Road to Anywhere

Dreamweaver

Round 5.1 prompt from Multigenre Mashup Flash Fiction Smackdown, October 2023: Write a story with a strong female lead, qualify as mystery genre, and include a twist.

Word count = 2968

Society reviled my kind as abominations. Perhaps we were. But those who eagerly sought my services usually did so in secret places, and not in a grand mansion like this.

Following a stiff-walking butler wearing a dark, long-tailed suit, the Broker pulled me along faster than my weak legs could go. When swirling dizziness overcame me, I stumbled, and would have fallen if not for the painfully tight grip on my arm.

"Hurry," he whispered, snarling. "This is an important client."

Regaining composure, I yanked my arm from my grasp. "Let go of me," I hissed.

A vindictive sneer crossed his wide, stubbled face, and he drew a massive hand back to slap me, but relented with a huff. I stood tall and glared in return, knowing he wouldn't mark my face. Not now before meeting the client. Maybe later.

The butler led us along shiny marble-floored halls into a library, then with a bow, closed tall oaken doors behind us. A flickering fireplace provided faint illumination of fine art lining the walls and shelves of actual books that I would have loved to peruse. Two high-back leather chairs faced away from us toward the fire's warmth.

Because of the client's importance, the Broker dressed up in a black suit. But it was a size too small, and his rotund belly stressed the buttons nearly to breaking point. A fashionista, he was not.

But I was little better, wearing a simple white dress that hung loosely over my gaunt body. Makeup couldn't hide the dark eye circles, nor improve my hollowed cheeks. My thinned and prematurely white hair had long since been cut to a buzz. Once I was beautiful, I supposed, but Dreaming took its toll.

"Is this the Dreamweaver?" came a baritone voice from one chair.

"Yes, my lord," the Broker replied. "She is the very best. I'm sure--"

"Leave us."

"But sir--"

"I am paying an enormous sum for her extended services," the voice spat, "not yours."

The Broker glared at me beneath dark bushy eyebrows as he turned to leave, and I knew what his piercing eyes said. Failure to please the client, thus risking a sizable profit, would bring punishment.

A century ago, the Soul Plagues brought humanity to its knees, and from what remained, warlords and aristocratic feudal states rose to power. But also, the virus created Dreamweavers, a select few with the ability to enter and manipulate dreams. The powerful feared us, enacting tight controls that made us little more than slaves.

Despite the surrounding opulence, I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be property of the Broker. And I didn't want to be a Dreamweaver. But one couldn't choose their worldly circumstances, only how they responded to them — I clung fiercely to that little bit of freedom.

"Come closer, weaver," the voice called.

I limped into view. Custom required bowing before a lord, but I stood tall and glared. "My lord," I said plainly, with no hint of expected reverence.

Seated before me, wearing a fine silk robe, was Lord Aleyn, the patriarch of the Levi Clan, and one of the most powerful men on Earth. The hazel eyes that glared back at me projected confidence that bordered on intimidation. But a hint of mirth grew on his wrinkled face. "You loathe me, weaver?"