Lair of Dreams
Page 18

Above him, the ceiling winked with a soft phosphorescence. The shivery coolness was an unwelcome surprise, though. And there were sounds—low growls and scratchings that gave him pause. He glanced back through the open door at the sliver of sunshine he’d left behind, then pressed on, walking deeper into darkness.
“Lee Fan?” he called.
No answer.
Shadows moved across George’s hands, and he looked up toward the flickering ceiling.
No, not flickering.
Moving.
The low growls he’d heard swelled into a bone-chilling chorus, and George had only one thought: Wake up NOW. He ran back toward the hazy circle of daylight. Back to where everything was good. But every time he got close, the sunlight drew farther away.
At last, George pushed free, tumbling down onto the lawn. The summer grass had gone brittle; it twisted with snakes. The champagne fountain ran red with blood. The half-dressed girls slurped up handfuls of the stuff, and when they opened their rotting mouths, they had teeth as sharp as a razor’s edge. “More!” they cried. “More!”
“Promise…” the dream demanded.
“Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up,” George whispered to himself. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter; the dream pushed further and further into his mind until his head was filled with the most terrible images: demons eating his entrails, tearing at his neck with their teeth. He couldn’t take another second.
“I promise!” he cried, opening his eyes again.
There was a sharp prick of pain, then an icy cold spreading through him. Far off, Lee Fan waved to him. He could not reach her. He would never reach her.
His lips opened to let out one last cry for help.
But it never came.
The dull gray morning parceled out a meager portion of winter sun to the immigrant neighborhoods of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Merchants rolled up window shades for another day of business. Tailors who’d escaped pogroms in the Pale readied their sewing machines on Ludlow and Hester Streets while steam rose from the basement grates of the Chinese-run laundries lining Pell and Bayard. The Italian bakeries on Mulberry Street stocked their front windows with golden loaves of bread; the yeast scented the winter air, mixing with the savory tang of chow fan, the tart brine from the pickle barrels, and the cinnamon sweetness of rugelach, a true melting pot of smells. Wind whipped over synagogues, churches, and temples and clanged through the zigzag of metal fire escapes, but it was no competition for the rumble and squeal of the Third Avenue El on the Bowery, the towering dividing line between the Lower East Side and the rest of New York City.
From her bed, Ling peered out at the gray-wool clouds threatening to muzzle the paltry sun above Chinatown and made a growl of contempt low in her throat, as if the winter sky were out to get her personally. Fiery spasms rippled across the nerve endings of her legs, and Ling bit down against the pain just as her mother’s voice sounded on the other side of the door: “Rise and shine, Ling!”
Her mother poked her freckled face in, frowning. “You’re not even dressed, my girl. What’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, Mama,” Ling managed to say.
“Here. Let me help you.”
“I can do it,” Ling said, trying to conceal both her pain and her irritation.
Her mother hovered in the doorway. “I laid out your slip and dress for you last night. And the wool stockings—it’s terrible cold out.”
Ling flicked her eyes toward the end of the bed. Her mother had chosen the peach dress Ling hated, the one that made her look like a sad fruit salad. “Thank you, Mama.”
“Well,” her mother said at last, “don’t dally. Breakfast will get cold, and I won’t be hearing a word about that.”
Only when the door had closed did Ling let out the grunt she’d held back as the tightness loosened its grip on her legs. She lay in bed a moment longer, mulling over last night’s strange dream walk. She’d never met anyone else who could do what she could, which was how she liked it. Her nighttime wanderings were private. Sacred. But that spark…
Ling sat up. With a sigh, she reached for the metal braces propped against her nightstand and slid them on over the useless muscles of her calves, cinching the buckles of the leather straps just below and above her knees. Using both hands, she swung her caged legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her crutches, and shuffled stiffly to her cupboard, tugging on a dark blue dress that didn’t make her feel as if she were an item on a summer picnic table. She tied the laces on her black orthopedic shoes. In the mirror, Ling took a last look at herself. What she saw was metal, buckles, and ugly black shoes.