Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(21)

“I guess you don’t scare easily, then?” I squared my shoulders, recognizing a challenge when I heard one. Clearly he had no idea just who he was dealing with, and maybe it was time that I told him—heck, maybe I should even show him.

Big bad ghosts were my specialty. I’d already dealt with quite a few. From what I knew, the really bad ones were all lingering down on the earth plane, so how bad could this blond kid be if he was hanging out Here, in some old, abandoned soundstage?

I was tempted to roll my eyes, but I made myself refrain. Figuring at best, he was just some silly wannabe—at worst, he actually thought he could scare me.

Puh-leese.

“Yeah, I get it.” He looked me over carefully. “Fear is for sissies, right?” I looked at him and shook my head. I’d been so distracted by my own thoughts, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.

“What?” I squinted, taking him in, or at least what the slats allowed me to see. Not getting much more than a glimpse of a crisp, white shirt that was worn with the kind of pants, belt, and shoes my dad used to wear for important meetings at work. Shaking my head yet again at how some of these ghosts continued to dress despite the fact that they could manifest whatever they wanted.

But he just smiled, removed a few slats, and waved me right in. Motioning for me to crouch low so I wouldn’t hit my head, then he replaced those slats again. “I asked if you were here about a dream,” he said.

I stood before him, pretty sure that’s not at all what he’d said. But thinking he might be able to help, that if I played it just right, then I might still get what I came for, I decided to let that one go.

“You know, come to think of it …” He paused, his grin growing wider. “I could use a little help around here. So, how about you help me with my dream jump, and then I’ll help you with yours. Deal?”

He extended his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

So I did.

I ignored my better instincts and clasped it in mine.

15

He told me his name was Satchel.

Satchel Alexander Blaise III.

And I stood right before him, listening to him recite it, completely impressed.

The name sounded weighty. Important.

Like he might descend from royalty or something.

But Satchel just shrugged. Assured me it was just a name that’d been passed down in the family until it was his turn to wear it, not so different from a hand-me-down shirt.

Assured me that it didn’t mean much of anything, so I shouldn’t attach too much meaning to it.

There were other things that mattered more.

“Much more,” he said.

“Yeah, like what?” My gaze pored over him, hoping the answer might help me get to know him a little better, might prove that there was nothing to be afraid of, that he was really no different from me.

Hoping that it might rid me of the creepy, nagging feeling that had stirred up inside me ever since I made my way in and grasped his hand in mine.

But he just shrugged again, saying, “We’ll get to that later. First, I need help with this dream.”

He led me deeper into the room, and finally I saw where that strange and flickering light had originated. He had some antique projector rigged up in the back that pointed toward a big, stained old screen—its corners all yellowed and curled, with a series of rips and tears that crept along the bottom seam.

“What’s this?” I asked, thinking this room was so much smaller than the one I’d done my practice jumps in, and wondering why he was using such old, outdated equipment when there was shiny, new, modern stuff to be had, if not manifested.

“New is not always better.” He glanced at me, fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves.

“This works just as well, and besides, it’s authentic.”

I stopped right there, refusing to take another step closer. “Authentic to what, exactly?” My hand on my hip, my lips screwed to the side, needing a bit more to go on.

He huffed, patted his hair with the palm of his hand—smoothing a haircut that wasn’t just totally and completely outdated, but that also looked as though it was whipped into obedience with superglue and spit.

“Authentic to Dreamland,” he said. “This, all that you see before you, it’s all of the original equipment. It’s what they used to use before …” He paused, then, shaking his head, decided to leave it right there.

Though I wasn’t about to let him off so easily. If he needed help, then I needed answers, despite whatever deal we may have struck just a few moments earlier.

I narrowed my eyes, fixed him with my most serious, stoniest stare. Watching as he sighed, threw his arms in the air, and said,

“This is the stuff they used to use before things changed around here. This is all the original equipment that …”

And that’s when I knew. Knew it before the words left his lips.

His eyes locked on mine as he confirmed the thought in my head.

“This is the stuff the dreamweavers used back in the day.”

Dreamweaving.

According to the gate guard, Mort, and most definitely Balthazar, dreamweaving was not done in these parts anymore. Heck, I’d gotten a major case of the stink-eye just for making an accidental mention of it.

I looked at Satchel, my eyes growing wide.

But he just smiled, his face radiant, almost angelic, when he said, “Trust me, once you weave a dream, you’ll never want to dream jump again.”