“No! Not yet!” Henry cried, but it was too late. The last thing he saw was the girl dream walker’s bright green eyes, and then he woke to the clang of his alarm clock as it tumbled from the windowsill and landed on the floor with a clatter. On the table, the metronome ticked away. His watch showed one minute till four. He’d been under for fifty-nine minutes.
“Horsefeathers, Henry!” Theta marched into the room with her sleep mask pushed up over her short dark bangs and shut off the alarm.
“S-sorry, Theta.”
Sighing, Theta silenced the metronome. “You went looking again?”
“Theta, I think I found him.”
“You did? Oh, Hen!” Theta covered the shivering Henry with a blanket and pulled a chair for herself next to his. “Go on. Spill.”
Henry told Theta about hearing Louis’s fiddle. “Maybe he’s trying to find me, too.”
“Gee, that’s swell news. Hen,” Theta said, sounding worried, “can you move yet?”
For at least five minutes after a dream walk, Henry remained paralyzed, as if his body were still in that other world. With effort, he lifted his arm a fraction, wincing as he worked movement back into the muscles. “See? Good as new.”
“You know it scares me when you do this. What if one time you can’t move? What if you don’t come back?”
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I don’t overdo it.”
“Only one night a week,” Theta reminded him. “Only for an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said. “I haven’t even told you the strangest part: I wasn’t the only one walking around tonight.”
“There’s somebody else like you?”
“Yes! A girl. When she showed up, I heard the song. Maybe she knows something about Louis. Maybe she can help me find him, Theta.”
“Well, did you get anything from her? A name?”
“No,” Henry said mournfully. “But it’s the first bit of luck I’ve had.”
“We’d better get some sleep or we’ll be dragging through rehearsal tomorrow.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Florenz Ziegfeld presents: Hocus-Pocus Hotcha! An all-new Diviners revue filled with magic and mysticism in song and dance!”
“So it’s a lousy show. We’ll make it better. It’s the one that’s gonna take us to the top, kid.”
“Take you to the top, you mean. You’re the one Flo’s grooming to be a star.”
“We’re a team. You take one, you gotta take the other.”
“Who’s my best girl?” Henry asked.
“I am. And don’t you forget it.”
Theta let out a long sigh and snuggled next to her best friend, resting her head on his chest. Her sleek dark bob still smelled like cigarette smoke. “Maybe we’re all going crazy.”
“Maybe.” Henry kissed the top of Theta’s head, and she put her arm across his stomach.
“Hen?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“Can I sleep in your bed with you?”
“If you can get me there.”
Theta helped Henry to his feet and then to his room, where the two of them fell asleep side by side, arms entwined like two halves of the same whole.
In his dream, George Huang stood under the hazy sun at a late-afternoon party wearing a cream-colored suit and a striped silk shirt with fancy French cuffs of the sort he’d stared at in shop windows where they didn’t welcome people like him. The bright, fast rhythms of a jazz band echoed through the dream. Up on the hill, a sprawling white house loomed, casting sharp blades of shadow across the summer-green lawn.
George smiled, ecstatic. His good dream! Somehow, he’d made it back here.
Men nodded solemnly as George walked by. He was important here. Respected. Photographers took his picture for the papers. As George smiled and posed, he saw the boys who’d bullied him and the customers who ordered him around as if he were barely human huddled together on the other side of a tall picket fence, watching, envying. George raised his champagne glass. How do you like me now? he thought.
“Georgie! Over here! Hey!” Several pretty girls waved to him as they peeled off their stockings and jumped into a champagne fountain, giggling and splashing with abandon. George threw his head back and laughed. Oh, this was the best dream in the world! He never wanted to wake up.
On the edge of the lawn, Lee Fan appeared wearing a red cheongsam, the wind whipping her hair across her rouged cheeks.
“Dream with me…” she whispered. She turned and walked inside the tall white house.
That whisper ignited a new fire in George. He’d never wanted anyone or anything so desperately. His ancestors shimmered on the edges of the party like images fading from a photograph. Some of them seemed to be reaching out, as if they could grab hold of him, as if they wanted to tell him something important, but George didn’t want to lose sight of his dream. So he raced ahead, leaving them behind. He ran past the fountain, where the dripping girls eyed him hungrily. Their voices swirled, a seductive, whispering chorus: “Dream with us, dream with us, us, us, the dream wants you wants you wants you to dream to dream to dream with us.”
Lee Fan stood just inside the darkened doorway of the house in her red dress. She waved her arm, and behind her the dark lit up like a movie screen, showing a film in which the two of them danced close while an orchestra played and a girl singer crooned, “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me. Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.…”
On-screen, Lee Fan angled her face toward George’s for a kiss, and his heart fluttered. But just before the actual kiss, it all went dark again, like a nickelodeon cutting out at the good part so you’d keep putting in nickels. In the doorway, Lee Fan crooked a finger, beckoning George as she backed in, letting the gloom swallow her whole. Everything George wanted was waiting there in the dark, so he went inside.
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.