Wonderland
Initium

1

"I've never understood this American obsession with coffee bars," Kelly Brooke murmured, balancing the Styrofoam cup in her fingertips as if it were a form of Zen meditation, "It's so faux chic, as if drinking beverages with fancy European names from crummy paper cups elevate them to higher social status."

The middle-aged man across from her grinned, emphasizing his dimples and the worry lines creased around his eyes and mouth. He had slightly thinning, short-cropped spiky brown hair, a hatchet face, and cool blue eyes that made Brooke think of icebergs. "What?" he asked in mock-hurt, his voice twangy, "Do you guys live just to criticize us? It's damn fine coffee, and need I remind you that you're here, too?"

"Nothing wrong with coffee," Brooke shrugged, the words rolling with her British accent, "I've learned to like it well enough. After all, you mostly can't get a decent cup of tea in the States. It's just this place, the McDonalds' of coffee, and just as classy."

"Simple pleasures, hon," John Dawson replied lightly, taking a sip of pure, unadulterated Black Coffee. "Simple pleasures."

"Mmmhmmm."

Dawson chuckled, running his eyes over the young woman as she turned to look out the heavily tinted windows at the university campus outside. She had quiet, vaguely Mediterranean features, with a slender nose, a mouth too large and sensual for her girlish features, and dark eyes beneath perfect, quizzically set eyebrows. Glossy black hair, tucked behind her ears, framed a face that was a little too pale. Even when she was upset, Brooke had this slightly drowsy look that Dawson was learning to love.

Today, she was wearing a low-cut black cashmere sweater under a dark purple jacket, looking imminently more comfortable than Dawson did in his suit-and-tie business costume. A heavy gold ring with a green stone sat upon her finger which, as Brooke commented once, left a lovely black and blue mark on someone when she hit them. It was her only adornment.

Brooke set down her cup, and Dawson caught the flash of color on her right wrist as it slid out of the jacket sleeve. "Where'd you get that?" he inquired, taking her hand and turning the palm upwards to bare the blue rose tattooed there. "I saw it before and meant to ask."

Brooke felt a warm shiver as his thumb brushed against the soft flesh of her wrist. Tucking a hand against her cheek, her expression turned coy. "Umm, there's a bit of a story there."

Dawson released her hand and shrugged, taking another swig of coffee. "Up to you."

Brooke smiled and glanced back out the window as the wind kicked up, faintly rattling the glass. The climate of Tucson was a wild change from home, and the arid chill of the winters here was something she was still adapting to.

"There was a pub my friends and I would go to," she explained slowly, "In lower Manchester . A shitty place really, but they had good bands. A lot of punks and skinheads and assholes would hang out there, and the place got raided nightly for drugs or prostitutes or whatever. But the party kept going . . . "

"I went there because it was different," Brooke shrugged, sipping from her cup, "I was too young to be there, but what the hell, right? There were always blokes offering drinks for a quick fuck, or coke or smack or whatever shit they had. After a while, the regulars took me in, so I wouldn't get myself raped or something."

"One night everybody got good and drunk, myself included. Mike and Bobby were a couple of old queens I hung out with a lot, real nice guys. They took me one of the little hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlors down the street a bit." She smiled, brushing idly at the hair at her temples. "It was dark and claustrophobic, and the place scared the shit out of me, especially when the man came out to work on me. Huge, hairy bloke. I wanted to run; Mike and Bobby thought it was hilarious. But he was quite nice. Even gentle."

"You don't seem like the type of girl to hang out in sleazy bars," Dawson commented.

Brooke smiled slyly, breaking the girlish façade. "You don't know me yet."

"So what did your dad think of all that?" Dawson asked, feeling a prickle of warmth in his stomach. He already knew better than to ask about her mother's reaction, and didn't want to trigger another world-weary tirade from Brooke about it.

Taken back by the question, Broke set her empty cup down and nudged it away slightly with a thoughtful look. Something like muted sadness crossed her features before she wiped it away, shrugging.

2

Fifteen-year-old Kelly Brooke was a waif in a black lace and velvet outfit she'd pieced together over the course of a few months from friends and disreputable shops far and wide. It was set off by the occasional glint of tarnished metal or jewelry. Her hair was streaked purple, and she wore far too much eye makeup for her wan complexion. She stank of cigarettes and alcohol. If she ever ate, you couldn't tell it. But she was happy in her own peculiar way, and too incorrigible to be dissuaded.

One of the things Kelly liked about her house, tucked at the end of a lonely cul-de-sac on Sycamore Avenue , was its peacefulness. It was part of the last gasp of development back when manufacturing fueled the city, brand new in nineteen-sixty-something and a little quaint now. But unlike the old house in the country, teeming with ghosts, Sycamore was sterile and quiet. Whatever plagued her there hadn't followed, and there seemed to be precious few in this neighborhood. Or perhaps she'd simply learned to stop seeing them by now. Or perhaps mum and Dr. Lichtman were right, and Kelly was a fucked up little girl imagining things.

Maybe it was the lack of history here. Or perhaps the dullness of this part of town kept them at bay. Posh though it was, it was absolute monotony, the last bastion of well-to-do businesspeople commuting to and from Greater Manchester. Lots of prim and proper housewives like her mother, lots of tediously expensive cars in driveways. After three years in this home, Kelly thought she would have grown accustomed, but she was still nauseated by it.

Any hopes Kelly had of an easy entrance faded when she stepped inside and saw the lights on in Dad’s study. It shone against the lacquered tile in the entryway and dimly illuminated the den, where Madeline’s books were scattered about in a mess. Poor Maddy with so much schoolwork, even during the holidays. Poor Maddy, the pretty one, the bright one. The one with the bloody car and her own place and who never got bitched at. Yeah. Poor fucking Maddy.

“Kelly?”

She turned sulkily, and a little guiltily, toward the sound of Dad’s voice. He stood in the doorway to the study, a dim silhouette of her father against a roomful of books. Rather tall, her father, with kind brown eyes, graying hair swept to one side, and a neat beard. He was still dressed in business black and white, which meant he was working late. Again.

Kelly stuffed her hands into her pickets to conceal the bandage and cocked her head downwards slightly so she didn’t have to look directly at him. Instead, he got an eyeful of her bob of shiny black and purple hair. She didn’t want to talk to him right now. Explanations and fatherly advice could wait until later, right?

“Kelly.” Dad wasn’t going away. He let her get away with shit, but when he wanted to talk, he wanted to talk. But his voice was soft. Kelly always thought her father had a young voice.

“Yeah, Dad,” she sighed, looking up at him through her bangs. He was leaning against the doorframe now, hands in pockets, as if in imitation of her. The light from the lamp on his desk caught in the lenses of his glasses and distorted, obscuring his eyes. Kelly rocked her hips slightly, trying to think of something to say that would divert his attention. “Working late?”

“Yeah,” he answered lightly, “I much prefer it over being poor.”

Kelly smirked. How could she argue with that?

Smiling soberly, Dad slid the watch out of his pocket and flipped it open in a meaningful show of checking the time. The watch gleamed like mercury even in the dim light of the entry, and Kelly could make out the familiar black pattern etched into the surface from here. “It’s two in the morning,” he murmured, replacing the watch.

“Good Lord, I had no idea,” Kelly remarked, mimicking her mother.

“Don’t do that, Kelly, ” Dad countered gently, “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

Kelly glanced away, hoping he’d let her get to bed with only this mild a reproach. In the few moments that followed, accompanied somewhere by the muffled ticking of his watch - which she imagined she could hear, if she strained enough - she almost thought he might. But he cleared his throat and spoke again, more quietly, “Come on, Kelly, I want to talk to you.”

Reluctantly, she shuffled past him into the study, hands still stuffed in her jacket pockets. She had to squint against the glare of the lamp, an ugly old brass thing with a green shade that belonged on an accountant’s desk, and which Dad had a soft spot for. Instead, she glanced around at the walls of books and knick-knacks, sorely missing his old study, the center of her childhood universe, spent talking, playing and reading in isolation. That place was so burned into her mind that this room still seemed alien to her somehow.

Dad closed the door, a sure sign of a long talk to come. Circling around, he sat behind his desk, whereupon his computer sat amongst a sea of blueprints, mail and Bible-thick manuals. The air tasted of smoke from his pipe, which Kelly idly hoped would conceal the scent of beer and cigarettes on her body. “Come on,” he sighed, gesturing to a plush chair across from him, “Enough sulking. Sit down.”

Rolling her eyes, Brooke ambled over to the chair and plopped down in it, folding her arms over her chest to hide the bandage. Dad smiled tiredly as he studied her for a long moment before speaking. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out,” Kelly replied curtly, “Where else?”

“Cut the shit,” Dad countered mildly, “Where?”

Kelly blinked in surprise. Certainly, she’d heard him curse before when on the phone with clients or the otherwise nameless men at his company, but never with she and her sisters - and probably mum as well. It was one of those things that belonged to her father’s private life, dim shadow that it was. “Jack’s,” she stammered, “Down by the Salford Lads Club.”

“Lovely part of town,” Dad commented.

“Yeah. Great for tourists.”

Dad sighed, drumming his fingertips against the one spot of bare wood available on the desktop. She turned her head to look at the corner of the desk, where she’d gouged out a chunk years ago by whittling away with one of mum’s butter knives. Kelly found it strangely reassuring that it was still there.

“Would you like a drink?” Dad offered, lugging open one of the desk drawers to produce a half-empty bottle of Sherry and some glasses.

“Does mum know you’ve got that?” Kelly inquired, cocking her head in bemusement.

“No,” Dad replied, pouring both glasses, “So it’s our secret. Alright?”

Frowning, Kelly took the drink that was offered to her without thinking. As her hand clasped around the glass, Dad’s fingers trailed over the surface of the bandage. His fingernails made a raspy sound against the gauze. She flinched at the sound and stopped, catching his questioning look. But Dad just took his own drink, looking at her over the rim as he held it up.

"Why the drinks?” Kelly asked tentatively, hoping to change the subject.

"It's been a long night," her father explained gently as he turned his glass slowly around in his fingers, pausing only to take a small sip, "And I could use one. Besides, I know you've been drinking for a while now, don't act so surprised."

Holding her glass in both hands, Kelly took a few sips of the sweet amber liquor. It was a new flavor to her, and seemingly rather light after the beers she'd had that evening. Her eyes were drawn back to the notch of missing wood on his desk, and she stroked the sides of the glass with her fingertips.

"I remember when you were six," Dad murmured softly, leaning back in his chair, "And I read you the Velveteen Rabbit as a bedtime story. You cried and cried, and I couldn't stop you. So I read you the Arabian Nights instead . . . " A pause for him to take a sip, and he rested his head in the corner of his chair's high, padded back. "And when Erin wanted a puppy, you begged us not to because you knew he'd die someday. And that was something you couldn't stand."

Brow furrowing in hurt, Kelly lowered her gaze.

"You've always been different," Dad sighed, "But I never loved you any less. I've always considered you special. You're more like me than your mother or your sisters . . . Hell, you're better than me in some ways . . . "

"Dad," Kelly croaked, setting her glass on the desk.

The two of them were quiet for the longest time, with little other than the low whisper of wind outside the house. Somewhere upstairs, Madeline and Erin were sleeping snugly in bed, blissfully comfortable within the confines of their lives. Dad's self-reproach stirred the pain in Kelly more than any reprimand could.

"Let me see," Dad said finally, holding his hand out, "Did you hurt yourself?"

Kelly shook her head, still not looking directly at him. He motioned again with gentle insistence, and she languidly stretched her arm out for his examination. "No, Dad," she said in a thin voice, making a half-hearted effort to sound tough and condescending. "I got a tattoo."

Nodding slightly, Dad clasped her wrist with a warm, delicate grip. Amidst his daughter's scathing sarcasm and gloomy detachment, he sometimes forgot just how fragile Kelly was. She looked up sharply as he peeled back the bandage and tried to withdraw her arm, but he kept hold of her. The blue rose was etched clear and sharp on the puffy, inflamed flesh of her wrist, and his eyes traced over the thorned stalk to the bloom of the flower.

"That must've hurt," Dad remarked, flashing a small smile.

Kelly quivered slightly as she tried to keep still. "Yeah. A little."

A faded grin touched Dad's features and he carefully replaced the bandage. The skin underneath felt hot and strangely tingly, like a bad sunburn. Kelly watched him in confusion, her arm frozen in its outstretched position, before slowly pulling it back to hug herself. "I think you picked a good one," Dad offered, "It's beautiful. Blue roses don't exist in nature, you know; they're a symbol of uniqueness, the supernatural . . . "

"Yeah, Dad," Kelly interrupted, embarrassed, "I remember. You told me that before."

Dad lapsed into silence, massaging his right temple to work out a growing headache. This time he took a fair gulp of sherry, looking from Kelly's wan face to the papers on his desk and the flickering light of the Windows 95 screensaver. "Let's talk like adults then," he suggested, setting the glass on the desk, "Since you're all grown up now."

Kelly flinched, and turned her head to the side to avoid his eyes.

3

"So you can see them," Dawson stated in his raspy drawl, matter-of-fact, as the two of them strolled down the paved walkway encircling the university concourse. It was early evening and traffic was scarce, most students having scattered in search of supper or a cozy place to hang out. Nobody paid them much attention as they passed by, looking for all the world like a student and her professor out for a walk between classes. Which, she supposed, they were.

Still, Dawson earned a few strange looks. He'd loosened his tie and opened his collar up a bit, but even without a coat he seemed comfortable enough in the frigid air. Earlier, outside the café, she'd felt that strange, inward tug again when Dawson did his mumbo-jumbo and cloaked himself in warmth. If Brooke strayed close enough to him, she could still feel the heat radiating off of him like a halo, and he smelled faintly of smoke and sulfur. Nice trick.

"You still with me?" Dawson asked, looking over at her with a smile.

Brooke glanced up, her scarf fluttering as the wind caught it. She shrugged. "Yeah."

"You're thinking about the trick I showed you in the alley."

"Yeah," she frowned, "That's right."

Grinning, Dawson slid his hands into his pockets. His eyes lingered on the young woman beside him as she looked ahead of her again, watching the way her hair bounced against her shoulders as she walked. Such a serious expression she had now, so deep in thought. "Most people shit their pants the first time they see real magic, but you took it in stride. How come?"

Brooke shrugged again. "Most people ignore the strange and unusual. I myself am strange and unusual . . . Nothing much surprises me anymore." She wrinkled her nose slightly. "And you still smell like a walking chem factory."

Dawson chuckled, somewhat chagrined by the reminder. Since the stink of his magic wasn't real, the wind wouldn't carry it away. But the lilac and vanilla fragrance of Brooke's perfume helped wash it out, though she probably wasn't conscious of her own scent. Most women weren't. "Yeah. It's a side effect of how I work the spell I showed you. That kinda thing comes with the territory."

"You know," she smiled teasingly, "Most people just use a coat or sweater."

"Yeah, well," he replied dryly, "I don't visit the real world too much."

"I know what you mean," Brooke murmured. She stepped away from him, as if walking around something only she could see, before returning to his side. Dawson eyed her in mixed puzzlement and amusement, wondering if she was pulling his leg. But her expression remained serious. "So what's with this suit and tie business?" she inquired, half-turning to look at him.

"What?" His eyebrows went up. "You have a problem with my fashion sense now?"

Brooke grinned. "It's pretty drab. Doesn't seem fitting for a magician."

"Just looking to fit in," Dawson explained, "That's all. Seemed appropriate. You do best not to attract attention, even when you're not working magic. There's plenty out there looking for us as is, no need to wave a red flag in front of 'em."

The young woman glanced at him. "Yeah, it's freezing out and you're sweating. Clever."

Dawson smirked. "And 'sides, it's a habit. I used to dress like this all the time."

Brooke chuckled under her breath, flipping her scarf back to protect the delicate skin of her throat from the chilly wind. Between the glossy mass of her hair and the dark red and green fabric of the scarf, the young woman's eyes were sharp and soulful against the white of her face. The rhythm of Dawson 's gait jittered as he turned to look at her, a smile curling her violet lips. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, her gaze off ahead, "It must be miserable."

"Before I awakened, I taught history at the University of Texas in Austin," Dawson explained, looking away, "I had several books out on Native American culture and spirituality, but most people thought I was an accountant by the way I dressed." He shook his head with a weary sigh. "Since then I spend most of my time either in the company of others like us, or on the Siksika Reservation west of here, and neither of 'em have what you'd call a strict dress code. I only dress like this for the occasional job or dealing with the outside world."

"Job? What do you do?" Brooke inquired, looking him over with a faint smile.

Dawson shrugged and ran a hand over his hair. "I'm a researcher for an organization that studies the supernatural. They picked up on me from my work at the college, I s'pose. Quite a few of them are hedge magicians and dabblers, but there aren't that many real mages. So I've got a bit of status, you could say, aside from being an object of curiosity." A wry smile touched his mouth. "I try to keep my distance, but their collections are pretty impressive and hard to resist."

"Mmmmmm." Brooke's smile faded as she looked down at her feet.

Dawson allowed her a moment to drift through her thoughts before he started on his next question. It hadn't taken him long to learn the young woman's stop-start method of conversation. One minute she would engage in a rambling stream-of-consciousness narrative; the next, she slipped into pensive silence, as if drawn away from the moment by her own feelings or a glimpse of something around them. It was a familiar habit from other mages, but schizophrenic as far as the masses were concerned. "Do you have a cigarette, by chance?" she asked, tapping her lower lip hopefully.

"You said you quit," Dawson returned dryly.

Brooke rolled her eyes with a flash of childish petulance, which he found rather cute. When she was mentally present, she wore her heart on her sleeve. "I'm always quitting. Do you have a cigarette or not?"

"I don't smoke," he grinned.

"Bugger."

Dawson chuckled and caught her arm, slowing them both to a stop. "Just a second."

Folding her arms under her breasts, Brooke pivoted to face him with an impatient expression. Dawson knelt down, collected a small twig from along the path and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he held an old fashioned cigarette of hand-wrapped tobacco, which he handed it to her. "Nice trick," Brooke offered, "What about a light?"

"That's your problem."

Brooke sighed and strayed from the walkway to borrow another student's lighter. Dawson eyed her with an amused, rather self-satisfied expression when she returned, but Brooke merely took a hit off the cigarette and continued walking without him. "How long've you been seeing them?" Dawson asked once he caught up to her, hoping to lure her back in with the chance to talk about herself.

She glanced at him with a touch of weariness, frowning at the unusual taste of the cigarette. "For as long as I can remember," she replied evenly, "When I was a child, they were always around me. I took it for granted. My parents considered them to be imaginary friends, and I didn't know what to think, but as I got older I began to realize what they were. Mum and dad just started to think I was 'touched'."

A wry smile crossed Brooke's face. "I read all of my father's and friends' books on the occult or supernatural, ghost stories and gothic novels. Anything I could get my hands on. We moved from Edinburgh to Manchester when I was twelve, and they almost seemed to go away for several years."

"Almost?"

Brooke shook her head and breathed out smoke like a thoughtful dragon, holding her cigarette off to the side. "I'd still see them occasionally, at a distance, but they were hazier than before. And for the most part they didn't bother me. By then, I stopped talking about it, and stopped trying to find them. People thought I was unbalanced enough as it was."

"You mentioned a psychiatrist," Dawson half-commented, half-questioned.

She nodded curtly. "And we're not going to talk about that."

Relenting, Dawson paused a moment to think. "But your dad's death changed things."

"Yes," Brooke nodded, "Not long before you met me."

4

"Tea for the lady," Victoria crooned in a horrible Cockney accent.

Kelly winced against the brilliant sunshine streaming in through the curtains and uttered a groan in reply. The blur of her roommate's willowy body, clad in her gauzy nightgown, swam before her aching eyes. But there was the smell of tea, hot and fresh, and something like cinnamon in the air. Damn Victoria . It was too fucking early to wake up. "Bloody Mondays," Kelly muttered, throwing an arm over her eyes, "Jesus Christ."

"C'mon, precious," Victoria giggled, "Ya got class in an hour. Up and at 'em."

Kelly growled under her breath.

"C'mon now," the other woman grinned, "I made you tea. And there's a cinnamon bun in the microwave with your name on it. Hot enough to burn a hole through your tongue, just the way you like 'em. But ya gotta get up first."

This earned the most put-upon sigh Kelly could muster. "Shit."

Victoria laughed, setting the cup and saucer on the nightstand beside the bed. Kelly took the opportunity to grab a corner of the blankets swirled across their bed and tug them over her head. Victoria once thought that after a few months of this, she'd have gotten tired of Kelly's morning fits. But the woman was so undeniably cute when she was sleepy, that full mouth set in the sweetest of pouts.

"Alright now," Victoria challenged, sliding her hands under the blankets to tickle Kelly's side, "Don't make me come in there. Finals are coming up and we can't both afford to miss class. Besides, your tea's getting cold."

"You're too damn reasonable," a muffled Kelly mumbled from under the blankets, wriggling away to avoid Victoria 's fingers. Sighing, she raised her voice to sound more authoritative. "I can get the notes from Bobby; it's not like Dietz's exams are all that hard to begin with."

"Yeah, yeah. But they're going over what's on the test today, 'member?" Victoria smirked and added her finishing blow. "And it's extra credit straight up just for showing up to class, too."

There was a long pause before Kelly flipped the blankets down to look up at Victoria , knowing she was beaten but hoping to wiggle out of it. The other woman folded her arms over her chest and returned the look with an amused raise of an eyebrow. Petite Kelly was adorable with her hair going every which way. "That's today?"

"Yes, darling," Victoria nodded, "It's today."

"Fuck." Kelly covered her head back up. "Bloody Mondays."

Shaking her head, Victoria whipped the blankets back and gave the young woman a kiss. "No such luck, hon. I've got class, too. So up and at 'em, it's a beautiful day outside and there's goodies galore waiting for ya."

"It's sunny," Brooke countered, "You know I hate sunny."

"You hate everything," Victoria challenged.

"True."

Laughing, Victoria gave her another kiss on the mouth and a hearty shove to get her moving. Kelly curled into a fetal position in response, one hand clawing around in search of the blankets. "C'mon, girl. You're gonna have to fight a hundred other chicks to get a shower on time, so you'd better start early."

Brooke grimaced. "How do you manage to be so reasonable?"

"You like my reasonable," Victoria returned.

"No, I like your body."

Victoria rolled her eyes. "And I thought you loved me for my mind."

"Grrrrrrrrrr," Kelly breathed and rose creakily into a sitting position, combing the wild mess of her hair back behind her with her fingers. Everybody said they loved her hair - black and shiny and ever so soft - but it was just an oily, unruly mop as far as she was concerned. Her eyes, like a hunter's, caught sight of the tea by the bedside and she gingerly collected it for a sip.

"Kel," Victoria observed, "You're nekkid."

The young woman burst into laughter and looked up at Victoria . "Yeah?"

"Were you nekkid last night, or did I miss something?"

"What?" Kelly giggled, "You don't remember that part?"

Victoria sighed. "Drink your tea and go shower, girl."

An hour passed before Kelly shuffled back into their room with a dour expression, decidedly damp and drowned-looking in her clinging bathrobe. Victoria was lounging in the bed, her legs stretching up into the air like some bizarre sculpture, lacing up her knee-high boots. Kelly poured herself another cup of tea from the fire-hazard hot plate on the desk and sauntered toward her, only to catch sight of the blinking message light on the answering machine. "Do you have the ringer off again?" she inquired, changing course to look.

"Why not?" Victoria grunted, pulling her bootlaces tight. "We were busy last night."

Clucking softly, Kelly muttered, "What good is a telephone if you can't hear it?"

She grimaced as she sipped her tea, trying to puzzle out the controls to the answering machine for the nth time. Kelly would rather catch a call, even half-out of breath and pinned down by Victoria , than figure out how to use the bloody machine. When she finally found the right button, she grimaced again at the little whirring noise the thing made. The grating robot voice came next. "You have - " An excruciating pause. "One new message."

"Yeah, yeah," Kelly grumbled, forcing Victoria 's too-strong tea down.

Beep! "Kelly, it's your mother."

Kelly twitched, nearly splashing tea over her front. The tape warbled through a space of silence before her mum's voice came back on, sounding faint and tired. It didn't sound like her; not even the "why me?" tone she reserved particularly for Kelly. "Call me the minute you get this, dear. The number hasn't changed." Beep!

"End messages," intoned the robot voice and Victoria together.

"Bloody Mondays," Kelly sighed, "Of course the number hasn't changed, mother, I just haven't fucking called you."

The young woman stiffened as Victoria 's arms came around her waist, hot breath against the back of her neck. The leather of the blonde's boots creaked as Victoria rocked both of them back and forth, something which always made Kelly vaguely dizzy. "Now's your chance, hon. Sounds important."

"It's BS," Kelly returned, "She's just trying to guilt me into calling."

Victoria shook her head, tickling Kelly's neck and shoulders with her hair. "Mom's don't use that tone unless there's something wrong."

"As far as mum's concerned," Kelly countered, "There's always something wrong."

"Up to you, precious."

5

Brooke's strangled cry startled Dawson out of his sleep.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked over at the young woman beside him. She'd kicked the sheets off of her body at some point, the smooth whiteness of her body gleaming in the faint light from the windows. Brooke was curled into a ball, the ridges of her spine standing out in sharp relief against her back, whining and half-sobbing in the back of her throat.

Dawson shook her shoulder sharply, anxiously calling her name, but she only pulled her body in tighter, trying to shrink away from his touch. Frowning, he muttered a few words under his breath and snapped his fingers. There was a gush of wind, and the doused candles scattered throughout the room sputtered back to flickering light in unison. To Dawson 's surprise, they immediately dimmed and almost extinguished again before gradually regaining brightness.

"Brooke," he called louder, brushing back the curtain of her hair from her face.

She stirred under his touch, one arm twitching in surprise, and quieted. Dawson continued stroking her hair, letting the thick waves sift through his fingers. After a few moments, Brooke rolled onto her back to see him hovering over her, tear trails on her cheeks. At first, her eyes were glazed and confused at the sight of him, and Dawson waited edgily for her to come to her senses. The candles cast a hazy orange light upon the walls of Dawson 's bedroom, upon their naked bodies.

"Are you okay?" Dawson whispered.

Brooke nodded, but fell into coughing as she tried to catch her breath. He scooped her up against the heat of his body. Surprisingly, she was cold to the touch even though she was damp with sweat, and he grimaced as her slender arms came around him. It was quite some time before she warmed to the touch and stopped shuddering with choked, wracking coughs. "I saw him," Brooke breathed into Dawson 's check, "Oh, my God, I saw him . . . he looked so sad . . . "

Dawson frowned, caressing the woman's back. "Saw who?"

"Dad." Brooke clung tightly to Dawson as her voice rose hysterically. "From the bottom of the lake . . . they pulled me under, and I couldn't breathe, but they kept pulling on me . . . Dad was crying 'cos I was dead, 'cos he'd never see me again . . . and I couldn't fucking breathe . . . "

"Shhhhhhh." Dawson squeezed Brooke gently, and grimaced as her fingernails clawed into his back. Slowly, he kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her mouth, until her grip relaxed. The dream catchers hanging from the ceiling swayed and spun from their cords, casting ever-shifting shadows against the wall. "Shhhh. It was just a nightmare, hon. It's okay."

"It's always nightmares," she whispered back, "Never anything else . . . "