Brooding City: Brooding City Series Book 1 (7 page)

The shuttle carried
Brennan around the city rim to the far side of Odols.

He disembarked a short distance from the pharmacy where Zachariah Nettle had worked. The store was a few blocks from Nettle’s apartment, still part of the same rough neighborhood. Unsavory types leaned against rundown buildings and eyed him suspiciously as he passed, but he walked with purpose and kept his head down, and he felt their attention wane and shift away. Brennan soon arrived at his destination, a brightly lit building with glass double doors.

It was one of the chain convenience stores with a pharmacy in the rear corner. He entered and walked straight to the back, approaching the assistant at the counter.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Hey, I’m gonna need a patch of NicoClean.”

“One patch?” the young pharmacist asked. “We only provide them in packs of fifteen and thirty.”

“Fine,” Brennan said. “Give me a fifteen-pack.”

“I’ll need your prescription first.”

Brennan made a show of patting his pockets. “I don’t have one of those.” His hand slapped the wallet in his pocket and his eyes widened in mock surprise. He flipped it open and smacked it down on the counter, his silver badge showing prominently. “But hey, I’ve got this. Police business. Go get me a box.”

“I—I don’t know if I can do that,” the pharmacist stammered.

“I’m a detective,” Brennan said solemnly. “And you’re about to be brought in for obstructing a police investigation.”

“We have generic brands that you—” He was silenced by Brennan’s glare. The young man gulped visibly, then turned and disappeared behind a shelf. A moment later, he returned with a box of NicoClean, one with thirty patches.

“Here you go,” he said. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

“Not if you keep your nose clean and your head down.” Brennan held his stare for a moment more, then retrieved his badge from the counter and stalked out of the pharmacy.

Once he was outside again, he stepped under the light of a streetlamp and looked critically at the box. It was standard in every way, with a Surgeon General’s warning on the back. He broke the seal and took a single patch from the box; it was square-shaped, about the thickness of a credit card, and wrapped in clear plastic. It looked like any other patch.

So who would buy them in bulk?
Brennan wondered.
And why kill the supplier?

He put the patch in one of his pockets, then carried the box in one hand as he walked back toward the shuttle station. It was a quiet night; the moon was full and low on the horizon, and it inched its way over the city’s towering skyline. A pair of cats were getting it on in an alley; he didn’t care to look, and he quickened his pace a bit.

He wasn’t paying attention when a lead pipe slammed him from behind.

It didn’t
quite
hit his neck—the blow landed across his broad shoulders—but it hurt enough to stun him. He staggered forward and fell to the ground, his arms only partially absorbing the damage. A moment passed where he was kicked in the ribs and the box was ripped from his grasp, then he rolled to the side and lurched to his feet.

The lead pipe was wielded by a younger man with a red and white Badgers cap, maybe in his late twenties. His partner, holding the box of NicoClean, circled around Brennan to flank him. Badgercap swung the lead pipe in his hand and lunged at Brennan with a savage cry.

Brennan took a glancing blow to the arm and spun with the swing of the pipe, grabbing the man by the wrist and hurling him bodily at his partner. The throw was poorly aimed, and the other man dodged as Badgercap flailed and nearly brained him with the lead pipe. He dropped the box of patches and brought his fists up to bear. His punches were direct and connected, but Brennan was a much larger man, and the blows caused bruises instead of broken bones. Brennan covered his head as the boxer tried to break through the defense, his fists landing on hard flesh and layered muscle.

Meanwhile, Brennan edged toward the rising moon.

If he could put himself between his attackers and the shuttle station, he could make a run for it. His size meant that fights tended to go in his favor, but he didn’t like his chances going toe-to-toe with two prepared assailants. The lead pipe gave them a distinct advantage, too. His shoulders twinged painfully, and he couldn’t raise his arms any higher than his face. He had to end this fight while Badgercap was still out of it.

He focused on the boxer and closed the distance. There was almost a rhythm to the punches, and he tried to gauge their timing. He took a blow high on his shoulder and closed to within inches, too close to be hit effectively. Brennan drove a knee into the man’s groin, and the boxer’s face twisted in agony. As he bent over protectively, Brennan brought his elbow down upon the man’s neck, knocking him to the ground.

The lead pipe cracked across the back of Brennan’s knees.

              His legs crumpled with a sickening pop, and he shouted out a curse. Pain coursed through his legs and his vision turned blood red. He was seeing scarlet as Badgercap lifted his beaten friend to his feet. He held the end of the lead pipe against Brennan’s chest.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Badgercap growled, his voice hoarse as he breathed heavily through his mouth. “Stay clear of Leviathan.”

Brennan brushed the pipe away and received a blow to the head for it. The cold pipe pressed against his chest again.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” the armed man said. “Keep out of our business, and we will see that you are rewarded for your wise choice. I will not be so lenient the second time.” He paused to take a swift kick at Brennan’s injured side. “Tell your partner, the little blonde chick, that
this
is a message. We’ve got our bases covered, and you’ve struck out.”

He swung the lead pipe again, and Brennan saw stars.

He had been knocked Looney Tunes senseless, sure, but now he saw actual stars as he sprawled onto his back. Thousands upon thousands of blurry pinpoints of light suspended millions of miles away. They weren’t supposed to be blurry, but his eyes refused to focus properly. His head was killing him, and he couldn’t even lift his arms to cradle it. He could only listen with one good ear as Badgercap and his crony took off. They took the box of NicoClean with them.

Sometime later, he regained his sense of self. He could think clearly enough to know to get up. It was raining lightly. It must have been falling for a while now, since his clothes and jacket were plastered to his skin. He stood unsteadily and took quick steps to lean against the nearest lamppost. His ribs ached, and each intake of breath was fire in his chest. His shoulders were stiff as a corpse; he could barely lift his arms out straight, and shrugging would be a chore for the next few days. The sidewalk swayed beneath him as he walked like a drunkard down the street. The shuttle station lay ahead, and he knew where he had to go from there—if his body held together long enough.

As with any
garden, the most remarkable thing about the Jardin des Anges was its flowers.

Tourists came annually from all across the States to look upon the gardens. Every color imaginable was found in the petals of the Jardin, and the quietude created by the enclosure was one of the most serene and romantic settings in the country. One could hardly walk along its cobbled lanes without being awestruck. A secret garden flourished when the winds were harshest and the temperature was at its lowest. It was the reason for which the Jardin had earned its name.

But the Jardin which Jeremy visited in his dream was its summery sister, the same one he had first witnessed in his father’s memory.

He walked along the cobblestone paths with bare feet. It was smooth and cool to the touch, despite the warm sun high overhead. As he walked, his ankles were tickled by slender vines that had overgrown their assigned plots of land. He moved quietly among the peaceful gardens, and he soon found himself padding softly on an earthen path deep in the Jardin.

A jade beetle hummed its wings and flew across Jeremy’s path, less than an inch from his face. He flinched away from it, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw an older gentleman turning the corner ahead and disappearing out of view.

It was odd, because there had been nobody in front of him a moment ago. He hurried after the man, and as he turned he saw a dark coattail flit around another corner. Jeremy followed the gentleman through the maze of the deep Jardin, always a second too slow to see his face.

He paid no attention to where he was going until his feet landed upon solid stone. It was not the cobblestone of the earlier paths, nor the packed earth he had just left. Somehow, without realizing it, he had walked straight into some lower floor of the building that stood beside the Jardin.

“Old man!” he called. His voice echoed loud and long, and he flinched at the sudden idea that he might not be welcome here. “Old man,” he said more quietly, addressing the nearby hallway juncture.

“I’m not that old,” came a reply.

A man of middling height, equal to Jeremy’s own, stepped out from a connecting hallway. His hair was white and short around the temples, and deep grooves were worn into the fabric of his face. He was dressed to the nines, an impeccable suit that one might wear to the opera—if the performance were taking place a hundred years ago. His eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses and bushy eyebrows.

No way he ran that fast
. Jeremy fought to catch his breath as he stared incredulously. The old man wasn’t even winded.

“You have the most curious dreams,” the man said without preamble, shifting his attention to look out the window.

Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Jardin des Anges. Beautiful place, just beautiful.” The old man turned to stare directly at him. “But you have never been here.”

Jeremy didn’t know how to respond to that. It was true, but there was no way the old man could know.
He’s a figment of your imagination,
one part of him rationalized, and he nodded. It made sense. But then why would he imagine this blind man?

“Your head,” the man continued, “is so full of memories. Too full. How
ever
did you manage that?”

Jeremy was uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Who are you?” he asked. “Have we met before?”

The old man barked out a laugh. “No,” he said, “and I suppose this is all rather strange to you. I appear as I wish and I have many names. But you may call me Benjamin.”

“All right, Ben. How did you get here?”

“I walked here, just as you did.”

“Not the building,” Jeremy said, frustrated. “I mean, how did you appear in my dream?”

“You know you are dreaming?” Benjamin asked. His white eyebrows raised slightly. “Few people are lucid dreamers.”

Jeremy shrugged. “As you said, I’ve never been here before, and I’m
certainly
not here now.”

“But your father has been here?” Benjamin asked.

He ignored the probing question. “You’re changing the subject.”

“As are you.”

“Why are you here? Answer my question!”

“You are…
unique
, Jeremy.”

He shivered at the sound of his name; he had never given it to the old man.

“You are unique,” Benjamin continued, “just as I am. You ask who I am, and I will tell you.” He moved in closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I am a Sleeper.”

If that simple statement was meant to unnerve him, it worked. Sleepers were fairy tales, ghost stories, the kind of thing that little children played about because they were simply too unreal. The fable went that Sleepers could enter the dreams of anyone they wished, tormenting them or driving them to madness. Men with tinfoil hats claimed that there was a ward in the hospital for such Fractured minds.

If what Old Ben said was true, Jeremy was in deep trouble.

“I can see what you are thinking,” the old man said softly. “And I must tell you that it is false, all of it. I am not the boogeyman come to steal your dreams, nor am I the maker of madmen. If it helps, you may think of us as the Dream Police.”

Jeremy wasn’t sure if he believed him. His heart calmed a little, though, and he had not yet run away from the man.

“You do not believe me,” Benjamin said, seemingly reading his thoughts. “I do not blame you. Perhaps a demonstration is in order?”

Before Jeremy could say another word, the floor and walls shook violently around them. Ancient dust shifted loose from the ceiling overhead, and the stones that formed the foundation of the wall vibrated dangerously in place. It was like a great, rumbling earthquake had suddenly overtaken the Jardin des Anges, prepared to swallow them up in an instant.

With sickening abruptness, they were no longer in that stretch of hallway.

Jeremy looked out over a field of peonies, a green landscape dotted with innumerable blooms of pink and red and orange. The flowers swayed in the gentle breeze, and he smelled their collective aroma carried on the wind.

“We use our power for good, Jeremy.” The field of flowers disappeared in a blur of colors, as if Van Gogh were given free rein of this ride, and the two of them were suddenly standing aboard one of the shuttles, back in Odols. There was only one other man sitting in the car, and he was bleeding from a cut on his lip. “But there are few of us, and the darkness grows,” Benjamin continued. “Odols is not as safe of a city as it once was. It is time to recruit, and I am here for you.”

Another disorienting shift in the world, and they now stood in the hallway once more, only a few feet apart. Jeremy could see the heavy lines of Ben’s face even more clearly. They were the marks of a hard life, one fraught with danger and darkness…

And purpose.

“Who was that man?” Jeremy asked.

“A former agent of mine, turned away from our order by doubt and selfish desires.” Benjamin peered at him through the dark glasses as if he could see perfectly well. “These are not traits that I sense in you.”

“You want me…to be like you? To become a Sleeper?”

“Not right away,” Old Ben said. “There will be years before that is necessary. You are yet uneducated, untrained. I am simply here to tell you that, when your schooling is finished, you have a place here.” Silence hung in the air between them for several seconds.

“You said that I was special
like you
,” Jeremy said slowly. “How are you special?”

“I do not speak lightly of what I can do,” Benjamin said curtly. “It is a valuable asset. It is why
you
have not yet acknowledged what you are capable of.”

“Fair enough. Truth for truth?”

Benjamin nodded. “Trust is a bridge that extends both ways.”

“Fine.” Jeremy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can…see other people’s memories. Kind of like I’m downloading their entire lives into my brain.”

The pinched lines around Benjamin’s eyes sharpened. “As I suspected.”

“You already knew?” he asked incredulously.

“The last time you fell asleep, your dreams lit up like a beacon. You have so very,
very
many memories in that head. When that kind of number is accumulated, the memories are usually fuzzy and gray, aged alongside the person who holds them. But yours…” Ben said, waving a finger. “Each one of yours was crisp and fresh, like a freshly fallen autumn leaf. And so
vivid
. They were as new to you as breakfast this morning. It was this anomaly that attracted me,” he said simply.

The two of them stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Dream time moved very differently from waking time. Their entire conversation could have taken place in the first few moments of him passing out in bed.

“And how are you special?” Jeremy finally asked. Old Ben shrugged.

“I am a Pathfinder. I find things, and people.”

“And paths?”

Benjamin laughed. “Exactly.”

Jeremy asked the question that had been on his mind since the Tower. “How can I do what I do? What made me get like this?”

“You make it sound like a disease,” Benjamin said. His eyebrows knitted together into a solid line. “Nobody knows for certain what sets us apart. The hand of God? A mutation in our genes?”

“But I haven’t always been like this,” Jeremy protested. “All of this started when I hit my head a couple days ago. Could brain trauma be the cause of all this? Am I just imagining everything in my head?”

Old Ben smiled wanly. “I should hope not, or else I might find myself quoting the late Albus Dumbledore.”

“He’s a fictional character.”

“Yes, a figment of one author’s imagination. Why should that make him any less real?” He smiled ruefully. “You forced my hand.”

Jeremy didn’t smile. “You still haven’t told me anything. Why are we like this?”

Benjamin shrugged. “Why does it matter? We are who we are, whether by another’s hand or our own. Scores of men have searched their entire lives for the meaning of life, the
why
, and many more have quested after the
how
.” He folded his hands over his cane. “I am content with knowing that I
am.
”

Jeremy digested the old man’s words. “And everyone who is a Sleeper, they’re all special like us?”

“Not everyone,” Benjamin said. “There are others with powers such as ours, though they are few in number. Any individual with sufficient willpower could learn to do what Sleepers do. But
our
abilities appear to be from a different set of gifts entirely.”

“Finding things…forgive me for saying so, but that doesn’t sound like such a great gift.”

“We do not choose the gifts we are given,” Benjamin said. “In any case, I found you.”

Jeremy lifted his chin. “I’m a beacon. That’s different.”

“Do not let your head swell too big for your shoulders.”

“So what exactly would I do as a Sleeper? I’ve heard only bad things, and that was when I still thought you were just a bedtime story. If even half of it is true—”

“We do what is necessary to protect this city,” Benjamin said tightly. “There are forces that are simply too powerful and mysterious to be handled by the police. We are the self-appointed protectors of the people.”

“That’s a great pitch, but I meant day-to-day,
what will I be doing
?”

Old Ben seemed to contemplate this question for a long moment before answering. “There is no right or wrong in this world, Jeremy. You must understand that in order to bring balance to others, we must first find balance within ourselves. This will not be an easy life, nor one filled with thanks from those you help—they will never even know you were there. You will make hard choices, decisions that will leave others bereft of their autonomy. But with my guiding hand, you will accomplish great deeds and protect countless innocents during your service.”

“That still doesn’t answer—”

“You will kill. You will maim. You will steal, lie, and deceive. Nobody will know who you are, or what you do, or when or where you will strike next. It is a dangerous life, but one that is necessary for the continued survival of this city. The people will never acknowledge your sacrifices, and they will continue to fear and despise the myth that you represent.”

There was a pregnant pause before Benjamin spoke again.

“Do you have what it takes?” he asked.

Jeremy stared at him for a long moment. “You need to work on your sales pitch.”

“It is not typical for so many questions to be asked so early on.” Benjamin’s head tilted as he seemed to consider something off to the side. “I fear I must be going now. Time is short, and I have many more to contact before the night is through. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Collector.”

Jeremy frowned at the title, but he decided not to ask any more questions. He felt Benjamin had told him all he would. “Nice meeting you, too, Benjamin.”