The Dreamwalker's Path
Part II Ch 3 (pt 1-2)

1/New York City, New York

"You smell,” Dahlia Temperance pulled a curtain away from the window and eyed her son across the room. “Get out of bed and do something with yourself.”

From under the blankets, the lump that was her son shifted and muttered, “I’m sleeping. Go away.”

Feeling entirely ungracious at present, the vampiress crossed the room in several smooth strides, dug her nails into the mattress that Sebastian had curled up on, and yanked it off of the frame.

“Get up,” she demanded again, this time a deep dog-like snarl lacing her voice.

She ignored the indignant yelp of her offspring as he rolled off of the mattress and on the floor. His dark hair emerged from the blankets, followed by bare shoulders. “Mother! I’m not even dressed!”

His eyes were still too yellow, but the right one had begun to turn into a strange shade of green a little bit darker than the left. From the way he squinted at her through in the afternoon light, Dahlia Temperance could tell he was having a hard time seeing her features, despite only being the length of a queen sized bed away from him. But he was still trying to see her, and that meant he had some vision, still.

“And anyway, what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Dahlia Temperance pulled her lips back in a sneer. “I will not speak to my son while he is in this state. Get out of bed. Shower, dress, and meet me in the kitchen. You have twenty minutes.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, although he certainly did his best to shout at her back as she walked through the bedroom door and slammed it shut. She rolled her eyes as the people in the apartment above her banged on the floor. Their actual complaints were not meant to be heard, but her vampire ears picked the words up with ease. She had half a mind to sling a few insults back at the pair, or at least to suggest to Cavan that they should be removed from the building.

She felt a grim satisfaction as she thought of the looks of horror they would undoubtedly wear when they realized that the “fucking fools” that lived below them owned the building.

But tempting as it was to pass the next twenty minutes with some playful malice, she had a feeling that her own darling mother would disapprove of the entire affair, if word got back to her.

That, of course, wasn’t saying much; Hannah disapproved of just about anything that wasn’t straightforward logic and clean cut diplomatic communication. At least she did most days.

The sound of Sebastian clambering through the bedroom and into the bathroom brought her back to the apartment. Smoothing away her frown by rubbing her knuckles across one cheek, she continued to the kitchen and rummaged around for something to fix Sebastian when he got out of the shower.

Dahlia Temperance wrinkled her nose when she spotted the jar of peanut butter in one of the cupboards. It seemed, despite the change in body, that her son’s appetite had not altered.

Ignoring the peanut butter, she pulled a coffee filter out of the package on the shelf above it and set about making a pot of coffee.

By the time that the water pipes groaned to a stop in the next room over, Dahlia Temperance had two mugs of coffee and two plates of over easy eggs, bacon, and toast laid out on the table. She had just poured herself a glass of orange juice and settled down to eat when Sebastian rounded the corner dressed in a pair of black slacks and a half-buttoned long sleeved shirt.

He still looked sullen, almost childish, much to Dahlia Temperance’s dismay, but at least he didn’t smell any more. “Sit down and eat,” she directed, pushing out a chair with her foot and picking up a strip of bacon.

She nibbled delicately on the end of the strip and waited for her son to settle down before saying, “Feel better?”

Sebastian made a face, looked from the coffee mug to the plate of food and then finally to his mother. “I felt fine before. I was sleeping.”

“All day?”

Sebastian huffed. “Not all day. I was awake earlier. Then Cavan left and I decided to take a nap.”

“Surely your uncle didn’t allow you to sit around unbathed-”

“Oh shut up, mother,” Sebastian waved a hand at Dahlia Temperance and resolved himself to gingerly poking at an egg with the corner of his toast. “He’s not my keeper. So I skipped showering this morning, big deal.”

“You’re sulking,” Dahlia Temperance accused, pausing to sip her coffee, “Still.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Liar.

She didn’t say it, but the thought floated right across his mind in her voice.

He looked away, busying himself with his egg which he did not want to eat. Once again, his mother forgot that food did not agree with him in the same way that it did her and her mother.

“Don’t ignore me, Sebastian.”

Baring his teeth, Sebastian dropped his toast onto his plate and glared at his mother. “What do you want me to say, mother? That I’m upset I’m going blind again? That half of my psychic abilities were taken from me when I died?”

Dahlia Temperance waved her hand sharply. “Words are useless, Sebastian. What I want you to do is take action.”

“You want me to get over it, you mean.” “And move on.”

“It doesn’t work that way, mother.”

“Of course it does, Sebastian. You make it work. You accept the situation, do what you can to prevent it, and if that fails, you move on.” She took a bite of her toast and sat back in her chair.

Sebastian focused on his plate. It was as good an alternative as any to looking at his mother. It was one thing to hear his mother’s frustration and disappointment, it was quite another to see it. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with that for too much longer.

“Cavan is still with Lia,” his mother offered.

Great. Just when he thought that there wasn’t anything

that he would rather avoid talking about.

He began to eat again. “She called him earlier. She was upset about something.”

“I was told as much. Why didn’t you go with?”

“Because Lia doesn’t know that I’m alive and I didn’t want to spend any more quality time with Cavan than I already have to.”

“He enjoys your company.”

“He’s a snarling, temperamental, self-important bastard.”

“Yes, the two of you are very alike in that way.”

Sebastian paused, looked at his mother accusingly, and then returned to his food. “Thanks.”

“You’re both extremely difficult, stubborn, opinionative men, and you both have a tendency to allow yourselves to be completely devastated by the smallest matter.”

“You always know exactly what to say to make me feel better, Dahlia Temperance.”

“Oh, shut up, Sebastian.”

Sebastian looked up at his mother and raised an eyebrow.

She stared back at him with a very smug expression.

“He helped raise you, darling. You’re bound to share some qualities with him.”

“All of his bad ones, I’ve noticed.”

Dahlia Temperance snorted delicately. “Not all of them. Your uncle is a complex creature. Using so few words to explain him would be like saying the internet is useful. True, certainly, but hardly illuminating.”

Sebastian refrained from rolling his eyes. “Why are you here, mother?”

“Because I’m your mother, and I care, believe it or not,” Dahlia Temperance supplied. “And because I’ve had a vision that I believe you’ll want to know about.”

2/ Temple of the Lost, Sanctuary

When Caitell and the Seventh Hour approached the top of the hill that lead down to the Temple of the Lost, they were met with the sounds of desperate shouting.

Without sparing a glance at each other, both the witch and the demon sprinted up the last few yards of the hill and down the steep steps that lead to the main chamber of the temple.

With a spell already clenched in her fist, Caitell pushed her way passed the Seventh Hour and stumbled under the archway, ready to let fly the spell that (she hoped) would be enough to knock an angry, supposed-to-be petrified god flat on its holy ass.

Instead, a sandy blond head rammed into her diaphragm, knocking the air clean out of her lungs and tossing her backward right into the Seventh Hour.

Caitell found herself sinking to the ground, her journey slowed marginally by the guidance of the Seventh Hour’s hands. Her spell fizzled and died in her palm while she gasped for breath, and she was vaguely aware of a very red-faced Chapel still clinging to her waist and shouting. But she had no idea what he was trying to say. Even as he shouted and shook her, the only real thought running through her head was: Come on, Caitell, breath; don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to do that now!

Coughing weakly, Caitell nudged Chapel and managed to wheeze, “G-goff.”

To her relief, though Chapel did not seem to hear her, the Seventh Hour and a man in a green surcoat managed to disentangle the child from Caitell’s waist.

As the man in green held a splitting-mad Chapel back, Seven laid his palm on Caitell’s solar plexus. He pressed down lightly and murmured under his breath. After a moment, the cramped muscle beneath his palm eased, and Caitell drew in a gasping breath.

“Holy Chimes,” she rasped. Somehow she had been laid flat on her back and she found herself staring up at the high arcs of the ceiling.

When she was certain she truly was able to draw breath again, she propped herself up on her elbows. “Chapel, you have a head like a goat.”

“Fitting,” the man in green muttered. “He’s been acting like one since he and the pixie showed me the crack in the wall.

“I en’t done nothing’ of the sort, Mister!” Chapel flailed, but the man’s grasp was steady and the child did not break his hold.

It took Caitell several moments to realize that the green surcoat was the garb of the Hour of Eight. When she did, she scrambled up to her feet and brushed herself off hurriedly. “I’m so sorry, Eighth Hour! I hope he’s not been really terrible!” She gestured for Chapel to come stand by her, heedless of his squalling. She knew that Chapel behaving was probably too much to hope for, especially judging by the tight frown on Eight’s face, but she felt obligated to say it just the same.

Chapel did not appreciate the sentiment. “Don’t you side with him, Caitell! He’s a big mouthy bully an’ a credit- hog! He’s tol’ me Ah gotta stay behind while he gets to go see what’s on the other side of the crack that me and Twix found!” His voice cracked in the heat of his anger, and he scowled up at Caitell with a fiercely determined look. “You better tell him Ah’m good as any Hour when it comes to findin’ things, Caitell. Ah en’t gonna let someone else take all my glory for what me and Twi-”

“You’re a little boy,” the Eighth Hour snapped. “And we don’t know what’s on the other side of that wall; I’m not about to let a child—”

“Ah en’t a child!” The boy’s voice was a high shriek that echoed in the chamber beyond the archway.

The witch thanked Time that she’d had the good sense to ask Seven what Chapel had found, because if she had walked into the situation at hand without any prior knowledge, she might have feared that Chapel had lost his mind.

“You are a child,” Caitell snapped, “and you’re doing a gosh darn good job of proving it!” She grabbed Chapel’s shoulder and shook him gently to get his attention. “The Eighth Hour is right, Chapel, we don’t know what’s on the other side of the crack, and we’d be stupid to let you go over there all by yourself.”

“But Ah en’t a child, Cait, and I wouldn’t be alone! Twix’d be with me an’ we’d find Emelye an’ bring her back way b’fore anyone else could.”

“How exactly would you propose doing that, Chapel?” “Well ah dunno just yet, but wh-”

“You’re not going!” Eight insisted angrily.

“Perhaps we should all just calm down—”

“Oh, you’re a BIG one to talk, Seven; you practically accused T—”

“That was a different situation, Eight; this is hardly as pressing as—”

“Hardly as press—are you shitting me? This is mo—”

“Excuse me.” The voice was quiet, but it pierced the argument like white-hot iron rod. “I apologize for interrupting, but I’m afraid that if you can’t discuss your situation with each other in a civilized manner, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a place of worship after all.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to regard the angelic figure in the archway that lead to the main chamber.

Lyriel stood quietly before them in his white robes, hands clasped in front of him, his hair tumbling down his shoulders in dark, slightly damp clumps, and two sets of wings tucked away politely behind his back.

He looked, Caitell thought worriedly, worse than he had before Emelye disappeared. His already thin face was drawn even tighter across his sharp cheekbones, and he had dark circles under his eyes. She wondered if his hair was damp because he’d only just returned from bathing, or if he’d broken out in a cold sweat.

Having received no reply from any of the three adults, or the child, the angel spoke again: “Perhaps some counseling is in order?” He offered one hand to the group and gestured for them to enter the Temple. “My office is just down the hall there; don’t worry, I assure you that what gods haven’t been able to escape into the other walls of Sanctuary are quite content to stay behind the walls of the temple.”

His words were met with several more moments of awkward, uneasy silence. Although both Hours trusted that the angel would never lie or do harm to another creature in Sanctuary, the fact that Lyriel was not of Sanctuary or of Time was one that did not sit well with either of them.

Likewise, although Caitell liked Lyriel, his psychic presence was moderately disturbing, especially because she could tell that he was not pleased at the scene that the four of them had been making in the doorway of his home.

The only one who was not affected, in fact, was Chapel, who stood in the center of the three adults with his arms crossed over his chest, eyeballing the angel with the same discontent that he’d eyeballed the adults surrounding him.

“What do you have anything to do with it?” Chapel demanded.

Lyriel’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline, but Caitell wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a look of surprise or a very subtle shrug.

“It is my nature to bring resolution to conflict,” Lyriel offered. “I would be glad to help the four of you in this manner.”

For whatever reason, Chapel seemed to be satisfied with his answer. He shrugged Caitell’s hand off his shoulder and approached the angel with the boastful swagger of young boys and idiots. “Well, all right then. But you better solve it in a way that ah like, or ah’ll call you a liar in front of everyone ah know ever, got it?”

Lyriel’s gaze floated toward the ceiling; “I shall strive to do my best,” he assured the child in a way that did not sound entirely void of sarcasm.

The boy did not seem to notice this aspect of the angel’s tone, or he simply didn’t care. He waved for the adults to follow him in an impatient way. “Come on, you angel. You better show us where this office of yours is if you’re gonna sort these guys out. Something tells me it’s gonna be a long conversation.”

Now it was Caitell who rolled her eyes.

Glancing apologetically at the Seventh Hour, who shrugged, and the Eighth Hour, who looked about ready to spit a cog, Caitell followed the angel through the main chamber and down the red carpeted hallway that lead to the angel’s library and office.

“Welcome to the Archives—Or, well, at least one of them. Please, help yourself to a chair, but I must ask you not to pass the golden rope: restricted access, et cetera.” Lyriel gestured for the entire party to step through the doorway.

Once everyone was inside, he too entered, folding his wings from sight entirely. “Tea, anyone?”

“We en’t got time for tea!” Chapel proclaimed in exasperation. Given his expression as he looked from wall to book-covered wall, he was caught somewhere between awe and disgust.

“There’s always time for tea, Chapel Tames,” the angel replied in a stern voice. “Anyone who ever tells you otherwise is either simple or evil.”

The words were said with such conviction that the Hours and Caitell felt compelled to looked awkwardly between each other from their seats in the various squishy armchairs that were settled around a small table.

“Well I, for one, would love a cup of tea,” Caitell chimed in a slightly hurried tone.

The two Hours were quick to agree, and Chapel, not wanting to seem either evil or stupid, decided he would try some tea, too.

“No one better tell Twix about this,” he grumbled as he watched the angel heat up some water in an electric kettle. “He’ll never let me live it down.

“Where is that little bug?” Caitell asked suddenly. “Why isn’t he with you? He’s always with you.”

Chapel’s face squished itself into an expression of annoyance and he jerked his thumb at the green clad Hour as Lyriel passed him a cup of tea with a little milk and sugar added in. “He told Twix to bug off because Twix kep’ askin’ about our reward for finding the crack. Twix decided he didn’t need a reward anyway and went off chasin’ some girl pixie,” he muttered, trying not to sound like his feelings were hurt. “Stupid dumb turd face,” he muttered under his breath.

They were silent while the angel finished passing out cups of tea. It was only when Lyriel finally settled into his own chair with a heavy sigh and a cup twice as large as everyone else’s that Eight began to speak in a careful, quiet tone.

“Look, I realize that this is your finding, Chapel, and believe me I am very proud that you found it, and I wouldn’t want anyone else but you to get credit for it—”

“Me an’ Twix,” Chapel interjected, “’cause really it was Twix’s butt that found it.” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Eight’s expression altered into one of slight concern and he looked at Caitell who closed her eyes and shook her head very slightly, so Eight continued, “All right, well I want you and Twix to get all the credit for it that you can, but if you go through the crack and die, then you won’t be able to get any credit, will you?”

Wanting to appear thoughtful, Chapel took a mouthful of tea only to spit it back out in his cup. “Glugh! Terrible!” he made an assortment of gagging sounds and put his tea cup on the table.

Lyriel did not look impressed, but to the angel’s credit, he said nothing.

Chapel, now having coughed and sputtered sufficiently, said, “Guess I can’t get credit if ah’m dead, but I still wanna help out. Ah en’t” he paused and cleared hist hroat,” I’ve never done anythin’ useful before in my life. Except the time when ah told the Eastlings to get ready to fight the Westies, but I could tell that Jackal did that to keep me from really helpin’ with the fighting.”

And a damn good thing he did, too, Caitell thought. The last thing that she’d needed to worry about was poor little Chapel being shot in the face by a rogue bullet or spell...

The angel’s voice pulled her back to the library: “Chapel, you don’t have to risk your life to be of help, you know. There are plenty of things that you can do in Sanctuary to help.”

Chapel’s face screwed up in disbelief. “Like what, drink poop-drinks with you?”

Caitell reached across the arm of her chair and smacked Chapel’s arm. “Don’t be rude.”

“Ah en’t bein’ rude, I don’t like tea.” He frowned back at the angel, “Sorry, but it’s true.”

Lyriel rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was going to be a lot more trying than he first anticipated.

Looking between his fingers at the boy again, Lyriel continued as though he had been uninterrupted, “You might be aware, Chapel,” the angel’s eyes darted from the boy to the Hours and then back, “that something terrible is happening to Sanctuary, between the crack and the gods leaping out of walls, I mean.”

“Yeah, duh!” The boy leapt from his chair in exasperation.

“That’s why I want to help!”

Lyriel held up a hand to quiet him and continued. “No one knows why it’s happening though, you see. Neither the gods nor the cracks, nor the change in the weather as Seven has noted, nor anything else that we might have not yet encountered—or have already encountered and forgotten.” He gestured to the library, “But here I have tucked away everything that has happened or will happen or has the potential to happen in all of Sanctuary. The bother is,” his tone melted into something close to chagrin, “It’s not entirely organized. I could look for the answer by myself, but it might take me a long time—from now until yesterday comes back, even, I’m afraid.”

Here, he paused to assess Chapel’s understanding.

“So what,” the boy deadpanned, “you need help...readin’ books?”

Well, it wasn’t exactly enthusiasm, but it was better than his reaction to the tea.

“Not just any books, Chapel. Powerful books, books that give you the ability to change the outcome of the world as you know it.” A pause. “I would have to take you on as my apprentice, and you would have to take an oath never to use the power for evil. It’s a very serious matter, Chapel, and I wouldn’t trust it to just anyone.”

The boy, still thinking it over, sat back in his chair and looked at Caitell who shrugged her shoulders.

Seven and Eight shared a doubtful look before Eight said, “That’s too much responsibility to put on a child, angel. I don’t-”

“Respectfully,” the angel paused, sipped his tea, and then looked at the Eight Hour square in the eyes, “The Temple of the Lost may be under the jurisdiction of the Hours, but the Archives are mine, and it is I who shall determine how much responsibility should or should not be placed on whom.”

Eight gaped silently, Seven looked down at his knees, suddenly interested in the fabric of his pants, and Caitell was looking solemnly at Chapel.

The exchange seemed to inspire resolve in the boy. Chapel nodded and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah,” he said, “All right; ah’ll be your ’prentice and help you find the answers in your books.”

Lyriel smiled—it was an eerie, unsettling smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Good; in that case, if you three would excuse us,” he looked to the three adults in the room, “my apprentice and I have work to do.”

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