Oh, boy. “Juliet will enjoy talking Shakespeare with you.” Maybe it would get me off the hook from playing her dumb let’s-quote-Shakespeare game.
“I must admit, however, I’ve always felt Romeo and Juliet to be the most overrated of the Bard’s plays. I hope that won’t offend her.”
“Gary, Juliet is going to love you.”
If a zombie could blush, the new doorman would have. To cover, he aimed for a worldly chuckle that came off more like a coughing fit. “Alas, not as she loved Romeo, I fear.”
“No, not like that.” He blinked at me through his smudged glasses, looking crestfallen. “Believe me, Gary, that’s a good thing.” Vampires didn’t suck zombies dry.
JULIET WAS OUT. NOTHING STRANGE ABOUT THAT; THIS WAS her hunting time. What was odd was the note she’d left me on the kitchen table: Don’t wait up. J. Since when had I ever waited up for my roommate?
Maybe she felt bad because she really did think she woke me up yesterday. Doubtful. Vampires never felt bad about their actions. More likely, she was warning me to stay out of the living room if I heard any weird chants in the middle of the night.
If that had even happened.
I pushed Juliet from my thoughts and got ready for bed. Tonight, I took my warm bath before I climbed into bed. It helped. Relaxing, I let my mind go blank. The room dissolved around me, and I floated in a vast, calm sea of darkness. Everything was quiet, gentle, warm. No bitter cold tonight. For a while, I let myself float. No point in waking myself up trying to place a dream-phone call before I was ready. Besides, it felt so good to rest.
I don’t know how far I dipped into sleep. Time seemed suspended. Eventually, I thought about Mab—lazily at first, then with more focus. All Cerddorion have a pair of colors unique to the individual. To call someone on the dream phone, you think of that person and summon their colors. At the other end, they see your colors, so they know who’s calling. I imagined my aunt, picturing her where I always think of her, seated in her wing chair by the library fireplace. She wore a baggy gray cardigan over a black dress; her short, gray hair was swept back from her face. It felt good to see her there. Comforting. Like home. I tinged the image of my aunt with her colors of blue and silver.
A mist rose. It billowed with Mab’s colors, drawing more blue and more silver from my image of Mab even as it blew across the scene to obscure her. The mist mounted higher, until blue and silver swirls filled my vision. Slowly it began to thin, blowing away a wisp at a time. Mab appeared first as a silhouette, then I could see her more clearly. She wasn’t in the library. She sat at her kitchen table, a mug in her hand and a teapot within reach. We were connected.
Mab looked so normal, sitting in her warm, familiar kitchen and drinking tea. A world away from the craziness of obliterated zombies and demon-haunted dreams.
“What is it, child?” she asked crisply.
That was Mab, getting right down to business. No “How are you?” No chitchat about the weather. Not even a guilt-inducing comment about how long it was since my last call.
“I’ve got a problem.”
She sipped some tea, tilted her head, and waited.
I took a deep breath. “Remember the trouble I had with that Hellion?”
“The Destroyer. Yes, yes. You told me it left the city and the shield was repaired.”
“That’s right. But I didn’t tell you the whole story.” A twinge of guilt reminded me I should have been straight with her from the start. But I hadn’t, so I told her now. I explained what happened in October, how I’d strengthened my bond with the Destroyer to wrest control away from the corrupt sorcerer who’d summoned it. How I’d driven it back to Hell. How I’d thought—hoped—it would stay there.
“Now it has approached you?”
“Twice in two days. In dreams.”
“And it spoke?”
“The first time it passed through my dream, laughing. It destroyed a watch I’d misplaced. Tonight, it appeared in a client’s dream. It spoke then.”
“A client’s dream? Are you certain it wasn’t a Drude?”
“Positive. It was the Destroyer itself. My demon mark flared as soon as it appeared, and my marked arm turned to rubber.”
She pursed her lips, thinking, and reached for the teapot. “What did it say?”
“That a new order was coming. Something about a king and a couple of Welsh words I didn’t recognize. Uffern was one.”
“Uffern means Hell. It’s not surprising that a Hellion would speak of it.”
Okay, that made sense. We’d both been talking about Hell. “The other word was Morfran. ‘The Morfran emerges’—what’s that?”
The teapot shook in Mab’s hand, but she steadied it and kept pouring. Steam billowed out. No, not steam. It was too dark—black and oily and opaque. Behind Mab, the oven belched more smoke, and so did the old cooking fireplace across the room. Thick, choking clouds filled the kitchen.
“Mab? Mab! What’s happening? Are you okay?”
I saw her mouth move, but a loud buzz obscured her answer. Then the smoke covered everything, and I couldn’t see her at all.
My heart pounded as I waved at the clouds, trying to fan them away. But I was dreaming, and my frantic movements had no effect. I focused again on Mab’s colors, trying to rein in my panic, willing the black, greasy clouds to lighten to blue and silver.
The smoke dispersed a little. I made out a dim shape.
“Mab?”
The hideous face that pushed its way through the smoke was nothing like my aunt’s.
“I’m sorry,” said Difethwr. “Your call has been disconnected.”
The Hellion clapped its hands, and a thunderbolt shoved me out of my dream.
I WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR BESIDE MY BED. MY BODY FELT bruised and broken, like I’d tumbled down several hundred feet of rocky slope to get here. I had no idea what time it was. From where I sat, I couldn’t see my bedside clock, and the blackout shades left the room in complete darkness. I rubbed my aching head, trying to get my bearings.
Mab.
Mab’s kitchen, filling with thick smoke.
I scrambled to my feet and ran to the kitchen. I flipped on the light switch and squinted as the harsh fluorescent bulb buzzed to life. The wall clock read a little past nine. Two in the afternoon in Wales.
I snatched up the phone and dialed the number for the pub in Rhydgoch, the village closest to Mab’s house. It took me three tries to remember how to place an international call, but finally I heard the burrr-burrr burrr-burrr of a British ring signal. Pick up, damn it. Again I saw Mab’s kitchen, clogged with smoke.
Someone answered mid-ring. “Cross and Crow, Wales’s most haunted pub,” said a jovial male voice.
My words tumbled out in a rush. “I need you to send someone to check on my aunt. There might have been a fire.”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m Mab Vaughn’s niece. I’m worried—”
“Mab’s niece? Is that Vicky, then? It’s Lloyd Cadogan. How’d you like the way I answered the phone?”
“Very nice, but—”
“We’ve joined the Haunted Britain tour. Run by a company from your side of the pond. Out of New York, I believe it is. Do you think lots of Yanks’ll come?”
“Mr. Cadogan, please listen. I’m worried about Mab. Can you send someone, Owen or somebody—”
“Owen? Didn’t your aunt tell you? Our Owen’s at university in Cardiff, reading history. His ma and me, we wanted him to study something useful, but—”