Doctor Strange: The Fate of Dreams

By Devin Grayson

In this original Marvel prose novel, Doctor Strange enters the dream realm to save humankind and is pushed to the limit of his powers.
 
Corruption is on the rise, violent crime is surging, and the global economy is collapsing. The origins of this world crisis are most mysterious, beginning in a realm Dr. Stephen Strange, destroyer of demons and dark wizards, has never confronted before: the dream dimension. A domain where the Sorcerer Supreme Strange’s magic is useless. As evil invades the minds of innocent people, controlling their dreams and causing them to act out their darkest desires, Doctor Strange is forced to make an ally of his enemy, Nightmare, if he hopes to conquer this mystifying villain. But in doing so, Doctor Strange will be forced to confront the darkness of his own dream world . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9781504092944

Book preview

Doctor Strange: The Fate of Dreams

A Novel of the Marvel Universe

Devin Grayson

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Kevin Nolan

Interior art by Chris Bachalo, Rafa Sandoval, Wayne Faucher, Mark Irwin, John Livesay, Jaime Mendoza, Victor Olazaba, Tim Townsend, and Al Vey

Special Thanks to Jeff Christiansen, Mike Fichera, Kevin Garcia, Mike O’Sullivan, Roger Ott, and Marc Riemer

Joan Hilty, Editor

Design by Jay Bowen

MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP, Production and Special Projects

Sarah Singer, Editor, Special Projects

Jeremy West, Manager, Licensed Publishing

Sven Larsen, VP, Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP Print, Sales & Marketing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

ISBN: 978-1-5040-9294-4

This edition published in 2024 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

© 2024 MARVEL

For Arnold, with love.

Thanks for always believing.

BOOK 1

Prologue

Jane Bailey stood near the edge of a high, red cliff watching Alexander the Great’s tank division maneuver into a defensive position. The sun was glaringly bright, the air thin and dry, and the young king himself stood so close Jane could have touched him. He was violently beautiful: tall and olive-skinned, his muscles taut under a bright white tunic. She admired the way his cropped hair had started to grow out into a crown of golden curls as she fiddled with the zipper of her anorak.

At the bottom of the cliff, flanking the tanks in front of an enormous wrought iron gate, stood soldiers wearing gleaming gold chest plates over blood-red tunics. There were rows and rows of them, shoulder to shoulder—a hundred deep, a thousand. Though most were furnished with long spears—the word doru came to Jane from somewhere far away—the fighters closest to the gates held a large battering ram. Alexander lifted a hand high above his head. From Jane’s position, it blotted out the sun.

She turned away and found herself face-to-face with a woman who clearly wasn’t human. The stranger was too large and too hazy; only her head, hands, and arms were distinctive, the rest of her streaming away like sand in hot trade winds. Her hair was a luminous cyan, her face ghostly and terrifying and yet theatrically beautiful—sharp and expressive. She had eyes as black as the universe and filled with the glimmer of distant stars.

The Pathways have fallen! the woman said triumphantly in a voice so loud Jane felt it rattle her teeth. At last we are free to advance!

Jane at first assumed the woman was speaking to her, but then realized that she had to be addressing Alexander’s army. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the exclamation had also been heard by a severe 20-something man just behind her. He wore an oversized camouflage Army coat and had a peach-fuzz mustache, stubble on his jaw, and an HK416 slung over one shoulder. Though he was standing near Jane, he was clearly separated from Alexander both temporally and geographically. Jane stood between them: one foot on the hot, flat pavement of the young man’s world; the other on Alexander’s dusty plateau. Though it was also possible that she was in both places. Or neither.

The gunman turned and strode grimly toward a mall that had materialized a short distance away from him, and Jane began to worry for the people milling just outside it. At the same moment, Alexander dropped his hand with a shouted command, his green eyes sharp and avid as he looked out over his army.

Open the gate!

To Jane’s right, the soldiers began to batter the gate. To her left, the man in the Army coat opened fire outside the mall. The sound was deafening: the clanging blows of the battering ram, the repeated explosion of gunpowder. Jane wanted to run but couldn’t move, wanted to hide or close her eyes but could only watch as the gate crumpled and finally swung open, letting out a stampeding horde of the most horrific monsters she had ever seen. They were mutated amalgamations of childhood fears: giant skittering spiders with the torsos of dagger-clawed bugbears, marching skeletons with eyes of blazing fire, amorphous shadows of obliterating darkness, alien ghouls with gaping maws full of gleaming fangs … all of them swarming across the desert basin. Alexander’s soldiers had dashed behind the tanks for protection, but the monsters ignored them. Even so, Jane felt sure the strange creatures would devour everything and anyone else in their path.

At the same time, to Jane’s left, the people at the mall screamed and ran and dove behind trash cans and held each other in terror. The man in the Army coat continued advancing at a slow, steady pace, his gun ceaselessly hammering away. Tears streamed down Jane’s face, but the woman with the blue hair wiped them away. Do not cry, she said sweetly. "This is a glorious day. This is my day—my destiny!—and I will lead you from the shadows by my example, as I should have from the start!"

Jane turned away from the woman and found herself facing an old bearded man in a white wool toga and open-toed sandals. His eyes, perhaps once blue, had turned milky white with cortical cataracts. Jane knew she’d seen him before but couldn’t remember where or when.

Tell him it’s you! the man said urgently. He reached up and touched her face with dry, gentle hands, feeling across the shape of her features. It is you, isn’t it? You must be sure. You must have him bring you to Healing—only then will you know your path!

It began to rain. The old man reached into his toga and pulled out a knife. Jane recognized it as the hunting knife her father had given her for her 19th birthday. She took it cautiously from his hand.

It was science that eroded the Pathways, so don’t be afraid to draw blood—but just a little cut. Only so he’ll notice. Her name is Dr. Misra. He moved to go, thoroughly soaked, and then seemed to think better of it. He turned back to Jane and gently touched her arm.

It won’t hurt, he assured her. And then he smiled a beatific, toothless grin. Tell me the same?

It won’t hurt, Jane echoed back to him, even though she didn’t understand.

The old blind man nodded and patted her arm. I hope you’re right. And I hope you understand...Doctor Strange.

Jane stared down at the knife, pausing only briefly over the mistaken name. Reality had been slipping away from her for months. When it had started, the effects had been simpler: confusion over whether a conversation had actually taken place, emotional hangovers from nightmares that had lasted all day. Later, she found herself grabbing her phone to search for the contact information of a person she knew intimately only to discover that they didn’t exist. She lost objects in rooms she could no longer find and regularly performed feats she knew to be impossible. Finally, physics had stopped working altogether. People and places transformed before her eyes, and the continuity of time had utterly shattered. Resisting the chaos only seemed to make it worse, so Jane was doing her best to surrender to the turmoil. It was so confusing she barely had time to wonder whether she was going insane.

When she looked up again, she was standing on the orange carpet in the middle of the basement she used as a bedroom in her mother’s Hudson Valley home. It smelled faintly of mold, but it was bigger than the tiny room upstairs she’d used as a girl, and it featured sliding glass doors that opened out into the woods behind the property. She was fully dressed, the hunting knife clutched in one hand. Glancing through the glass doors, she could see that it was light outside, late morning. Raindrops clung to the yellow leaves of the birch trees, just as inside they beaded and sparkled on her oversized green anorak.

She stood completely still for a moment—except for her hazel eyes, which roved the room restlessly until they landed on her phone. She walked over to it, touched the screen with a wet finger, and then absently dried off her hand on the front of her T-shirt.

Google Dr. Misra, she said to the screen.

Three results came up: a pediatrician, an internist, and a neuroscientist. That part, at least, was easy.

Jane slipped the knife into a buckskin sheath, stuffed it and the phone into an already overfull backpack, and then slipped out the sliding glass doors, closing them behind her as quietly as she could.

Chapter 1

"I need you to dispel all doubt from your mind. Believe that I can bring you through this. Now, take my hand."

Doctor Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, addressed the figures in the mirror with calm authority. Instead of a reflection, the mahogany-framed rectangular glass showed three men—two uniformed police officers and one very distraught burglar—pressing their hands against the inside of the glass as they stared out imploringly at him. Behind Doctor Strange—just outside the glowing protection circle he’d drawn with arcane energy on the off-white laminate of the briefing-room floor—the burglar’s partner, along with a historian from the Merchant’s House Museum and most of the Sixth Precinct, watched and waited with bated breath.

Lt. Reynard Bacci took a sip from the mug of coffee in his hand and watched with narrowed eyes as Strange reached through the glass, grasped the burglar’s arm, and carefully pulled the 173-pound man out of the three-inch-deep mirror. Behind Bacci, the thief’s partner-in-crime exhaled with relief and moved to grab him, but a sharp look from Strange stopped him from stepping into the protection circle. The rescued burglar fell to his knees, babbling with fear and gratitude.

Thank god! You gotta hurry! There’s something in there with them, man, something that ain’t happy to have visitors! Those cops’re gonna get eaten if you don’t get ’em out! Place’s got skeletons, man—human skeletons!— in every corner! Something’s in there, man, I’m telling you!

A chorus of alarmed murmurs joined his terrified ranting as the room’s occupants reacted to his news.

You’re all right now. Doctor Strange’s words were reassuring, but his manner was brusque. If I could please have another moment of quiet?

All right! All right! The lieutenant waved his coffee cup over everyone’s heads. Pipe down and let the man work! Turning back to Strange, the tall, gray-haired policeman spoke with obvious esteem. You just tell me when I can cuff him.

In a moment, Strange answered distractedly. He reached through the glass again and took the hand of one of the two policemen still inside. I’d prefer they not leave the circle until I’ve cleansed them of spiritual residue.

Sure thing, Doc.

Bacci had taken one look at the cursed mirror and gotten on the phone with Wong, Doctor Strange’s assistant—and that was before officers Smith and Hoskin had managed to get themselves trapped inside of it along with the perp. It had all started earlier that afternoon when the perp’s accomplice, Gabel, had come running into the precinct in a panic, carrying the mirror—which he had hastily covered up with his windbreaker—and hollering that his friend was trapped inside. He told the desk sergeant that he and his buddy had gotten the cockamamie idea to pull a B&E at the Merchant’s House Museum, convinced they could get rich selling small antiques swiped from the National Historic Landmark. In addition to being ill-conceived—the Merchant’s House Museum was a beloved city institution tended by a dedicated staff who would surely note missing items almost immediately—it was an oddly ambitious plan for two men whose collective experience with crime didn’t extend past shoplifting candy bars. The job had gotten much, much weirder, though, when the one called McHale had disappeared into a mirror he’d found hidden away in a trunk on the third floor.

By the time Doctor Strange arrived, Officer Smith had been sucked into the mirror while trying to get McHale out, and Officer Hoskin had been similarly ensnared attempting to free his partner.

Bacci would have preferred to live in a world devoid of supernatural incident, but as it was, he was damn grateful to know the Master of Mystical Arts who lived at 177A Bleecker Street. Though the guy dressed oddly in a blue tunic, black boots, and a flamboyant red cloak, Bacci had always found him remarkably sane—and unfailingly effective. He was apparently some kind of big-shot sorcerer—head honcho of all magic users, if Bacci understood correctly—not to mention supreme defender of the entire planet or, as the doctor himself was more apt to put it, the mortal realm. Whatever it was that he did, he always made himself available when anyone from the NYPD called him with something they couldn’t get their head around, and he’d gotten them out of more than a few jams over the years.

The lieutenant, therefore, had complete confidence in Doctor Strange’s ability to get everything back to normal. He leaned against the lectern, took another swig from his cup, and made a face. Damn stuff was getting cold. A gasp from the men around him made him look up again. Strange was holding Hoskin’s arm and had him halfway out of the mirror, but a long, black tentacle reached out through the glass to wrap itself around the officer’s chest, clearly attempting to pull him back in. A few of the cops pulled out their firearms in alarm. Bacci gestured coolly for them to lower their weapons.

All right, boys, take it easy. The doc can handle this. Chin nodding in the direction of a particularly jumpy patrolman, Bacci thrust his mug at him. You, get me a refill. The rest of you, let the doctor work.

Doctor Strange only frowned and touched the large gold clasp that held his cloak in place. The amulet seemed to open like an eye, instantly bathing the mirror in a radiant, mystical glow. The tentacle unwound itself from around Officer Hoskin’s chest and slipped back into the recesses of the mirror, allowing Strange to pull the man free.

Don’t leave the circle, Strange warned McHale and Hoskin over his shoulder as he reached through the mirror one final time to retrieve Officer Smith.

Hoskin nodded, but indicated his partner. You gotta get him outta there! That thing’s got his ankle!

Doctor Strange’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t hesitate: He stepped into the mirror, appearing instantly next to Officer Smith on the other side of the looking glass. Bacci squinted again and tried to lean in closer, but couldn’t quite make out what was happening. Strange had a hand out, bidding Smith to stand still, and both men had fixed their attention on something happening below the frame. There was a flash of yellow light—it appeared to Bacci to have come from the doctor’s hand—and then Strange was helping Officer Smith climb out. As Smith emerged into the briefing room, the sorcerer turned to face something behind him in the mirror, his dark-red cloak obscuring Bacci’s view.

Back in the briefing room, Hoskin clasped his friend’s shoulder. You okay, man?

Smith’s eyes were wide, but he nodded. He sliced it offa me with some kinda laser beam that came outta his hand. He opened his mouth to say something else but was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass.

The mirror had exploded into a million glistening pieces.

The reactions were immediate: Several cops turned their guns toward the detonation as others pushed their fellow officers out of harm’s way. Smith and Hoskin dove protectively over McHale as Bacci darted in front of the woman from the museum. He was trying to calculate who was in the blast zone when the mirror fragments froze. They hovered in midair for a full second before rushing back in toward their point of origin, then disappearing into a pinpoint of light from which a pillar of acrid, black smoke suddenly billowed up. Doctor Strange stepped calmly out of the smoke and waved it away. No sign of the mirror—not even a fragment—remained.

Bacci watched the sorcerer’s eyes sweep over everyone in the room with something like regret. The radiant, mystical light was still pouring from the eye in Strange’s amulet, and he somehow directed it outward with his hands, slowly and deliberately creating a concentric circle that expanded over every person in the briefing room. Without deciding to do so, Bacci took a deep breath as the light washed over him, feeling the adrenaline ebb as a comforting sense of serenity filled his body from head to toe. It seemed to have a similar effect on everyone it touched: Bacci watched the shoulders of his officers settling as they stood up a little straighter, several even sighing as the tension drained away.

The eye in the amulet closed then, and just like that, the light was gone. Strange made a precise gesture with his hand, and the protection circle he’d drawn on the floor faded from sight. He nodded to Bacci. You may take them into custody now, if you wish. Bacci motioned to Hoskin and Smith, who helped the perps up off the floor and led them out of the room for processing as Strange spoke quietly with the museum historian.

I apologize, Ms. Hazel, but I was not able to save the artifact. If it’s of any comfort, I rather doubt it was an antique. It appeared to me to have been created fairly recently in an attempt to trap the entity within it.

Anne Hazel waved away the doctor’s concern. Bacci imagined that, like him, she was caught up in the excitement of having spent a Friday afternoon witnessing such an unusual series of events. No, it’s all right. As I mentioned to the lieutenant, that absolutely wasn’t an item belonging to the Tredwells—I’d never seen it before. I have no idea how it came to be in the house. Should we be concerned?

Strange folded his hands into the recesses of his cloak. The house has a reputation for being haunted, does it not? Perhaps someone hoped that you would know how to care for the dangerous item they’d created. In any case, no, please don’t worry. I’ll send one of my colleagues over to do a sweep and make sure no more dangerous objects are hidden in the building.

Thank you, Doctor.

It seemed to Bacci that Hazel was rather taken with the mysterious sorcerer, and why not? If the cape didn’t put you off, he was an attractive man—something of a throwback, the lieutenant mused, to Rat Pack elegance and savoir faire. Older than most of the capes-and-tights set you’d occasionally see around the city, Doctor Strange had an air of commanding maturity about him. He was quite obviously a man who had seen things, who knew things. Unfortunately for Hazel, he was also a man with places to be. Clearly determining the threat was over, Strange abruptly excused himself. Bacci followed, stopping to accept the refilled cup of coffee from his patrolman as he walked the doctor out.

Thanks again for your help, Doc.

Certainly.

If there’s ever anything we can do for you, you just call, you know?

Just be safe.

Bacci nodded, and then remembered that he’d wanted to ask the doctor about something else. Oh, hey, real quick—I ain’t been sleeping too well lately. It’s gettin’ real bad, messing with my concentration, you know? So I was just wondering. You know any hocus pocus for that?

Doctor Strange stopped, turned, and looked pointedly at the cup of coffee clutched in the lieutenant’s hand.

Switch to decaf, he said dryly. As Bacci blinked down at the mug, Doctor Strange let himself out of the small brick building and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic of Greenwich Village.

Stephen hadn’t made it two steps out of the police department before he felt an insistent pressure against the inside of his skull. Though the sensation was an unpleasant one, the presence that attended it was warm and familiar. He dropped the psychic shield—his usual precaution when he left home—and telepathically greeted his assistant, Wong. Though he probably would have looked distracted to anyone watching him, Stephen’s lips did not move as he and his friend conversed over the distance of half a mile.

Yes, Wong? Is all well? I’m leaving the police station now.

Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that we have a visitor.

Stephen stepped off the sidewalk onto a narrow parking ramp between two row houses and a six-story brick apartment building. I’ll be right there. Glancing at the garage entrance to make sure no one was watching, he opened a portal to his living room and stepped through.

Wong, as always, had directed the guest’s attention toward the Richter painting, so Stephen was able to enter the room behind them without immediately frightening a stranger with a demonstration of dimensional transportation.

Rubbing his hands, which had started to ache, Stephen tried to hold back the assault of psychic information streaming off the woman standing beside his friend. Wong liked to introduce people as a formality, more for their sake than Stephen’s. Stephen cleared his throat, and Wong turned, gently guiding the woman to do the same.

This is Dr. Sharanya Misra of the Baxter Foundation, Wong began, with a decorous nod to his friend and employer. Dr. Misra, this is Dr. Stephen Strange.

Stephen smiled, and the woman smiled back, but the pleasantry did not reach her eyes. She appeared to be in her late 20s, her shiny dark-brown hair pulled back from a square-shaped face in a sleek ponytail. Her dark-brown eyes were attentive, her lips pressed together with barely contained