"Napping," Olivia said. "He spent the night worrying about his first day at school—didn't get a lick of sleep."
Mike grumbled thoughtfully, stalked around the house, peering outside. "So how was Galadriel?"
"She was resting peacefully when we left," Olivia replied.
"Humph," Mike said. He mused for a moment, wondering what could have happened to the girl, but when he didn't come up with any new insights, he went into the living room and turned on a DVD of Braveheart. The storm raged outside.
Olivia finished dinner, then peeked into Bron's room.
He was lying in bed, face to the wall. It was the same pose that Galadriel had in the hospital. Olivia tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but she worried: Was this normal for a dream assassin? Would he get weary each time he used his powers, or had he given the girl too much?
And what was with the violet lights when he transferred? Other masaak gave off lights—pale blue, yellow, citrine, or even scarlet flames—but she'd never heard of anyone giving off violet flashes. It had been centuries since the world had seen a dream assassin, and she wondered if those colors only came to people like Bron.
She went back to the kitchen and puttered about the house until she realized that she was too worried about Bron to let him sleep anymore.
She cooked the fries and made up a hamburger, adding tomatoes and relish, ketchup and lettuce. She wondered if Bron would like it. Would he have preferred vegetable soup to fries? Would he have rather had peanut butter sandwiches than a hamburger?
I hardly know this boy, she realized. She loaded the plate, grabbed a cup of milk, and took it to his room.
Bron hadn't moved.
She went to his bed, sat on the edge, and poked him awake.
He rubbed his eyes and looked up. "What's going on?" he asked. He sounded concerned.
"It's time for dinner."
Bleary-eyed, he gazed at the food blankly. "Not hungry." He turned over to go back to sleep.
She grabbed his shoulder and pulled his face so that he looked toward her. "Bron, this is important: do you like hamburgers?"
He raised a brow, as if that was the strangest question in the world. "Yeah."
"Then," she begged, "eat this before it gets cold."
Bron sat up sleepily and began to eat.
"Are you really that tired?" she demanded.
"I'm sorry. I'll wake up in a bit."
She mussed his hair, went into the kitchen, and peered out the window. Summer storms in Utah usually didn't last long, dropping half an inch of rain in an hour or two, then passing on. This one looked as if it would hang around for a bit. There were nice puddles out in the driveway, and scattered droplets ruffled the puddles' surfaces. Gray skies loomed, and though the thunder had quieted, it grumbled in far places.
Olivia went to her cell phone, pulled Marie Mercer's number from her contact list, and punched in a call. Marie answered.
"Hi," Olivia said. "Sorry to disturb you. I was just worrying about Galadriel?"
"She's doing spectacular!" There were smiles in Marie's voice, but Marie was the kind of person who liked to hide bad news. Her family was always doing "wonderfully." She could have been standing in the driveway with a bear trap on her leg, and she'd have said that she felt wonderful.
"So she's awake now, and talking?" Olivia prodded.
"Oh, it's a miracle!" Marie exclaimed. "I've never seen her so effusive! She really wanted to thank Bron for that rose; it's so beautiful. The doctor was just here. He said he's never seen anything like it. He's thinking about releasing her."
There was such excitement in Marie's voice that Olivia was tempted to just hang up on her. After the day that Olivia had just had, no one deserved to be so happy. She asked, "So what's Galadriel talking about?"
"Oh, you know, the usual—her plans for school this year, and for college, that kind of thing. We were just discussing the kind of man that she wanted to marry," Marie said, then added to Galadriel, "weren't we dear?"
Olivia graciously said goodbye and then clicked the phone off with unaccustomed zeal.
Damn that Galadriel, she thought, planning out her life like that.
Olivia peered into the living room. Mike was asleep in his La-Z-Boy, arms hanging over the edge like a gorilla's.
Olivia worried. She went to Bron's room, found him lying in bed, blinking stupidly. The half-eaten burger was languishing on its plate. A couple of fries were gone. He'd taken less than a swallow of milk.
"Get out of bed," she warned.
"I'm up now," he apologized. He climbed to the edge of the bed and sat.
She knelt in front of him, took his hands and stared into his eyes. "I just spoke to Galadriel's mother. She's planning for college, and dreaming of the kind of man she hopes to marry."
"Really?" Bron asked.
"That girl has never planned anything in her life," Olivia said. "A rabbit plans its day better—eat, poop, sleep!"
"So you're saying it worked?"
"I'm saying ..." Olivia gripped his hands tighter, "I'm worried that you gave her more than you took. She's in the hospital setting her life goals, and you can't get out of bed. If you don't wake up soon, I'm going to take you back and have you drain a little of the foam off the top."
Bron frowned. "I couldn't do that...."
Olivia studied his eyes. He was serious. He didn't want to have to deal with his powers. She felt relieved by that. He wasn't likely to use them against others, if that was how he felt.
"Sure you could. Just to even things out."
Bron furrowed his brow. Olivia breathed a little easier. Bron's powers were dangerous. If he ever got angry enough, he could drain her without a thought. "I'll be all right," Bron assured her, and got up.
Olivia watched. It seemed he was moving a little easier, but he was strained. She let it go.
By 8:30 p.m. the clouds were fleeing. Sunset brought red and purple ribbons of light above the bowl of the shadowed vale. Olivia got a call on her cell.
"Olivia, this is Monique," the speaker said. "Fill me in."
This was the call that Olivia had been waiting for. Monique was the Weigher of Lost Souls. Olivia had known her in college. Monique had taught Olivia to speak a couple of foreign tongues. Olivia slipped into French, using a dialect that had been popular during the Third Crusade. "J'ai un probleme."I have a problem.
"What kind of problem?" Monique asked guardedly. Neither of them liked talking over the phones.
"I took in a young man from social services. He's a dream assassin." There was a silence on the end of the phone, probably while Monique tried to pick her jaw up off the floor. "Are you certain?"
"Oh, yeah."
"It's been six hundred years since we've seen one," Monique said. "Does the enemy know that you have him?"
"This kid has never even heard of the enemy."
"Don't tell him," Monique said. "It could be dangerous. If he was born one of them, with a little shove ... If he knew what they offer, he might be tempted." Monique held silent as she considered what to do next. "The best thing might be to kill him in his sleep. That's what our ancestors did to the last one."
"He's just a kid," Olivia said. "We may both be soldiers in an eternal war, but neither of us has ever shed a drop of blood."
"There is wisdom in the old ways. I could send someone to do it for you. A real dream assassin, in today's world? I thought that there would never be another." Monique considered, and offered, "Every minute that you're around him, you're in danger. Even if you're not in danger from him, the danger grows. The enemy will come. It is only a matter of time."
"I know," Olivia agreed. "We had contact with five over the weekend. I'm afraid. I only hope to prepare Bron for our next encounter, before it is too late."