Lair of Dreams
George’s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest.
Ling’s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain.
And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: “Ling Chan—Wake. Up.”
Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream.
Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George’s prized track medal.
The crowded bus was standing room only as it lurched down Fifth Avenue across steaming manhole covers, dodging New Yorkers bundled up against the stiff winter wind, but Henry was jolly. He gripped the hand loop and whistled “Rivière Rouge” to the amusement of two young girls giggling in the seats below him, and to the annoyance of the driver, who barked that he could either whistle or walk, his choice.
“Out!” the driver said, stopping the bus ten blocks shy of Henry’s destination.
“You’ll be sorry when I’m famous,” Henry said. He waved to the still-giggling girls at the window and carried on.
Nothing could dampen his good mood, not even the long wait for the ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal. As he watched the hustle and bustle around him, Henry tried to imagine Louis’s expression as he stood for the first time beside the lighted ball of the Grand Central clock, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen on the riverboats. Louis was finally coming to New York. They could be together. That thought buoyed Henry further as he approached the ticket agent’s window.
“I need one ticket from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Grand Central Terminal, please,” Henry said.
“You want the New York and New Orleans Limited,” the ticket agent said.
“You want a ticket or a booking agent, kid?”
Henry handed over the collection of crumpled bills he’d taken from Theta’s coffee-can piano fund. She’d be pretty sore when she found out he’d dipped into it. But he’d promised Louis a ticket, and besides, Theta would want him to be happy. She’d understand. The piano fund could be rebuilt in a few months’ time, and all would be forgiven.
“You need a return ticket?” the agent asked.
Henry smiled. “Not if I’m lucky.”
At the post office, Henry packed the train ticket, his letter, and a photograph of him in his best suit standing arm in arm with Theta outside the New Amsterdam Theatre into an envelope. His stomach gave a small flip as the postal clerk stamped the words Par Avion on the front of the envelope, inking Henry’s hope into it. He couldn’t wait until tonight, when he could see Louis again and tell him the good news.
“Afternoon, Miss Proctor,” Henry said, pressing the elevator button. “Please do forgive me. I’m afraid I’m in an awful rush—”
“Oh, but Mr. DuBois, I’ve been having the most dreadful dreams about you.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it, Miss Proctor. But as you can see, I’m just fine.”
“No. No, I don’t believe you are, young man. Don’t you hear the crying? Oh, do be careful, Mr. DuBois!”
“Adelaide!” Miss Lillian called from the other side of the lobby. “We’ll be late!”