‘They say it was here the residue was found,’ said the man – Hugh Fisher – as he stepped towards the lift doors, zipping up his leather jacket. His face was adorned with wrinkles, and his brown hair was tinged with grey. He examined the whitewashed floors of St Benedict’s Hospital, which shimmered in the bright light of the corridor. Stinking of disinfectant, the corridor was empty, besides an old woman asleep on a bench next to the lift; she snored loudly, saggy jowls rippling with every breath as if billowing amid a forceful gale.
He paid her no mind as he surveyed the floor, his gaunt face shining back off the tiles to greet him. The woman looked to be in so deep a sleep he doubted she would have noticed him. He did, however, make sure to keep his ears pricked, listening out for the sound of footsteps or the buzz of approaching repulsors and propulsors. If anyone else spotted him, no doubt he would surely look a laughable sight, staring as intensely at the floor as he was.
The cool voice of Cleo Violet, Overseer of Taskforce Delta, rang down his earpiece. ‘Residue fits the exact description of imoort’ala. You know what you’re looking for?’
‘Of course I do,’ he replied gruffly, rummaging through the pockets of his jacket. ‘I know what brain juice looks like – or immortal-whatever-you-want-to-call-it. I’m not a Naïve, you know.’ He heard laughter echo down the earpiece, though not from Cleo. ‘Jonah sounds like he’s having a good time. Still not sure the world of hexes and reavers is one suitable for a ten-year-old.’
‘When you have a son of your own, then you can judge me on my parenting,’ Cleo snapped. ‘Anyway, he seems to be enjoying himself near enough. He looks up to you, you know.’
Hugh bristled. ‘I’m not exactly someone kids should be looking up to.’ At last, the hand in his pocket found what it was looking for: a small, greyish-bluish box, inscribed with runes and glyphs. A hex crystal.
He placed it on the floor, and tapped its top twice. The crystal let out a small whistle, then glowed bright blue. He felt somewhat more assured after activating the hex crystal; it would protect against the Inbred Attacks of any dream-eaters he came across. Inbred Attacks were some of the deadliest attacks in the hexes’ arsenals – protection against them cleared a load off his mind.
‘Kids should be looking up to heroes: Superman, Luke Skywalker, that humanitarian bloke in the paper, you know, the one who looks a wrong ‘un but isn’t. People like that.’
‘What’s to say you’re not a hero, Hugh? You’re just like those people.’
He sighed and his face darkened. ‘Tell that to the people of Windermere Heights.’
‘That was a year ago. Windermere…’ He stopped paying attention to what she was saying. It didn’t matter anyway. His mind was set.
I’m not a bloody hero. I caused Windermere. No hero should ever have something like that on their conscience.
As Cleo continued arguing down the earpiece, Hugh watched as concentric circles of blue light appeared surrounding the hex crystal, moving away from the crystal like ripples on a pond. A silver glint caught his eye, coming from beneath the bench the old woman was sleeping on. He dropped to one knee to inspect, ducking next to the old woman’s right leg, grimacing as her over-scented perfume flooded his nostrils. Beneath the bench was a small puddle of silvery, translucent liquid. As Hugh looked, he saw a river of the liquid running down the wall, feeding into the puddle. There seemed to be a great quantity of it.
Hugh grimaced. ‘I’ve found the brain juice,’ he murmured, cutting Cleo off mid-sentence.
‘Very good – hang on, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’
He let out a brazen chuckle. ‘No, I haven’t.’ As he dipped his fingers in the so-called “brain juice”, bringing the liquid to his fingers to sniff, his brow furrowed. ‘I don’t smell any traces of immigren poison in the juice. Not like a dream-eater to not poison its victims.’
Immigren poison was used by the dream-eaters to paralyse their victims and stop them running away. With their target paralysed, the dream-eaters would devour their victim’s mind and soul, feasting on their memories – the good and the bad – until all that was left was an empty husk. This emotionless form of human was known as a Barren.
‘Maybe it’s a new type?’ Cleo suggested. ‘God knows we seem to find a new breed of hex nearly every day.’
Hugh’s brows furrowed deeper. Something’s not right. This brain juice, it looks fresh. He grimaced. No. Something’s not right at all. It took him a few seconds to realise what was wrong.
The old woman had stopped snoring.
With a gasp, he rolled away from the bench and leapt to his feet, eying the old woman with wide eyes. His breathing grew shaky. Indeed, she was no longer snoring – nor breathing, for that matter, as denoted by the lack of flapping jowls.
It’s true that Barrens only live to a certain age – and that any dream-eaters’ victims beyond that age usually die when transformed. Oh, God…She’s dead – and it’s my fault. If only I was a bit quicker, a bit more urgent…
With a grunt, he cast away his thoughts to back of his mind and tensed. ‘Cleo, I’ve found our dream-eater – and the reason why there’s no poison.’ When targeting the elderly, dream-eaters didn’t need poison. Older people were less alert, less aware of certain things – and a dream-eater sucking out their brains was one of those things.
The dream-eater was nearby, though it was hiding. ‘There’s only one way to force this thing out into the open,’ he muttered, glancing at the old woman and uttering a prayer. I’m sorry, so sorry, for what happened and what I’m about to do…
Though dream-eaters needed to be close to their prey to feast, they did not actually feast by physical means. Rather, they formed a strong psychic tether with their victims. When it came time for the feasting, the tether would act as a straw for the dream-eater, allowing it to consume its target’s memories. The only thing that could destroy such a tether was fire.
Hugh crouched beside the old woman and sighed. I’m sorry. I have to do this. He looked up at her, at her creased and wrinkled face, at her eyes which were now clamped shut. The old woman looked to be at peace, resting. Whatever friends and family she had, they would not ever find out what truly happened to her – nor would they even find out that she had died.
Hugh rested a hand on her knee. It was still warm, though was quickly chilling. The dream-eater was still feasting.
‘Irakis,’ he whispered. His hand warmed as flames sprouted from it, creeping across the old woman’s body until they engulfed her entirely. Though the Irakis spell was only a Simple Forme Weaving, it was still powerful enough such that, in a few moments, the old woman was nothing more than a black stain on the bench. Hugh grimaced as the bitter smell of burnt flesh clogged his nose. Every cell of the old woman’s body had been ignited and burnt to a cinder; if any part of her had remained unburnt, the dream-eater would have retained its psychic tether with her. But now, the tether was broken.
Right on cue, there was a shriek, loud and piercing. Hugh shuddered. It came from behind. He turned to see, emerging like a phantom from the floor, was the dream-eater. He flinched at the sight of it; even after all these years as a reaver, dream-eaters never ceased to send shivers down his spine.
The creature was only small, about the size of a large dog, with four pawed legs and tail like that of a bobcat but thicker and longer. Its body was covered in a shaggy mane of purplish-black fur, which draped across the floor, almost completely hiding its feet from sight. Along its back were small, pinkish protrusions – brainscales. The creature’s head was triangular, feeding into a beaked mouth which clacked open and shut, revealing toothless gums and a slithering, white tongue. At the centre of its head, it had a huge, golden eye, circled by a ring of smaller golden eyes, each narrowed and locked on Hugh.
He bristled. Running from the corners of the dream-eater’s mouth were long, pink barbels – psychic barbels – which trailed along the floor. He eyed them nervously. No matter how weak or low rank a dream-eater was, all reavers had to beware its psychic barbels. The hex crystal would be protect against the dream-eater’s Inbred Attacks but would not be able to stop the psychic barbels if they got hold of him.
I hope the psychic screen will be enough, Hugh thought. Destiny cast it, and she’s good at casting psychic spells.
‘I’m staring at our dream-eater. It’s only weak.’
‘How weak?’ Cleo asked.
‘Weak enough it can phase through floors and walls – I doubt I’ll need to use anything above Simple Forme Weaving,’ Hugh replied. Only weak hexes could phase through floors and walls; the more powerful hexes, those with higher phantom energy levels, had too much phantom energy to fit between the particles of solids.
‘It’s a Por’ava. I estimate Fifth Rank,’ Hugh continued. ‘Nothing better than Fourth could wall-phase, and it seems too small to be of Fourth Rank itself.’ He knew he didn’t have to explain his reasoning to Cleo – he was among Taskforce Delta’s most skilled reavers and knew hexes and Weaving like the back of his hand; but still, doing so calmed him somewhat, almost reassured him of his skills and knowledge.
His ears pricked. He heard footsteps, coming from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see two doctors in white uniforms approaching them. One walked, while the other hovered on a repulsor-chair, his legs dangling uselessly in the air. They emerged from an adjacent room, stopping outside the door.
Hugh bit his lip. Though hexes remained invisible to normal people – or “Naïves”, as they were known – his spells (“Weavings”) did not. That made destroying hexes near Naïves, while also trying to keep the Reaver Society a secret, very difficult. Though he knew some memory-wipe spells, they were not the most…pleasant…spells to use. More often than not, they erased a person of not only their memories regarding reavers, Weavings, and hexes, but all memories – including themselves. If that happened, the person would remain little better than one of the Barrens created by the dream-eaters.
Shouting came from inside the room the two doctors were stood outside. Hugh breathed a sigh of relief as the doctors raced inside, accompanied now by a gaggle of others, who had run out from several other rooms. Soon, the corridor was empty again.
As the door to the room slid shut behind them, Hugh turned back to the dream-eater, the Por’ava. He gritted his teeth.
The Por’ava was the first to make a move, before Hugh could react: its psychic barbels launched towards him; its white, slender tongue enlengthened and slashed at him. He dodged the two barbels, but when the tongue came close, gripped it tightly in his fist.
‘Irakis,’ he muttered, and the tongue set alight. The flames were quick, and soon the entire tongue was aflame, right the way from the tip into the Por’ava’s mouth. The dream-eater squealed.
‘Furrest,’ he said, reaching a palm towards the dream-eater. The Por’ava shrieked, then a second later, disintegrated to dust.
‘That was easier than I thought,’ said Hugh. ‘Two spells and it was done.’
‘It was Fifth Rank – what did you expect?’ Cleo retorted.
‘It was weak for a Fifth Rank. Didn’t even need to cast any protective spells to deal with the barbels – its attacks were slow enough I could dodge them.’ He clicked his tongue, reaching down to pick the hex crystal off the floor. The crystal wouldn’t budge, and continued glowing blue.
‘Crystal’s stuck,’ Hugh muttered. He cleared his throat. ‘Cleo, there’s still more dream-eaters here. I thought the dream-eater was too weak to be out here acting on its own – there must be a nest. Not necessarily all Por’avas either. Likely some stronger guys too.’
Only strong hexes ever worked on their own – and that in itself was rare. Usually, hexes came from nests; almost all hexes Third Rank to Fifth Rank – the weakest hexes – operated in nests.
‘I expect we have a big nest on our hands, if we have Fifth Ranks. I’ll try to find it.’
But before he could do anything, he heard a call, ‘Help! Please! Help!’
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