worn leather vest stepped forward aggressively. "Who are you?" she demanded. Though she was speaking to all of us, her eyes were fixed on Devon. "What do the Shadows want with you?" You could taste the hatred in her voice when she referred to them . . . and maybe an echo of fear. That was a good sign, I told myself. We might not be among friends yet, but at least we weren't among enemies.

I figured the best strategy was to let them know that we hated the Shadows also, to establish some common ground, so I took a big gamble. "They kidnapped my brother."

The six of them looked at each other, startled.

"s.h.i.+t." A stocky redheaded boy, a deep scar running across one cheek, was the first to speak. "s.h.i.+t. If they took your brother, it's all over for him. Probably a vegetable by now. Or worse."

"What do you mean?" Despite my determination to sound confident, I could hear my voice start to tremble. "Why would they do that?"

"Same reason they always do," said one of the younger kids. "Bodies to feed to the Gate." He was the only one wearing a visible weapon, a long hunting knife tucked into his boot, but they were probably all armed. They looked like kids who expected trouble and were ready to confront it. "That's what it's always, yeah? Merchants and thieves and spoiled fat cats need bodies to go world-hopping, so who's gonna miss a few kids from the slums?"

"Meat don't need brains," the blonde girl snarled.

For a moment I was so horrified by the suggestion of Tommy becoming a mindless body on a gurney somewhere that I failed for a moment to catch the significance of his other words.

A moment later it hit me: World-hopping, he'd said. Gates.

These people knew about the Gate we'd come through! Did everyone here? Was the whole setup common knowledge, or had these kids somehow stumbled on a closely guarded secret? The latter would certainly explain why they were so wary of strangers. But the casual manner in which the boy talked about "Gates" and "world-hopping" suggested that common knowledge was more likely. Certainly no one seemed surprised by such references.

My stomach churned with fear for Tommy. My mind reeled from trying to sort it all out.

"Doesn't make sense," Devon challenged. "Who would expend that much effort to steal away one particular boy, just for meat?"

"Yeah," our guide agreed. "They do prefer the big roundup."

"Or donations," the blonde girl said sharply.

Donations? I blinked, hoping I was mistaking her meaning.

There was an Asian-looking boy in the group, with sharp cheekbones and hungry eyes. He glared at Devon with naked hostility. "So come off the intro now, tell us what a Guild aristo's doing in the middle of this? No brother of yours has been culled, I'm sure. What are you getting out of all this?"

Rita took a small step toward Devon, as if ready to get between him and trouble. I saw her hand twitch toward her knife. "What makes you think he's aristo?"

The redhead snorted. "The only time you see Africaners around here is when they come on business. Which costs money, yeah? When's the last time you knew an indie with the pocket cash for a transatlantic trip?"

The blonde girl turned to him. "You've got some Zulu in Boston. Might be some indies up there."

"Yeah, but when's the last time you saw one of them come down to Luray?"

I shook my head, trying to clear out some of the craziness. One thing at a time. "What did you mean, donations?"

The blonde girl turned back to me. "Kids with no potential." She said it definitively, as if that one phrase should explain everything I needed to know.

"The aristos don't like to waste time or money on deadheads," the young one explained. There was no mistaking the edge of bitterness in his voice.

"Or it's a Guild thing," the redhead said. "If you're born into a Guild House and you don't have their Gift, you won't last till your first birthday."

"Not always," the Asian boy said. "They could just trade you out."

"Like meat," the blonde girl agreed.

Gift. Guild. Deadhead. Meat. The terms were beginning to connect in my mind, but I still couldn't get a handle on the bigger picture. My confusion must have been visible, for our guide's eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion and asked, "Where are you all from, that you don't know this stuff?"

You could tell from his tone that there was a right answer and a wrong answer, but I was d.a.m.ned if I knew which was which, so I said nothing. Finally Rita dared, "Not here."

"s.h.i.+t." The redhead spat on the ground again. "They're transfers. s.h.i.+T!"

Suddenly the Asian boy had a knife in his hand. I saw Rita stiffen in readiness, and I wondered how fast I could get to my own knife. Or if I could bring myself to use it on a living person. High school doesn't exactly prepare you for that kind of thing.

But then our guide held up his hand and everyone froze in place.

"If you came through the Gate," he challenged us, "Then you already know about the Shadows. They're the only ones who can bring people across." There was no mistaking the accusation in his eyes: You're working with them.

A distant part of my brain registered that this was actually a good sign. If these kids hated the Shadows so much that they'd kill anyone who cooperated with them, they might prove valuable allies. a.s.suming, of course, that we could win them over before they stabbed us to death.

"Unless you sneak past them," Rita riposted. There was scorn in her voice, but mostly for show. I was sure she was every bit as scared as I was.

Our guide stared at her for a few seconds, weighing her words. We all held our breaths.

"Was it your first crossing?" he demanded.

Devon said, "Yes."

You could see them all looking at each other, but in the dim light it was hard to read their expressions.

"Why does that matter?" I demanded.

A girl who'd been silent up to that point, snorted lightly; strands of dirty shoulder-length hair bobbed about her thin and hungry face. "If you'd sneaked across twice you wouldn't need to ask that."

"s.h.i.+t," the redhead said. He nodded sharply toward Devon. "He already knows all this. Why are we playing word games with him?"

Devon opened his mouth to protest, but our guide spoke up first. "Don't you get it, Ron? He's not Guild. He's not aristo. He's not Zulu. He's not from this friggin' world at all." He looked at Devon. "Right?"

A muscle along the line of Devon's jaw twitched. "Yeah," he said. "That's right."

Rita offered, "We're all from another world."

"As is my brother," I added.

Our guide's jaw flexed slightly as he digested the information. It was as though he was actually chewing on our words, tasting them. Clearly this new revelation surprised him, but not as much as you'd think. Evidently the concept of someone from another world showing up on his doorstep was not as alien to him as one would expect.

"You need to meet the others," he said at last.

The blonde girl looked at him sharply. "You trust them?"

Our guide looked at us, each one in turn. When his gaze met mine, I returned it without flinching. Read me, I dared him. Read what I'm really about. Read what lengths I would go through to get my brother back.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I trust them. More important, I think Ethan would trust them."

"s.h.i.+t," the redhead muttered. He spat on the floor again. Apparently that comprised the bulk of his vocabulary.

"So what now?" the blonde girl asked. "We take them to the Warrens?"

Our guide nodded solemnly.

And so, with no further courtesy or explanation, they headed toward the window, clearly expecting us to join them. After a moment's hesitation, we did. One by one we helped each other up through the narrow wooden frame, and in that moment of mutual aid the tension in the group seemed to ease a bit. But only a little bit.

Devon went last. Perhaps because he was tallest, so it just made sense. Or perhaps because he was afraid to have any of these people behind his back.

That's how I would have felt, in his shoes.

The Warrens turned out to be down in the city's sewers. Or in its storm drains, more accurately. They didn't smell as bad as the actual sewers would have-or so we were told-and the rancid water that flowed down the center of the brick-lined tunnels had very little human waste matter in it. But that was a pretty fine distinction when you were stumbling on the slick ground along the edge of it, trying not to fall in. The air was foul, the walls were slimy, and rats the size of house cats glared at us with naked hostility before scurrying out away from our lamplight. The tunnel ceiling was low enough that even I had to walk hunched over, and I couldn't begin to imagine how bad it was for Devon. Compared to this place, the muddy pa.s.sages of Mystic Caverns seemed like a five-star hotel.

But at least we were safe from surveillance, right? That was what mattered most right now.

Devon stayed at the rear of the party, and occasionally I could hear the soft scritch-scritch of his chalk on the brickwork overhead, though G.o.d alone knew how he was finding spots dry enough to mark. Our guide was the only one carrying a lamp, which meant that the back of our group was in shadow, and Devon's actions went unnoticed. But I was deathly afraid that one of the locals would hear his activity, check it out, and wind up erasing all the marks. Those tiny bits of color were much more than directional markings right now; they were our spiritual anchor, our last link to the aboveground world as we struggled to proceed with courage in this fetid, claustrophobic setting.

Just as it seemed to me that I couldn't stand another moment without either screaming or vomiting, we entered a large open chamber. It was a circular s.p.a.ce, perhaps thirty feet across, with other tunnel openings radiating out from it at regular intervals, and a shadowy ceiling high above us. Sort of a Grand Central Station of storm drainage. Some of the tunnels must have led to cleaner and cooler places, because the air here was almost palatable. There seemed to be a narrow walkway running high around the wall of the chamber, with a rusty ladder leading up to it, but the light from a single oil lamp wasn't conducive to making out any details.

Yes, that's right, an oil lamp. Our guide was carrying an open flame through a place that probably had clouds of methane swirling down every corridor. Obviously he wouldn't be doing that if there was any reasonable alternative, which led to so many questions it made my head spin. Every time I tried to figure out the technology of this world it threw me another curve.

I was sorely tempted to pull out my Walmart flashlight, just to see what the reaction was. Probably a bad idea. If producing light without a visible source didn't get me labeled a witch and burned at the stake or something, having it come out of a tube made of an unknown substance-i.e., plastic-probably would. I wouldn't put anything past the people of this world.

Up the ladder we climbed, lamplight dancing along the walls, until we were all perched on the walkway. Our guide led us halfway around the circ.u.mference of the chamber, to a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. It looked like something out of a medieval dungeon. There was a rusty knocker that he rapped twice, and sharp cracks resonated through the empty s.p.a.ce like gunfire. After awhile we heard footsteps approaching from the other side, and a heavy bolt slid back. Then the door swung open, and the light from the other side seemed so bright after the gloomy tunnels that for a moment it blinded us. We stood there until the blaze of visual pain had subsided, and we could see where we were, then a boy motioned for us to enter.

Apparently this place had been a utility station once; you could see where enormous pipes had been affixed to the walls, and a few rusted segments were still in place. You could smell the age of the place. There were a few battered light fixtures on the wall that looked like candleholders at first glance, but then I realized they were oil lamps too. By their flickering light we could see that there were people all over the place.

Children.

I couldn't count them because most ran for cover as soon as they saw us, but there were at least two dozen. From the shadows they watched us warily, their glistening eyes floating disembodied in the darkness. Probably the sight of Devon in all his Maasai glory scared them half to death.

At least the smell was a little bit better here; there must have been a source of fresh air somewhere nearby. And I didn't see any rats.

A boy stepped forward to meet us, but he didn't say anything right off, just looked us over. Which gave us time to do the same to him. He was thin-but not excessively so-and I guessed that he was about our age. He looked cleaner than the others, which said a lot-staying clean would require monumental effort in a place like this. Even in the amber glow from the oil lamp you could see that his skin had a hint of tan to it, and the flush of a sunburn was blazoned across his forehead and cheeks. So he didn't stay down here all the time. His thick brown hair was close-cropped, and eyes of the same color had a spark of humor in their depths, even though his expression at that moment was serious. Something about his carriage communicated confidence and authority, and you could see from the way the others responded to him that he was what people sometimes call a "natural leader."

Our guide spoke first. "Found these guys upstairs working our turf. Figured you'd like to meet 'em."