She had long dark red hair—a natural auburn. Strands whipped about her face in the wind. Her skin was startlingly white, like a porcelain figurine. It was an outdated look, especially in contrast with the outdoorsy Colorado style to which Betsy was accustomed. Then she realized she was staring at the girl’s green, amber-flecked eyes.
“You are Dr. Path, aren’t you?”
“Yes—I’m sorry,” Betsy said, forcing herself to stop examining the girl’s eyes. “Do we know each other?”
She looked so familiar. Betsy was sure she had seen those features before.
“I am Daisy Hart’s sister, Morgan. May I come in?”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I guess I should have seen the family resemblance.”
Betsy knew she was staring at the young woman, but she couldn’t help it.
“Underneath all that Goth makeup she wears, how could you?” said Morgan.
She frowned, lowering her chin. Her long hair swung down in her face. Then she tossed her glorious mane back behind her ears. Her eyes glittered. Her lips formed a word, but no syllable was uttered.
Betsy stepped aside and let the tall elegant creature enter her office.
“Please sit down, Morgan. So. Daisy’s sister?”
“I am sorry to drop in on you like this, but I’ve come to check up on Daisy. My…dad gave me your contact information.”
“You are from New York, right?”
“Yes, though we live most of the time in Florida now.”
“We?”
The young woman hesitated.
“Dad and I. After the divorce, I chose to stay with my father and Daisy went with my mother.”
“I see.”
Morgan looked around the room. Betsy noticed she focused on the leather-bound books.
“And…?” Betsy let the unspoken question hang. Morgan had come to see her, uninvited; Morgan was going to have to carry this conversation.
“Yes,” she said, reluctant to stop inspecting the house and bookshelves. “Dad and I are really worried about Daisy. I heard she had another choking episode and went to the ER.”
“That was a while ago.”
“Did she say why it happened?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, in therapy, did she say anything that might have triggered the choking? What did she say exactly?”
Betsy sat back in the chair and her fingers sought the end of the armrest. She grasped hard as if she were on a carnival ride.
“You know, I really can’t talk about your sister’s therapy with you. It is confidential.”
The catlike eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “You are trying to help her, right? I mean, she must tell you everything, right? Has she told you the nightmare about the vampire?”
Betsy opened her mouth to answer, but the reply was stillborn in her mouth. It was none of this girl’s business what Daisy said to her in a therapy session.
“We are working together toward discovering the causes of her distress.”
“Distress?” Morgan scoffed. “Is that what she calls it?”
Betsy’s fingernails dug deeper into the fabric. “No, that is what I call it.”
“Well, she’s a spoiled brat,” said Morgan, spitting out the words. Her green eyes narrowed, glinting. “She has been spoiled rotten since the day she was born. I’m sure that the only reason that she is doing this choking thing is to draw more attention to herself.”
Betsy didn’t respond directly. Instead, she asked, “Morgan, are you staying with Jane and Daisy?”
The visitor sniffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Do they even know you’re here?”
“No. I’m just passing through. I leave this afternoon. My father wanted me to check up on Daisy’s…progress. And to meet you.”
Morgan fiddled with her starched white collar. Then she dug in the pocket of her suede jacket, producing a white business card from a tooled leather wallet. “Here. This is her dad’s number.”
“Her dad?” Betsy asked.
Morgan glared at her. “He’s her biological father. I am Jane’s daughter from her first marriage. Anyway, he says that if there are any questions or breakthroughs, call him first. Not Jane.”
“Your mother? You are asking me not to call Jane?”
“Yes. Call him first.”
“I’ve never met your father. I have met Jane. She signed the papers and writes the checks. Daisy lives with her, not with her father.”
“Roger pays you. He’s the one with the money. He can pull her from therapy any time he wants.”
Betsy turned the card over in her hand. “Tell him to call me. I feel uncomfortable with the situation and I feel I should adhere to protocol.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Protocol? Wait! You can’t tell Jane I’ve been here.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t. It will—upset her, and really confuse Daisy. I swear it will.”
Betsy’s mouth tasted sour. She realized she had taken an instant disliking to this attractive young woman. What was it about Morgan that set her on edge?
“You understand that I am under no obligation to do anything you say. My only concern is Daisy.”
Morgan hesitated. The green eyes stared at Betsy, cold and glittering.
“You don’t like me,” she said slowly. “I can sense that. But I have an important question for you. And it might be helpful for Daisy. I wish you would give me an honest answer—”
“What is it? If it’s about your sister, the answer is no. I will not discuss her.”
“No, Dr. Path. You’ve already made that abundantly clear,” said Morgan waving away Betsy’s response. “Just a simple question, nothing to do with Daisy.”
“Go ahead.”
“Is it possible to—I don’t know—inherit or borrow a dream from someone?”
“What are you referring to? I don’t understand the question.”
“Let’s say someone dreams about—say, vampires. Like my sister does. Is it possible for me, say, to pick up that dream?”
Betsy said, “What, catch it like a flu?”
“That’s not what I mean. What if the dream world she has at night is the same as mine. Exactly the same.”
Betsy studied Morgan’s amber-flecked green eyes and recognized an emotion.
Fear.
Betsy hesitated, then nodded.
“People who are close, or who are connected somehow to similar emotional feelings, can have similar dreams as a manifestation of a burden they share, especially if they are exposed to the very same experience.”
Morgan shook her head adamantly. “You don’t understand, Dr. Path. What if the nightmare is the same, exactly the same—a castle—identical characters—ghouls with white faces—”
“You may have heard Daisy describe her dreams and unconsciously picked up the detail and emotion—contaminating, if you will, your own dreams.” Betsy felt as if she had gone too far. She shouldn’t be talking about Daisy even this much.
“If you will excuse me,” said Betsy, rising from her chair, “I am expecting a patient.”
Morgan rose from her chair, following Betsy to the door. Betsy swung it open. A few dead leaves blew in circles on the porch, refugees from the earlier snowstorm.
Morgan frowned, making her way out into the unsettled weather.
“There is one more possibility,” said Betsy, called after her. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to continue this conversation, especially as Morgan was a few steps into the wind. “There is a phenomenon called shared dreaming. A sort of astral traveling, an out-of-body experience. Carl Jung himself believed in synchronous dreaming as part of the collective unconscious.”
Morgan nodded, deep in thought. She jingled the car keys in her hand.
“Roger will be in contact soon,” she said. “Good-bye, Dr. Path.” Then Morgan turned and walked back to her car, patches of snow-packed ice crunching under her boots.
Chapter 10
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 6, 2010
Dr. Grace Path wanted to scream, but the hood covered her mouth and she knew screaming would do no good anyway. No one could possibly hear her. She was in a car, hurtling over a road she couldn’t see.
She had struggled, but it was useless. And now, little by little, her mind began to work again, began to think, began to analyze.
The smooth ride made her certain they were on a motorway. It was a luxury car, she could tell by the purring motor, the leather seats. A heater blasted her with warm air, carrying the scent of a new, expensive automobile.
She could see the flash of headlights occasionally as they filtered through the thin material of the cloth that had been thrown over her head.
The two men in the front seat spoke a language she did not understand. It was not Slovak.
The hood smelled of an old-fashioned scent. What was it? Clean smelling, freshly laundered. Had they used this same hood to kidnap other people?
What could they want with her? She wasn’t rich. There was no chance of ransom.
Lavender. The scent on the hood was lavender. And, even now, even here, her mind noted that “lavender” was the root of “laundry”—the flower was used in the Middle Ages to camouflage odors, protecting precious cloth from mildew. Fresh-washed linen left in the sun, strewn with the flower. From the French. Late fourteenth century.
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Damn it! What could they possibly want with her?
As the hours passed, they ignored her, except to ask if she wanted water. They spoke in heavily accented English.
“Yes, water please,” Grace finally said. She hated to give them the satisfaction, but she was thirsty.
She heard the crackle of a plastic water bottle being opened, and the sloshing of water into some sort of glass.
The car’s overhead light snapped on just for a minute and she felt the presence of a man stretching back toward her from the front seat. Pale translucent fingers pulled the hood a little way off her face, shoving a thin tube toward her mouth.