Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(25)

I’d died once in real life—but as long as I was up on that stage, I’d die many more times, in much worse ways.

And the worst part was, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing I could do to make it go away.

All I could do was go with it.

Blend in.

Act my little heart out and let the dreamer decide when to say when.

So completely terrified by the circum-stances, it took me a while to realize there was no actual dreamer.

The last five scenes had starred only me.

But no matter how hard I screamed—no matter how hard I fought to break character, to “wake up”—no matter how much I risked Satchel’s good opinion of me—it didn’t do the least bit of good.

The nightmares continued to loop.

The projector continued to whir.

And each new scene I was thrust into was far worse than the one that went before.

I was trapped.

Stuck in an eternal dance.

Living the never-ending story of all the worst nightmares known to man.

17

Whatever hold Satchel had held over me was long gone. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted—controlling me was no longer necessary.

I was stranded.

Alone.

Trapped in the web of his horrifying dreamweave. The irony being that with my free will fully restored, I had no way to exer-cise it. No way to release myself.

I was a prisoner. Completely dependent on whatever shred of mercy Satchel might’ve had. Though I knew, way down in the deepest part of me, that any hope of mercy was futile.

The place where Satchel’s mercy might’ve lived was as bleak as the place I’d found myself in.

Though there was no denying I alone was to blame.

I’d ignored my better instincts—just pushed them aside so I could go after my own selfish pursuits. Unwilling to play by the rules, unwilling to wait for my turn, I’d shunned everything I’d been told and ran full speed ahead toward my own goals, my own plans, determined to do it my own way. And I’m sad to admit it wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing.

Far from it.

While my only real goal had been to find a quick and easy way to progress myself into being thirteen—in the end, the only thing I’d accomplished was turning myself into the opposite—a scared little kid.

From the moment I’d taken Satchel’s hand—from the moment my palm pressed against his, I’d not only sealed our deal—but also my fate.

Without even knowing it, I’d allowed Satchel to take charge of my destiny.

The bad dreams continued, and it wasn’t long before I found myself caught in the all-too-familiar “falling nightmare”—tumbling through a deep, dark abyss—body flailing, spiraling through an infinite pool of bottom-less blackness. And I couldn’t decide which was worse—my having tried so hard to please him, to garner his approval, as I’d done from the start—or my having to face the sudden realization that I was stuck—undeniably aware of the big bad mess I’d put myself in.

I shut my eyes, folded my arms across my chest, and vowed to stop fighting—to just allow it to happen no matter what came my way. In my job as a Soul Catcher I’d dealt with menacing ghost boys before, and I knew the kind of scaredy-cat behavior I’d been displaying only made things worse—only fueled their fun.

For whatever reason, Satchel, just like the others before him, got some kind of sick thrill by scaring people—anyone and everyone from those poor, vulnerable sleepers to me.

Fear.

That’s what this whole thing was about.

Satchel was driven by fear, and he was determined to make me fearful too.

The best way to end it, the best way to suck the wind right out of his sails, was to refuse to take part. I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long for him to bore with his game.

I stuck to my guns—no matter what sort of monster he chose to menace me with—I just kept my eyes closed, kept my arms folded, and refused to take part. And, after a while, after a long while, much longer than I’d hoped for, he stopped.

He

stopped

the

projector,

stopped

everything, until I found myself alone on the stage, strangely enough still right on my mark, as he stood before me, a dark, ominous glare taking over his face.

And when he flipped on the overhead lights, well, that’s when I saw it.

That’s when I was finally able to pinpoint just exactly what it was I found so weird about him.

He had no glow.

No glow at all.

In fact, not only was his glow missing—it was much worse than that.

The space all around him, the place where the glow should’ve been, was a complete absence of light—resulting in a murky, dark haze that hovered around him.

I coiled back in fear. Then seeing the way that murky, dark haze began to expand and flare as a result, I grabbed ahold of myself.

My fear was exactly what drove him. And if I wanted to get through this, I’d have to refuse to react to whatever came next—just like I’d done with the last several nightmares I’d been cast in.

I clutched my hands on my hips, looked at him, and said, “So, Satchel, what’s your deal?

What’s with all the nightmares? This how you get your kicks—scaring the beejeemums out of innocent, sleeping kids?” He glared at me, blue eyes raging. “You think you know everything!” he shouted.