A Life In Dreams: Chapter 4
This took a lot longer for me to write than I was expecting... mostly because it kept changing on me. Chapter 5 will bring about the resolution of this dream, and will bring things into sharper focus if all goes as planned...
Current Word Count: 9,149
Chapter 4
Wes stands under the vast canopy of a red maple, staring at the blood red leaves as the sun sets behind the hill in front of him. Cold pricks at his skin, eliciting goose bumps from bare skin, but it is the cold of the fall; not the bone-chilling breath of winter. He holds out his hand, and a star-like ball of light drifts down from the crown of the tree, its core glowing a soft green while its tips gleamed silver. It too is cold against his skin, the silver points of light pushing into his flesh like the blunt point of a needle. The pressure is not very strong, but it makes him wince. The star glows a muted pink, losing its luminescence as it solidifies into a ball. “What are you?” He asks, cupping it between his hands. It feels a bit like a warm pincushion.
It glows brightly and contracts, enveloping Wes and the tree in a transparent globe of green light. The boy suddenly feels weak and falls to his knees, his thin jeans barely protecting him from the frozen earth. Snow starts falling, small flakes with tints of green from the reflection cast by the shield. No snow falls within the shield, but Wes can feel the drop in temperature. He pulls the small star closer to his chest, trying to keep his body heat from escaping too much. The glowing star’s warmth helps a little, like a small fleece blanket between his chest and his knees.
Still, he can’t help but lean against the tree’s solid trunk, mesmerized by the scene. If Lee could see this… well, he’d love it. Wes considers drawing it when he wakes up, he could use it for his landscape assignment too.
He starts to close his eyes sleepily; then shakes himself awake again. Sleeping while in a dream may not be probable; but freezing to death was, especially if he stayed still for too long. To keep his mind occupied, he raises the star to his lips --though now it looks more like a luminescent bouncy-ball than anything else-- and blows on it gently. The shield of light flickers, and a gust of wind numbs his nose, fingers, and toes. “Sorry!” He apologizes, shivering violently. The light flickers once more as if to make a point, and then reestablishes the shield with a higher intensity of light. “Thank you.”
It didn’t hurt to be polite. It was keeping him safe after all.
The fading star glows dimly against his chest, and sends a wave of warmth into his body. Wes gets the impression of great age from the small object, and memories of old forests he never visited flow into him. Trees thicker than he’s ever seen stretch their roots in complex networks he feels more than visualizes; bark healthy and untouched by pocket knives and lovers’ initials; thick tendrils of lichens sway in a breeze he cannot feel; moss covers almost every inch of the forest floor; and the air… simply breathing makes him feel alive! He has never felt this energetic in his life! Even sugar highs weren’t this invigorating.
A gust of cold wind shatters the shield, sweeping the memories into the darkness of oubliette. Wes stands, sheltering the faltering star with his body. “Stop it!”
The wind, like its counterpart in the waking world, ignores his pleas. Actually, it only seems to get more powerful. It bites his cheeks and swipes at his clothes, passing through the fabric of his t-shirt as if it was full of holes -or simply not present. He stumbles backwards, slipping on the snow-covered roots of the maple tree and hits his head against the bark. “Shit!”
The wind howls gleefully, rushing at him again, forcing his body against the tree like a high velocity ride at the amusement park (one of the ones that spin so fast they make you stick to the walls). He struggles to breathe, head bowed as he turns to the side. The wind crushes his right arm between the trunk and his body, and he struggles to complete the turn so he’s facing the tree. Before the wind could grind his face into the bark, the falling star gives one last burst of pink light, repelling the wind and making the tree flare bright green.
Wes falls into the tree.
Crossing his arms keeps him from smashing his face against the floor on the other side of the tree, and he uses his momentum to roll a little to reduced damage to his body. He feels little creepers inspect his face as he stops to get his breath back, tendrils of leafy plants with a touch so smooth that it was like being stroked with silk… very relaxing all things considered. In his hands, the star goes cold and dark. “Hey, you okay?” He asks, knowing the answer in his gut but he hopes to be wrong. It does not respond.
Knowledge crushes his hope mercilessly.
He puts the fallen star into the left back pocket of his pants. It deserved better than to be tossed aside like a piece of junk. On his hands and knees, Wes crawls through the tunnel blindly, feeling creepers grab his hair with little hands. He almost falls into a patch of thick mud, with its soupy texture and numerous insects that glow like the green radioactive waste in cartoons; but pulls back in time, using a stray root to regain his balance. The stench of rot is almost overpowering.
Thwarted, the tunnel compresses behind him. “Come to us~ Let us feed on flesh! Flesh! Flesh! Flesh~!” The insects chorus, forming a three-pronged pattern that curved away from the centre, each prong spaced equally from each other to make the whole seem almost round. They spin, and the green blur makes Wes blink to try and clear the residual impression on his retina. Of course this doesn’t work, but it does give him a couple seconds to figure out how not to fall into the muck.
The tunnel suddenly becomes steep, the root snaps under his weight, and he slides towards the rotten area with no other barriers. He swears and grabs another root. It snaps almost immediately, but he uses the break in momentum to turn around so he’s sliding feet-first. He waits until the last moment and pushes off against the ground with his sneakers, sheltering his head with his hands. The momentum and the small jump carries him over most of the pit, and he accidentally kicks a small rock into the pile of muck as he lands. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the rock melt and the insects swarm around it, chanting “food! Food! Food!”
“Oh crap,” he whispers as some of the insects break away from the group and start crawling his way, still carrying the chant. “Crap! Ow!” He bumps his head on a flat rock hanging down, dislodging a bunch of slime. “Ew!!” He shakes himself and continues. There are more insect-voices now, and the earth beneath him seems to reverberate with their voices. “Why can’t I ever wake up from these stupid dreams?”
“Shit!” Pain flares from his kneecap as it smacks against a rock, but he ignores it. The creepers are tearing at his hair and sometimes he slips sometimes, the loose earth damp. “Let me the hell out of here!”
His dreams shifts and he is falling through the tunnel, like one of those underground slides movies are fond of using. He protects his neck and his face with his arms, screaming. Powerless.
He lands in a pool of shallow water in front of a hedge. Rubbing his butt with a grimace, he looks around. The puddle is surrounded by hedges and sunflowers; plants so tall he can only dimly see anything beyond the green stalks. Something groans beneath him and he jumps a little, moving to the side.
A used-looking bright pink sock glowers at him with golden button eyes, its fabric somewhat splotchy now that Wes forced it into the water. The buttons are oval-shaped, with bright purple circles at the centre. The boy is hardly colour-coordinated, his mother tells him so all the time, but he is slightly appalled by the sock. “Whash yous pwobwam mon? Fawin’ oudda da sky wikes sum crashy-fwang! Whosh yoush cawled?”
Wes stares. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yous pwobwam! Yoush a bweedin’ dawlt or wot? Stoopad-fwont.”
Wes decides he really does not want to know. The indignation in the sock’s voice makes him answer: “I fell through a tree. I didn’t mean to fall on you.”
“Yous bettwa nit bah puwin’ mah wool!” The sock declared, drawing itself to its full height. “I’sh da Head Honchoo o’ da Union, stoopad-fwont! Yous nit wanna mesh wid meh, y’’hearsh?”
Wes blinks and nods numbly, still trying to figure out what the heck the sock was saying. He fails miserably. Lee may speak gibberish sometimes, but at least he doesn’t mangle the words too badly- just the grammar.
“Gwoot.” The sock smirks, its ‘head’ -- the closed extremity of a sock puffed up to the size of a small tennis ball-- bobbing up and down. “Neow wesh gosh up! Da Queeny’s waishwin. Bad fwang, dat.”
The pool of water starts to bubble at Wes’ feet, and launches him and the sock into the air before he can react. He shrieks as the water propels him upwards as if he were as insignificant as a grain of sand, pounding him against his back and neck. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! OW!” The last is said as the water gives one last enthusiastic burst, propelling him seven more feet into the air. “Oh crap!”
He falls with a wordless scream. Beside him, the offensive sock is laughing itself silly. He closes his eyes and curls into a ball as best as he can.
“Sayssay!” The sock taunts.
“Shut up!”
“I’sh da Head Honchoo!”
“I don’t care!”
“Stoopad-fwant. Da Union-sh wots pwotwecdin’ yous!” The sock cackles, its fabric rippling from the top of its inflated head downwards.
“I have no idea what you’re saying!” Wes glares at the sock, spotting their destination in the process. “Oh crap!”
“Yous vocwabuawy suxsh.” The sock says haughtily, landing on the lily pad with grace… somehow.
Wes crashes into the lily pad, which bends precariously at the impact before snapping back into shape. He bounces forwards a foot, landing at the base of a large throne of rich purple soil. Or at least he believes it to be a throne. The only other things on the lily pad are nine carrots dressed --yes dressed, he rubs his eyes a couple times and they’re still-covered in red velvet sashes with pale wooden buttons binding them, with dark wooden helmets protecting the green tufts of foliage on their tops. They look at him menacingly, little bits of violet fuzz under their caps that seemed to pierce his flesh. Scared, Wes takes a step back.
Then he notices the Lady slipper looming over them all, a delicate-looking pink flower that now looks like it could swallow him whole in its silky curves and devour him. “Your highness?” He guesses, bowing.
“Lady Slippwah, da fwird.” The sock bobs its head respectfully, pointing its lower end towards Wes. “I hawf bwat da intwuda to yous.”
“YOU DARE ENTER MY REALM UNBIDDEN?” The Lady slipper’s voice is in his mind, a shrill voice that jabs his brain and makes his ears ring. “WHAT TOKEN DO YOU OFFER ME TO SPARE YOU FROM BEING FERTILIZER?”
“Token?” He asks weakly.
“YOU HAVE BROUGHT NO TOKEN DREAMER?”
“Falling inTo a Dream oF Me, buT why Not thinK of You?” A voice purrs from next to his ear. A small seahorse uncurls from where it floats behind him, its cattish eyes on Wes’. “Truth tO lIes. ThOught to Dream. WhAt dO You seAk here?”
“WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING, WORM?”
“Just a moment please, I’m thinking.”
“WORMS DON’T NEED TO THINK! BUT I AM GENEROUS. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO CONFER WITH THE UNION REPRESENTATIVE.”
“Thank you! I just want to wake up safely.” Wes tells the sea horse, watching in fascination as the seahorse goes from green to bright red, then to indigo. “Can you help me?”
“Is mIne A Price yOu Are wIlling To pAy?” The seahorse’s eyes narrow, and its fins grow into long skeletal fingers.
“That depends on the price.” He’s cautious now.
“I waNt Your stAr.”
The sock makes a muffled sound of protest, but no words emerge. Its button eyes stare at the seahorse in horror but Wes does not notice.
He is thinking. The seahorse’s voice may vary from high to low pitch like a cyclic voice-crack, but it seems intelligent and he can understand what it says. The Lady slipper designated the sock as his representative, but he couldn’t understand a thing it said earlier and that was unlikely to change.
But he has a feeling that the star in his back pocket is very, very important to his well-being. If he sells it to a lawyer (which he believes the seahorse to be), there will be consequences. He is quite sure that there will be negative consequences, if gut feelings count for anything.
He remembers a legend Kari told him and Lee four years ago when they were bugging her for a story, back when she had just started going out with Alicia. The woman had looked at the twins with her long-suffering expression (it lost its guilt-tripping effect a long time ago, but she still makes it when the twins are being particularly insistent), and motioned for them to sit on the floor in front of her.
-Alicia once commented on Kari’s habit of not touching the boys unless she absolutely had to, and Kari had just stayed silent. What was said afterwards when the twins were ushered out of the room must have satisfied their mother’s curiosity, because she never brought it up again-
“Seahorses may seem noble because the European notion of mounted knights leaked into fairy tales about aquatic heroes on the creatures; but they aren’t. A long time ago, when things still lived under water and didn’t dare go on land, the ancestors of seahorses may have been dignified, I don’t know. But somewhere along the line, things changed. They became thieves, digging into treasure chests with their skinny tails and picking locks with their delicate fingers. The eyes of a seahorse can see your weaknesses, and their smooth tongue will exploit them if you aren’t cautious.”
“But they look so cute!” The boys had protested.
“So do a lot of dangerous things. A lion cub would eat you if it could, but it’s cute.” Kari looked at them coldly. “Appearances mean nothing in this world. People may consider me to be an easy target because I’m a good-looking woman, but you two know better. Your mother, for all her goodness, can best a black belt if it comes to protecting you two.”
So Wes decides to follow his instincts. “I’m sorry, but I will not pay your price.”
The seahorse’s eyes flare a brilliant red and it disappears.
“Maybe you’re not that stupid after all.” He hears the sock mumble.
Current Word Count: 9,149
Chapter 4
Wes stands under the vast canopy of a red maple, staring at the blood red leaves as the sun sets behind the hill in front of him. Cold pricks at his skin, eliciting goose bumps from bare skin, but it is the cold of the fall; not the bone-chilling breath of winter. He holds out his hand, and a star-like ball of light drifts down from the crown of the tree, its core glowing a soft green while its tips gleamed silver. It too is cold against his skin, the silver points of light pushing into his flesh like the blunt point of a needle. The pressure is not very strong, but it makes him wince. The star glows a muted pink, losing its luminescence as it solidifies into a ball. “What are you?” He asks, cupping it between his hands. It feels a bit like a warm pincushion.
It glows brightly and contracts, enveloping Wes and the tree in a transparent globe of green light. The boy suddenly feels weak and falls to his knees, his thin jeans barely protecting him from the frozen earth. Snow starts falling, small flakes with tints of green from the reflection cast by the shield. No snow falls within the shield, but Wes can feel the drop in temperature. He pulls the small star closer to his chest, trying to keep his body heat from escaping too much. The glowing star’s warmth helps a little, like a small fleece blanket between his chest and his knees.
Still, he can’t help but lean against the tree’s solid trunk, mesmerized by the scene. If Lee could see this… well, he’d love it. Wes considers drawing it when he wakes up, he could use it for his landscape assignment too.
He starts to close his eyes sleepily; then shakes himself awake again. Sleeping while in a dream may not be probable; but freezing to death was, especially if he stayed still for too long. To keep his mind occupied, he raises the star to his lips --though now it looks more like a luminescent bouncy-ball than anything else-- and blows on it gently. The shield of light flickers, and a gust of wind numbs his nose, fingers, and toes. “Sorry!” He apologizes, shivering violently. The light flickers once more as if to make a point, and then reestablishes the shield with a higher intensity of light. “Thank you.”
It didn’t hurt to be polite. It was keeping him safe after all.
The fading star glows dimly against his chest, and sends a wave of warmth into his body. Wes gets the impression of great age from the small object, and memories of old forests he never visited flow into him. Trees thicker than he’s ever seen stretch their roots in complex networks he feels more than visualizes; bark healthy and untouched by pocket knives and lovers’ initials; thick tendrils of lichens sway in a breeze he cannot feel; moss covers almost every inch of the forest floor; and the air… simply breathing makes him feel alive! He has never felt this energetic in his life! Even sugar highs weren’t this invigorating.
A gust of cold wind shatters the shield, sweeping the memories into the darkness of oubliette. Wes stands, sheltering the faltering star with his body. “Stop it!”
The wind, like its counterpart in the waking world, ignores his pleas. Actually, it only seems to get more powerful. It bites his cheeks and swipes at his clothes, passing through the fabric of his t-shirt as if it was full of holes -or simply not present. He stumbles backwards, slipping on the snow-covered roots of the maple tree and hits his head against the bark. “Shit!”
The wind howls gleefully, rushing at him again, forcing his body against the tree like a high velocity ride at the amusement park (one of the ones that spin so fast they make you stick to the walls). He struggles to breathe, head bowed as he turns to the side. The wind crushes his right arm between the trunk and his body, and he struggles to complete the turn so he’s facing the tree. Before the wind could grind his face into the bark, the falling star gives one last burst of pink light, repelling the wind and making the tree flare bright green.
Wes falls into the tree.
Crossing his arms keeps him from smashing his face against the floor on the other side of the tree, and he uses his momentum to roll a little to reduced damage to his body. He feels little creepers inspect his face as he stops to get his breath back, tendrils of leafy plants with a touch so smooth that it was like being stroked with silk… very relaxing all things considered. In his hands, the star goes cold and dark. “Hey, you okay?” He asks, knowing the answer in his gut but he hopes to be wrong. It does not respond.
Knowledge crushes his hope mercilessly.
He puts the fallen star into the left back pocket of his pants. It deserved better than to be tossed aside like a piece of junk. On his hands and knees, Wes crawls through the tunnel blindly, feeling creepers grab his hair with little hands. He almost falls into a patch of thick mud, with its soupy texture and numerous insects that glow like the green radioactive waste in cartoons; but pulls back in time, using a stray root to regain his balance. The stench of rot is almost overpowering.
Thwarted, the tunnel compresses behind him. “Come to us~ Let us feed on flesh! Flesh! Flesh! Flesh~!” The insects chorus, forming a three-pronged pattern that curved away from the centre, each prong spaced equally from each other to make the whole seem almost round. They spin, and the green blur makes Wes blink to try and clear the residual impression on his retina. Of course this doesn’t work, but it does give him a couple seconds to figure out how not to fall into the muck.
The tunnel suddenly becomes steep, the root snaps under his weight, and he slides towards the rotten area with no other barriers. He swears and grabs another root. It snaps almost immediately, but he uses the break in momentum to turn around so he’s sliding feet-first. He waits until the last moment and pushes off against the ground with his sneakers, sheltering his head with his hands. The momentum and the small jump carries him over most of the pit, and he accidentally kicks a small rock into the pile of muck as he lands. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the rock melt and the insects swarm around it, chanting “food! Food! Food!”
“Oh crap,” he whispers as some of the insects break away from the group and start crawling his way, still carrying the chant. “Crap! Ow!” He bumps his head on a flat rock hanging down, dislodging a bunch of slime. “Ew!!” He shakes himself and continues. There are more insect-voices now, and the earth beneath him seems to reverberate with their voices. “Why can’t I ever wake up from these stupid dreams?”
“Shit!” Pain flares from his kneecap as it smacks against a rock, but he ignores it. The creepers are tearing at his hair and sometimes he slips sometimes, the loose earth damp. “Let me the hell out of here!”
His dreams shifts and he is falling through the tunnel, like one of those underground slides movies are fond of using. He protects his neck and his face with his arms, screaming. Powerless.
He lands in a pool of shallow water in front of a hedge. Rubbing his butt with a grimace, he looks around. The puddle is surrounded by hedges and sunflowers; plants so tall he can only dimly see anything beyond the green stalks. Something groans beneath him and he jumps a little, moving to the side.
A used-looking bright pink sock glowers at him with golden button eyes, its fabric somewhat splotchy now that Wes forced it into the water. The buttons are oval-shaped, with bright purple circles at the centre. The boy is hardly colour-coordinated, his mother tells him so all the time, but he is slightly appalled by the sock. “Whash yous pwobwam mon? Fawin’ oudda da sky wikes sum crashy-fwang! Whosh yoush cawled?”
Wes stares. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Yous pwobwam! Yoush a bweedin’ dawlt or wot? Stoopad-fwont.”
Wes decides he really does not want to know. The indignation in the sock’s voice makes him answer: “I fell through a tree. I didn’t mean to fall on you.”
“Yous bettwa nit bah puwin’ mah wool!” The sock declared, drawing itself to its full height. “I’sh da Head Honchoo o’ da Union, stoopad-fwont! Yous nit wanna mesh wid meh, y’’hearsh?”
Wes blinks and nods numbly, still trying to figure out what the heck the sock was saying. He fails miserably. Lee may speak gibberish sometimes, but at least he doesn’t mangle the words too badly- just the grammar.
“Gwoot.” The sock smirks, its ‘head’ -- the closed extremity of a sock puffed up to the size of a small tennis ball-- bobbing up and down. “Neow wesh gosh up! Da Queeny’s waishwin. Bad fwang, dat.”
The pool of water starts to bubble at Wes’ feet, and launches him and the sock into the air before he can react. He shrieks as the water propels him upwards as if he were as insignificant as a grain of sand, pounding him against his back and neck. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! OW!” The last is said as the water gives one last enthusiastic burst, propelling him seven more feet into the air. “Oh crap!”
He falls with a wordless scream. Beside him, the offensive sock is laughing itself silly. He closes his eyes and curls into a ball as best as he can.
“Sayssay!” The sock taunts.
“Shut up!”
“I’sh da Head Honchoo!”
“I don’t care!”
“Stoopad-fwant. Da Union-sh wots pwotwecdin’ yous!” The sock cackles, its fabric rippling from the top of its inflated head downwards.
“I have no idea what you’re saying!” Wes glares at the sock, spotting their destination in the process. “Oh crap!”
“Yous vocwabuawy suxsh.” The sock says haughtily, landing on the lily pad with grace… somehow.
Wes crashes into the lily pad, which bends precariously at the impact before snapping back into shape. He bounces forwards a foot, landing at the base of a large throne of rich purple soil. Or at least he believes it to be a throne. The only other things on the lily pad are nine carrots dressed --yes dressed, he rubs his eyes a couple times and they’re still-covered in red velvet sashes with pale wooden buttons binding them, with dark wooden helmets protecting the green tufts of foliage on their tops. They look at him menacingly, little bits of violet fuzz under their caps that seemed to pierce his flesh. Scared, Wes takes a step back.
Then he notices the Lady slipper looming over them all, a delicate-looking pink flower that now looks like it could swallow him whole in its silky curves and devour him. “Your highness?” He guesses, bowing.
“Lady Slippwah, da fwird.” The sock bobs its head respectfully, pointing its lower end towards Wes. “I hawf bwat da intwuda to yous.”
“YOU DARE ENTER MY REALM UNBIDDEN?” The Lady slipper’s voice is in his mind, a shrill voice that jabs his brain and makes his ears ring. “WHAT TOKEN DO YOU OFFER ME TO SPARE YOU FROM BEING FERTILIZER?”
“Token?” He asks weakly.
“YOU HAVE BROUGHT NO TOKEN DREAMER?”
“Falling inTo a Dream oF Me, buT why Not thinK of You?” A voice purrs from next to his ear. A small seahorse uncurls from where it floats behind him, its cattish eyes on Wes’. “Truth tO lIes. ThOught to Dream. WhAt dO You seAk here?”
“WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING, WORM?”
“Just a moment please, I’m thinking.”
“WORMS DON’T NEED TO THINK! BUT I AM GENEROUS. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO CONFER WITH THE UNION REPRESENTATIVE.”
“Thank you! I just want to wake up safely.” Wes tells the sea horse, watching in fascination as the seahorse goes from green to bright red, then to indigo. “Can you help me?”
“Is mIne A Price yOu Are wIlling To pAy?” The seahorse’s eyes narrow, and its fins grow into long skeletal fingers.
“That depends on the price.” He’s cautious now.
“I waNt Your stAr.”
The sock makes a muffled sound of protest, but no words emerge. Its button eyes stare at the seahorse in horror but Wes does not notice.
He is thinking. The seahorse’s voice may vary from high to low pitch like a cyclic voice-crack, but it seems intelligent and he can understand what it says. The Lady slipper designated the sock as his representative, but he couldn’t understand a thing it said earlier and that was unlikely to change.
But he has a feeling that the star in his back pocket is very, very important to his well-being. If he sells it to a lawyer (which he believes the seahorse to be), there will be consequences. He is quite sure that there will be negative consequences, if gut feelings count for anything.
He remembers a legend Kari told him and Lee four years ago when they were bugging her for a story, back when she had just started going out with Alicia. The woman had looked at the twins with her long-suffering expression (it lost its guilt-tripping effect a long time ago, but she still makes it when the twins are being particularly insistent), and motioned for them to sit on the floor in front of her.
-Alicia once commented on Kari’s habit of not touching the boys unless she absolutely had to, and Kari had just stayed silent. What was said afterwards when the twins were ushered out of the room must have satisfied their mother’s curiosity, because she never brought it up again-
“Seahorses may seem noble because the European notion of mounted knights leaked into fairy tales about aquatic heroes on the creatures; but they aren’t. A long time ago, when things still lived under water and didn’t dare go on land, the ancestors of seahorses may have been dignified, I don’t know. But somewhere along the line, things changed. They became thieves, digging into treasure chests with their skinny tails and picking locks with their delicate fingers. The eyes of a seahorse can see your weaknesses, and their smooth tongue will exploit them if you aren’t cautious.”
“But they look so cute!” The boys had protested.
“So do a lot of dangerous things. A lion cub would eat you if it could, but it’s cute.” Kari looked at them coldly. “Appearances mean nothing in this world. People may consider me to be an easy target because I’m a good-looking woman, but you two know better. Your mother, for all her goodness, can best a black belt if it comes to protecting you two.”
So Wes decides to follow his instincts. “I’m sorry, but I will not pay your price.”
The seahorse’s eyes flare a brilliant red and it disappears.
“Maybe you’re not that stupid after all.” He hears the sock mumble.