Page 129 of The Diamond in the Rough

It wasn’t the same, of course. He wasn’t in any physical danger, not like I had been. But in his fear, he’d reached for me.

I couldn’t help hoping that it meant something.

I began to walk, the path I was following twisting and overgrown—tree limbs and brambles fallen across the path, thorns tugging at the fabric of the simple dark grey pants my dream self was wearing.

I always wore monochrome in dreams. Greys or blacks or whites. Never color. I had no idea why.

I didn’t know how to find him. But I knew he’d tried to findme, so I owed it to him to look.

I could still feel his fear, those little fingers pulling at me, trying to get at me. Trying to draw me to where he was.

I kept walking, despite the fact that it felt like I’d been traveling for hours, although it couldn’t have been. I swore I’d seen the same crumbled pieces of wall, or the same broken, unidentifiable statue, or the same twisted vine… but in a different configuration or next to a different tree stump or patch of gravel.

It was a labyrinth. A maze created to spin the walker in circles. To keep me away from where I wanted to go.

I paused.

Then I held out my hands and pushed at the vines—not physically, but with power. I’m a dreamwalker—controlling dreams is part of my magic.

I’d just always only ever controlled mine.

I’d always pulled others into my dreams.

But just because this wasn’t mine didn’t mean that I lost the ability to control it.

So I pushed and shifted, forcing the overgrown foliage to make a path that went the way I wanted to go.

I found him wrapped in brambles and briars, tangled so that, despite his strength, he’d only managed to knot himself even tighter with every attempt to break free.

I unwove the complicated knot that kept him trapped, exposing exquisite orange fur striped with black, the white on hisbelly stained with mud, the pattern of his coat vivid in the dullness of the rest of the dreamworld.

I stroked his fur, and those great golden eyes opened, staring, studying, assessing.

“It’s really me,” I whispered.

He stared up at me, disbelieving. In pain. Afraid.

“I’ll prove it,” I said softly. “Wake up.”

I opened my eyes,wiping at the moisture that leaked from their corners from where I lay on the mattress. I sniffed, then sat up, rubbing at them with weak fists.

On the small box that served as my nightstand, the screen of my phone lit up.

A text message from Raj.

Was that really you?

I debated answering, then sighed and picked up the phone.

Yes.

Dots formed at the bottom of the screen. Then,Thank you.

27

He needed more.Now. Didn’t care how he got it, but he needed it.

But Skim said he wasn’t giving no more hold-overs or freebies.