1 | The Terrible Dreamer

Chapter 13

WISH

God, I hate Monday's. My body finally feels rested after spending all day in my bed on Sunday and sleeping to my hearts content, but my head still isn't screwed on right. It has to be the Monday blues. Any lectures before 10 a.m. should be illegal in the state of Kansas, if not the whole country. How do they expect my brain to function right so damn early in the morning?

I sigh, picking my hoverboard up and opening the door to the auditorium. My first class of the week starts off with Human Resources Management, a course that I will never use in my lifetime as long as I work for my family's business. We are the Human Resource Department, as well as, the Accountant, the Worker, and the Custodians. The only time we need man-power, for an unruly client, we call the Main House security to take the trash out.

Almost half of my classes are useless, but it's a requirement for my degree. College is a back-up plan. If things fall apart with our family business and the world ended tomorrow, I'd at least have a college degree to fall back on. Or so Mom says.

I walk up the stairs and plop down in my usual seat near the back, middle row, the perfect place to observe everyone and keep an eye out for trouble. It's a trait I learned from training as a dreamwalker with Kusanagi Sensei. Always keep your guard up out in public. You never know when an enemy is lurking. I'm not expecting someone to pop out in the middle of my morning class, but ever since I went to Akane, I can't stop thinking about Vear.

When I'm not sleeping, my mind replays the events over and over again, ruminating on what I could've done different, what mistakes I made along the way. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. He can't reach me here. Vear's trapped back on Akane.

But there's an itch at the back of my mind that won't stop.

More students enter the auditorium, gradually setting up their laptops, while a few mingle and drink their morning coffee. Like Monday's, I also hate coffee. No matter how many sweets and sugar you add to the drink, the bitter taste will always be there like a haunting memory. Even the smell turns me off... it only reminds me of Dad.

He loved coffee.

"Oh my god! Did you hear?" A girl sits down next to her friend sitting in the row in front of me. I believe her name is Cathy with a C, not short for Catherine. "A student in this class was murdered in Kansas City this weekend."

Abigail gasps, her manicured nails covering her open mouth. "Kansas or Missouri?"

Cathy smirks and says Missouri, pronouncing it more like misery, because our hate will never seize after Quantrill's Raid.

"I think Brad said his name was Don?" Leaning closer to her friend, Cathy whispers not so quietly, "He said it was pretty bloody. That a cult might be involved. There were these crazy markings on the wall—"

"Stop, I don't want to hear anymore." Abigail scrunches up her nose. "I still can't believe you're sleeping with that cop."

Cathy twirls a lock of hair from her perfectly curled waves. "Not for long. Richie just messaged me last night and..."

I tune them out and unlock my phone. I don't remember a Don in our class, but there is a Dan. He usually sits alone, always hiding his phone under the what little desk we're given, always looking at pictures of women. Pervert, the best word to describe him. Once in a while, he'd sit by me, asking to borrow a pen. Not that he ever writes anything useful down. He's always doodling in his notebook.

After a quick search, local articles pop up, describing the scene as 'blood bath' and 'cult awakening', glorifying the actual murder to make a profit. Pictures from random passerby's are already posted on the web, a few blurry from when the cops move them along and cover the body with a tarp, except for one, taken by a traveling journalist. It's sharp, the details clear enough that when I zoom in closer to the body, I can make out the writing on the wall.