The Resonant Hunt: The Dream Defenders, #4

By Neal DenHartog

Nolan Erling has no recollection of the dream world or the organization that governs it.

 

Following the events at the Spring of Souls, the DREAM Institute has carried out Nolan's punishment, wiping his mind and exiling him to a mundane life in the Midwest. But the world of slumber isn't done with him yet, and Nolan is thrust back into the Dreamstream when a strange girl invades his dreams-and his life-insistent his head has been tampered with.

 

With multiple parties vying for his attention, it becomes evident he knows-or knew-something important, and there are those who will stop at nothing to recover what was once in his head.

 

The road to reclaiming his missing memories is fraught with danger, and along the way Nolan discovers his lost knowledge may hold the key to protecting the delicate barrier between the real world and the dream world from those who wish to tear it down.

 

But knowledge can be a dangerous thing, even more so in the wrong hands. Can Nolan separate friend from foe and restore what was taken from him in time to prevent irreparable damage to both the dream world and real world alike?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neal DenHartog
• Release date: Aug 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733839679

Book preview

Dedication:

To all the readers who keep coming back to this crazy world I dreamt up

Chapter One: Toupees and Titrations

Nolan knew he must be dreaming when he witnessed his chemistry lab partner turn her Bunsen burner into a flamethrower and use it to incinerate their teacher’s toupee. By all rights, Mr. Brodell’s fake collection of all-too-straight black hair wasn’t fooling anyone, and the rug was so hideous it probably deserved to be burned, but the size of the fireball that engulfed his head should have done far more damage than it actually did. Instead, Mr. Brodell continued his lecture as if nothing had happened, his pink, wrinkly features now reminding Nolan of one of those freaky-looking hairless cats.

See? Told you he wouldn’t even notice. Nolan’s partner held her arms crossed, a smug smile creasing her lips as she raised an eyebrow at him.

He bit his cheek, still somewhat disturbed at the girl’s actions. Despite Natalie’s assurances Mr. Brodell would survive the blaze, seeing her turn the makeshift weapon on their teacher had been quite shocking.

His lingering frown prompted her to playfully dig an elbow into his side. Oh, come on. There’s no reason to be alarmed. He’s fine. We’re dreaming. We can do all kinds of crazy things we aren’t allowed to do in the real world.

Just because you can, does that mean you should? Nolan wondered to himself. They might be dreaming, and there might not be consequences, but they didn’t need to start torching people with flamethrowers for the fun of it.

Lighting people on fire? That seems…extreme, he told her.

"Technically, I didn’t light him on fire. Only his horrendous dome rug. Natalie pushed a lot of cheer into her voice, as if doing so absolved her of her actions. Besides, take a good, long look at the man up there and tell me if he looks anything like our real teacher."

His eyes flicked to the front of the classroom, where their now-bald teacher continued to scrawl chemical equations on the whiteboard. This was only Nolan’s fourth day at his new school, the result of an abrupt cross-country move to Kansas after his dad accepted a new job, but even he recognized something off about this version of Mr. Brodell. And it wasn’t just his pink, wrinkly forehead.

Come on, Nolan. Put the pieces together, Natalie urged him.

A second later, some dormant part of his mind reminded him of the proper details. Their actual chemistry teacher was a male, but a Black male with a gray mustache and head shaven proudly, not hidden under a patch of cheap carpet.

Slowly, he turned to Natalie. That’s not Mr. Brodell.

The girl smiled. Well done. You know I would never dare shoot a fireball at the real Mr. Brodell. He’s the weightlifting coach for the football team and could crush walnuts with his biceps.

"Okay. So we are dreaming. Remind me why that matters again?"

Natalie leaned in. "Because most people don’t recognize when they are. You’re special. You are a dreamer, Nolan. And not a head-in-the-clouds, imagining-grand-things-for-yourself sort of dreamer. You’re a lucid dreamer."

What does that mean?

It means you can manipulate your dreams. Participate in them. Change them as you see fit.

He didn’t understand how that made him special or what purpose doing so might serve. Look, unless I can dream myself up an ‘A’ on my chemistry final in the real world, I don’t see how this is helpful.

Finals for classes were rapidly approaching, and the recent move had left him woefully underprepared for them. Who moves to a new school only a month away from the end of the year?

Pssh. Natalie waved a hand. "Believe me, finals should be the least of your worries. This…dreaming…this is what’s important. This is why you had to move."

Nolan frowned. She wasn’t making any sense, which further supported her case that he was, in fact, dreaming.

I want you to think long and hard about your sudden move across the country, she told him. Your reality has been bent, Nolan. I’m guessing you’re missing some details from the last few weeks.

His frown only deepened, and he wondered what she was getting at. The previous two weeks had been a blur, a crazy whirlwind brought on from the speed with which they tossed all their belongings into the back of a moving van and headed across the continent. Everything had happened so quickly, an unusual urgency throwing everything into turmoil, and his memory of that stretch of time seemed a bit hazy now. It was a little disturbing to think about.

Rather than confront that reality, he opted to change the subject. So what? I moved. Lots of people move. All I want is to pass my classes so I can enjoy summer vacation. The fewer flaming toupees the better.

Natalie pressed her lips together, looking like she might push the issue, but she changed tactics. What about this dreaming thing? Aren’t you the least bit curious about what we can do now that we know this is a dream?

He shrugged, unsure if he wanted to see how she progressed from lighting people on fire.

Natalie tilted her head, studying him at a new angle. They sure did a number on you, didn’t they?

Nolan blinked.

No worries. We’ll get you to come around. Slowly, but surely.

Her words sounded a bit nonsensical, but he again chalked that up to the dream. Natalie reached for a nearby lab apparatus and began dispensing liquid into a large beaker, swirling it as she did so.

You’re going too fast, Nolan told her.

They might be dreaming, but there was no excuse for poor acid-base titration technique. They were supposed to creep up on their end point, revealing a nice, light-pink color to their solution, but Natalie’s rampant addition of liquid caused a black layer to form in the beaker. Nolan’s frown returned. That should have been deep violet, if anything, not ink-black. And it should not have continued swirling of its own accord when Natalie set the beaker down. He supposed the rules of chemistry might differ in a dream.

Any idea what this is? she asked him.

Probably an ‘F’, Nolan replied. I’m pretty sure you went right past the end point.

No, dummy. You’ve seen pools like this before. Search your mind.

More time passed, but he couldn’t place the inky fluid. It looks like oil. You do realize that if you found a way to create oil out of sodium hydroxide, you’re going to be rich, don’t you?

The sigh that escaped Natalie’s lips was a colossal one. This is why we don’t recruit new dreamers, she said under her breath.

What?

Her eyes met his. There are others like us. People who can manipulate their dreams. I’ll introduce you to some of them eventually. For now, just stick your fingers in this goo. She slid the beaker four inches closer to him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. Uh, are you sure you neutralized the acid properly? How do you know it won’t burn?

Don’t be an idiot. If that earlier fireball was any indication of how harmful things are in this dreamscape, you should have no problem touching this.

His resistance crumbled, and he found himself moving his hand toward the swirling liquid despite his misgivings. He was dreaming, right? What’s the worst that could happen? He made contact, and boom, instant regret. The black mass tugged on him, pulling him into the beaker. The glass should have shattered, splattering their lab bench with black goop, but instead, the fluid jerked him along into a deep darkness. He felt as if he had plunged into some swiftly moving rapids. Three seconds later the sensation ceased, and his momentum carried him forward. He tumbled, spinning twice before landing on his back. Taking ragged breaths, he patted his shirt and jeans, expecting them to be drenched from the quick trip, but they were bone-dry.

What a weird dream.

A giggle originated from somewhere behind him. He craned his head to see Natalie having a good laugh at his expense, which only drove up his ire.

He rolled over, pushing himself up from the ground. Touch the liquid, she says. It’s not harmful, she says. Thanks a lot.

She grinned. Totally worth it, seeing you helpless like that. Gets me every time.

Is there a point to all of this? He wondered if dreaming solo might be more enjoyable.

Just testing you, Nolan, she said. Does any of this feel familiar at all?

The ground around them was bright pink and bubbling in spots, like someone was hidden away underneath blowing bubblegum bubbles.

Not at all. Is it supposed to?

His lab partner shrugged. I hoped it would be, but like I said, they sure did a number on you. It’s going to take you a while to remember.

What am I remembering exactly? This place?

You said the last few weeks are kind of a haze, but try to look back farther. Sometimes repressed memories can manifest in a dream. I was hoping going through a switch point or two might jog some of those for you.

Repressed memories? That possibility sounded a little far-fetched. He suspected his poor recall might have more to do with the fact this was a dream. I got nothing. If you know so much, why don’t you fill me in?

Another sigh blew across her lips. I’m not supposed to tell you too many details directly, but I forgot how thick your skull is. Remember when I told you that you were a dreamer, Nolan?

That he remembered, as it took place only a few minutes ago. Good to know his short-term memory was intact. He nodded.

Well, I also mentioned groups of dreamers like you and me.

"Groups? Plural?"

Well, there’s only two, really, and we’re kind of fighting right now.

Why?

It’s complicated, but basically, one group is trying to exert itself and impose rules over others. They’ve done some horrendous things to natives in the dream world too.

Like incinerate them with Bunsen burner flamethrowers?

How many times do I have to tell you that fireball was harmless?

Tell that to Mr. Brodell’s toupee.

Natalie looked as if she might start yanking on her dark, wavy hair in frustration. I don’t know how Aeryn does this for a living.

Who? The name sounded familiar, but Nolan couldn’t quite place it.

Not important, she said quickly. What we need to do now is spend some time reacquainting you with the dream world. Come on. I’ll show you how the Stream operates.

The Stream?

She didn’t answer, instead spinning on her heel to march across the field of bubblegum bubbles. She stopped at a black-colored one whose surface appeared to be swirling much like the goo in their beaker and waved him over.

He closed the gap. Before I follow you through another one of those, can you at least tell me why you’re offering to teach me how to dream?

It’s simple, Nolan. She turned to him, a smirk on her lips. Someone stole your memories. And I’m going to help you get them back.

Stole? "What do you mean stole? Who would do such a thing?"

The DREAM Institute, that’s who. You learned something you shouldn’t have, and they punished you for it. I told you, they like to impose their own, very selfish, set of rules over the dream world. You’re lucky they didn’t do worse to you.

This whole night was getting weirder by the minute. Nothing made any sense to Nolan.

Natalie beckoned with her fingers. Trust me. We’ll get to the bottom of this.

The concept of someone messing with his memories seemed like a stretch, but he decided if her assertions held any inkling of truth, he might want to stick with her and hear what she had to say. So he linked fingers with Natalie, and they jumped into the inky bubble together.

Chapter Two: Changes

Aeryn Sandman was restless, and her restlessness had been steadily growing for twenty-nine days now. Losing a job and being denied the opportunity to partake in any and all dream-related activities will do that to a person. Not that she particularly wanted to return to her recruiting job after the majority of her recruits had not worked out for one reason or another, but anything at this point would be a welcome change to dull classes and restrictive dream states. She was itching to get back to dreaming as usual.

Just one more day, she told herself as she made her way to the Farm inside the DREAM Institute.

Both Aeryn and her brother, Marshall, were serving a month-long suspension after illegally partaking in a sleepwalking tonic during their search for the Spring of Souls. As restless as she felt, she realized it could have been much worse. Agent Downing, who’d helped procure the tonic for them all, took the brunt of the punishment, sent home indefinitely with his first shot at an appeal still a month out. Although, last she’d spoken to him, he seemed to be making the most of his downtime by showing his long-lost mother how much the real world had changed in the thirty years since she’d last been a part of it.

At the Farm, a locale within the Institute where their Wispes liked to hang out together, Aeryn took a dirt path toward a familiar corner of the habitat. She crossed a stream and called out for her friend Stan. Ten seconds later, a white-and-mocha-colored gerbil appeared in a burst of smoke on a nearby log.

The Wispe, a former inhabitant of the dream world, gave her a crisp salute and said, Hiya, Aeryn!

Hey, Stanley. Her eyes scanned the surroundings for a moment. Is Dad here yet?

Haven’t seen him, Stan told her.

She frowned. She thought she’d been the one running late, but her father often lost track of time at his new job. Those lapses, although unintentional, were bound to land him in trouble eventually. Czarnecki kept him on a tight leash these days.

Let’s go find him. He can’t afford any slipups.

Stanley swung an arm. You know I can’t turn down a good quest.

A trip to the Dream Depository hardly qualified as a quest, but Aeryn didn’t want to burst Stan’s bubble. She supposed any task not related to transport between home and the Institute would feel marginally quest-like to the Wispe.

Dad’s lucky we’re looking out for him. I think he forgets how firmly the Czar has him in his crosshairs.

Careful with that nickname, even here in the Farm, the Wispe told her as he popped up onto her collarbone and nestled against her shoulder-length hair.

Aeryn knew better than to call Andrew Czarnecki by that name within the walls of the Institute, but sometimes it still slipped out. She covered up a snort of derision with an apology. Sorry. You’re right. You never know who’s listening.

She tucked a stubborn wisp of hair behind her ear, auburn strands she’d recently dyed violet streaks into, replacing the previous bright-red dye job. With all the recent changes in her life, dictating her hair color was one of the few things she remained in control of. She set off with Stan, snaking their way through the corridors to the depository. Stan might have been able to wispe them straight there, but Aeryn still enjoyed the long, winding walks along the network of tunnels underneath the Grand Canyon where the Institute was hidden. Reaching any destination never took long if you knew where you were going, and today was no different. Aeryn eased open a door after a short jaunt, stepping inside a small room.

A nondescript, hollowed-out cavern housed the Dream Depository, the lobby deceptively small considering the vast collections held here. The rock had long ago been contoured to form a countertop that ran the length of the room, serving as a divide between visitors and the valuable archive beyond. Usually Phyllis Reed manned the counter. She was an aging woman who often called Aeryn dear instead of using her real name, but today the Keeper of Dreams himself stood behind the counter. Alvis Reed, who managed the depository, was slim, whereas his wife was plump, and he carried himself with an almost regal sense of purpose. A shock of white hair that gave Frostee’s a run for its money sprouted forth from his head, standing in stark contrast to his dark skin. He smiled as he saw her, his white mustache curling up as his cheeks drew back.

Hey, Alvis. She waved, and Stanley mimicked the motion from her shoulder. Is Dad still here?

I did not realize it was five o’clock already, Alvis said, his silky-smooth voice resonating in the small chamber. But I can assure you, Geoffrey won’t be in any trouble today. My wife went home with a stomach bug, and I needed some extra help recategorizing a cluster of dreams before day’s end. Czarnecki approved some overtime. Your father’s good behavior is finally paying dividends.

Following the events at the Spring of Souls, a tribunal had been held to determine if her father was still fit to run the Institute. The Dream Council voted overwhelmingly in favor of removing him as the director, and although they allowed him to stay on at the Institute, the new director, Andrew Czarnecki, made sure his new role gave him not one iota of power. He was relegated to performing clerical work here in the Dream Depository, with strict hours and limited dreaming. Geoffrey insisted the break was welcome, thankful he wasn’t serving out a prison sentence inside the Dreamstream like Jaime Grimm. Aeryn knew, given his level of scrutiny, this might as well have been one.

Hey, Aeryn! Geoffrey peeked his head out from the back. Can’t go home now. This is all too fascinating. His eyes glittered with what she could only describe as boyish glee. The calculated intensity had left them along with his extra responsibilities, and she suspected the change in job duties had an unintended consequence of reducing his stress. With the added pressures of managing the Institute gone, an exuberant side of Geoffrey was coming out. One she’d never witnessed before. She should be happy for him, but the difference was jarring, and she almost felt betrayed at how well he took it in stride.

You should see these dreams. There’s close to eight dozen of them your grandfather helped collect in the late seventies. A bunch of prophetic stuff we got our hands on after a native who fashioned herself an oracle acquired a fire hose and tapped into a magic well.

Nineteen seventy-eight, Alvis said. We didn’t discover the Fire Hose of the Future for three nights. By then about a hundred people had drunk from it.

Drinking from a fire hose sounded dangerous. And that caused prophetic dreams?

Sure did, Geoffrey told her. Although the accuracy rate is only hovering at around sixty percent, so we think the hose wasn’t the best delivery method. There are a few dozen left to verify, so the number can still change.

Is that what you’re doing?

A grin cut across his square jaw. You bet. Most of these are past their due date now, so we can classify their effectiveness more accurately and determine whether to reopen the well to the general population.

A practiced precognitive dreamer, this sort of task was right up her father’s alley. Heck, working in this department was right up his alley, regardless of the type of dream they allowed him to examine. The Dream Depository functioned as a vast archive where the Institute stored all their caught dreams, the collection housing everything accumulated in their four-hundred-year history. Oftentimes members would check out these dreams for viewing in their sleep chambers, like books from a library. Geoffrey had interned here with Alvis when he was her age, and he appeared excited to be back now.

Well, make sure you find your way home sometime tonight, Aeryn told him, sounding way more like an adult than she was comfortable with. Mom’s actually gotten used to having you around the house. And I think even Grandpa’s started to notice your presence.

Before the demotion, Geoffrey’s job duties demanded he be at the Institute nearly all hours of the night. An increase in family time was another unexpected upside to the recent change. That her grandfather, Liam, who often went days at a time without acknowledging anyone due to his damaged mental state, seemed to recognize Geoffrey was the biggest miracle of the entire situation. Aeryn swore she’d even seen him smile at his son the other day at breakfast.

Don’t worry. Alvis is kicking me out in an hour.

Darn right I am, the Keeper of Dreams said. I have a sick wife to get home to, and she won’t be at all forgiving to either of us if you keep me late.

Two more dreams, her father told them. I’ll watch two more and call it a night, I swear.

Sounds good, Aeryn said. I’ll let Mom know. Do you want me to send a Wispe for you?

Not necessary. Scranton is here helping me out. He’ll bring me back.

She still hadn’t gotten used to having the pug around, but she was secretly happy he spent more time with her father than her. Just the sight of Scranton reminded her of Nolan, and the wound of her friend’s exile from the Institute was nowhere close to healing yet. It took some effort, but she pushed his name from her mind and said, All right, I’ll see you soon.

She pointed at Alvis as she left. You make sure he keeps his word. Bit of a workaholic, that one.

Alvis smiled reassuringly. Some things never change, young lady, but I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.

The depository disappeared from view as Stanley pulled them through space to the front door of her home. The Wispe possessed the ability to teleport in the real world, a handy skill that made their kind valuable members of the Institute and the best possible chauffeurs. Once you got over the nausea, that is. Aeryn’s reliance on Wispe travel the last several months had taught her to push it away with little effort, a welcome development. The less puking into bushes after a jump, the better.

The pair went inside. Aeryn greeted her mother in the kitchen. From the smell of garlic wafting at her, she seemed to be preparing an Italian dish of some sort. She passed the information along about Dad, then gave Grandpa Liam a hug before heading upstairs to her brother’s room.

He invited her in after she rapped on the door, and she greeted him with a, Hey, dorkus, to which he narrowed his eyes and fixed a stern stare on her.

Oh yeah. The bet. She’d promised to give up calling him names for a year after he had ingeniously solved one of the puzzles during the Hero’s Hunt last month, a promise she found nearly impossible to adhere to. Old habits die hard.

Hiya, Marshall, Stan said. He still rode upon her shoulder, and Aeryn nudged him with the side of her head.

You want to give the room a once-over for us? she asked.

All in a day’s work. He turned to smoke and flew to the windowsill, swarming every junction.

Marshall sighed. Do you really think Czar—

Aeryn held a finger to her mouth, silencing her brother with the simple signal. Stan continued to move his smoking swarm of particles around the room, carefully examining every object within. After a minute of probing he coalesced on top of Marshall’s desk lamp, giving a sharp salute. Nothing to report. The room is clean.

Czarnecki isn’t bugging our home, Marshall insisted.

I wouldn’t put it past him. You’ve seen how things are starting to change around the Institute, and you know he doesn’t trust Dad, and, by extension, us. Better safe than sorry, I say. Especially with all our plotting and scheming.

Marshall sat in a desk chair, and he swiveled around to face her with his arms crossed. Is that what we’re doing tonight? Plotting what we’re going to do the second our suspension is up? Don’t you think it might be wise to lie low for a bit?

Wise, schmise. You know we’ve talked about this. We’ve been forced to lie low for twenty-nine days, no sense doing it voluntarily once we get our freedom back. Now, has your research turned up anything yet?

A grimace gave away the answer. Still nothing. This Brixtra doesn’t exist in any of our records.

The enemy group known as the Collective had extracted this supposedly powerful Oneiroi during their fight at the Spring of Souls, and Marshall was desperate to figure out her particular talent in order to learn how they might utilize her. I can only guess at what she’s capable of based on Natalie’s throwaway comment.

If we buried her in the crossroads, then she has to be one of the Oneiroi’s big guns, Aeryn stated.

The Oneiroi were a race of powerful natives often referred to as Dream Gods due to their ability to greatly influence dreams in various ways. Since learning of their existence, Aeryn had encountered scarily effective hunters, somniatic energy siphons, and a pair of brothers able to create ultra-realistic or downright fantastical changes to dreams. They’d recently discovered a whole section of the Stream cut off from other tributaries that contained not only the Spring of Souls, but many of these beings, like Brixtra.

She called her the Goddess of Veils, but veils can mean any number of things, Marshall continued. We use them to shield our agents and avoid detection. It could also mean door or portal.

With no new information, this speculative conversation between the two of them had repeated itself many times since that fateful dream a month ago. Aeryn was determined to keep hashing out the details until they figured something out, though. I think she created such a portal, but not one like a normal switch point. She waved a hand, and all of a sudden we could see directly into another room, possibly another dreamscape.

Which is why Czarnecki is so scared. If she can cut through the ether, she can go anywhere. And quickly.

Aeryn was still wrapping her head around the concept of the ether. This was a space that surrounded the various branches of the Dreamstream. A space certain natives could travel through as a shortcut to reach other dreamscapes. She didn’t quite understand what usefulness this skill held, other than super speedy transit, but if the Collective went to such great lengths to recruit this Oneiroi, there had to be a consequence she and her brother weren’t grasping yet.

Marshall spoke again, jarring her from her thoughts. Did you see his latest announcement?

Who? Czarnecki?

Yeah.

No. What now?

A thin line formed between Marshall’s lips. You’re not going to like this. He navigated along the Institute’s network on his laptop, eventually pulling up a video.

In it, the director of the DREAM Institute sat behind his desk—her father’s old desk—hands folded together. His face appeared gaunter than she remembered, but his dark eyes still glittered beneath his slicked-back raven hair. Andrew smiled before addressing his audience.

Dear employees, it is my immense pleasure to announce yet another advancement in our fight against the Oneiroi.

Aeryn couldn’t help but roll her eyes. A mere two weeks into the job, Czarnecki had taken it upon himself to commission a new branch of oneironauts, specialists with the sole purpose of tracking down the Oneiroi to ensure their continued imprisonment. He’d deemed the Gods the greatest threat to the safety of the dream world, his reaction a far cry from her father’s insistence they set up a sanctuary for these misunderstood natives.

The response to this threat has been overwhelmingly positive, with record numbers of you signing up to join the ranks of our new Oneiroi Hunters. Now, enthusiasm is only one part of the equation. Our hunters need the proper tools to do their job. These Dream Gods are hostile, and imprisonment is too good for some of them. Some deserve to be put down. Permanently.

Aeryn’s stomach tightened up, folding around on itself. His talk of extermination made her physically ill. She didn’t understand how he could target an entire race of beings based on the actions of one or two bad apples.

To that end, the Dream Council has voted nearly unanimously to repeal the Nightmare Regulation Act. Effective immediately, I’ve granted Lester and his team unfettered use of Terror Taps to aid in the development of a new breed of nightmares. Infused with unprecedented levels of fear, we believe we can create supercharged beings capable of fighting the Dream Gods. Capable of killing them. These God Killer nightmares will be our weapon against the Oneiroi, battling on our behalf and completely under our control. With their aid, these Oneiroi won’t stand a chance against us.

The message continued on, but Aeryn’s racing thoughts drowned out the details. There was a reason they banned Terror Taps thirty years ago. They were bad news. They’d once granted a nightmare the ability to kill—humans, not natives—and her grandfather had never been the same as a result of the altercation. Aeryn herself once used the concentrated fear collected from one as a last-ditch effort to incapacitate Crispin Devereaux, an action that still bothered her, no matter how necessary it had been at the time.

Is he really that desperate? she said, her voice a whisper.

He’s afraid, Marshall insisted. People often mistook Dad’s lack of action as weakness, and Czarnecki wants to prove he’s not Dad.

Creating God Killers? That’s not weakness, that’s madness.

I agree, but not everyone will view it that way. Bold action—as misguided and dangerous as it may be—will be seen favorably by the majority of the Institute. It shows them we’re getting ahead of things. We’re not just reacting. We’re fighting.

Aeryn ran her fingers through her hair and let out a deep sigh. This isn’t going to make what we plan on doing any easier.

I know.

Their eyes met, understanding passing between the two of them. Aeryn smiled a determined smile. "The minute our suspension is up, I’m back in the Stream. Back on the recruiting trail. These Oneiroi have proven to be valuable allies in the past, and if the Institute hunts them, we threaten to turn them all against us. I’m not going to let that happen."

Marshall nodded in agreement.

I’ll make sure they get their sanctuary, she added. And, should they wish to fight back against those who want to eradicate them, I’ll gladly point them in the right direction.

Chapter Three: Take Me to Your Leader

Chemistry classes in the real world involved far fewer flaming toupees, and for that Nolan was grateful. Seated near