The Dream Catcher's Daughter Read Free Page A

someone else’s work!”—and mounted it on the wall, right next to a
portrait of a hydra that seemed to grow more heads each time you looked at it.
Signed by the artist, of course.
    Mr. McKinney stood from his desk and
smiled. “Jason, m’boy ! How goes it, son?”
    Jason didn’t answer, because the Guardian,
with only his piercing green eyes visible in the shapeless, inky-black mass of
his form, stared at Jason from a chair just right of his father’s desk. The
chill snaked into Jason’s spine and his lips twitched. Somehow, normies
developed a fight-or-flight reaction to magic. Jason could control it, but it
wasn’t easy.
    “Greetings, Jason, son of Arthur
McKinney,” said the Guardian, his voice deep yet whispery. “Have you yet to
learn a spell?”
    Jason glanced at this father, who smiled
at him with unwanted expectations—things Jason could never hope to meet.
    “No, sir, I haven’t.”
    “But h-he’s learning!” said Mr. McKinney.
“There’s no reason to get hasty, Master.”
    “I’m not your master, Arthur. Call me
Guardian.”
    “Yes, Guardian.”
    Jason looked into the Guardian’s green
eyes. His body seized up, his sides and thighs twitching, pleading Jason to run
or attack. Don’t just stand there, they said. He’ll kill you if don’t do
anything. Part of Jason wanted to believe this, to give in to his normie
instincts. But another part said not to. This part, as he gazed into the
Guardian’s eyes, felt strange. Guilty, almost, though he wasn’t sure why.
    “It puzzles me,” said the Guardian, “that
you would return to work so close to your eighteenth birthday. You will have no
memory of it in less than half a week.” For the longest, most unbearable
stretch of time, no one said anything. In that time, Jason wanted to claw his
own eyes out. But he kept his gaze locked onto the Guardian’s. This twisted
staring contest drew a shift from the shadows around the Guardian’s face—a
smile? “I believe you have something to tell your son, Arthur.”
    “Ah, yes, let me see here...” Mr. McKinney
rifled through the papers on his desk, and held up a sheet of paper inscribed
with a thick block of print. He cleared his throat, and said, “This is the
contract we usually read to those about to retire. In your case, Jason, it says
you have to train someone before you leave.”
    “Ah, I see. Found anyone?”
    “Not yet. But we’ve got a few applicants.
We should know by tomorrow or the day after.” Mr. McKinney skimmed the
document’s print, then handed it to Jason. “Just sign and date the bottom,
son.”
    So Jason did, and hated the scratch of
pen-tip on cheap paper. This is what my death sounds like, he thought.
After dating the contract, he handed it back to Mr. McKinney, who stashed it
away in the top drawer of his desk.
    “Thank you, Jason. You can go home now.”
    “Thank you, Mr. McKinney.” And he turned
to the Guardian. “Thank you, Guardian, Master of my father, Arthur McKinney.”
Another shift in the Guardian’s hood—a lift of the brow? Jason stood and turned
to leave when the Guardian’s voice caught him.
    “Have you any dreams as of late?”
    The smell of rotten chicken salad flooded
his nose. How she came to be was a mystery to him. Not something he wanted to
discuss with the Guardian, especially not with his father present. Especially
since his dreams were supposed to be sealed.
    So without a word, Jason left.
    ***
    Silver Moon Grocery stood nearly center
between downtown and uptown. To the east and west were the residential
areas—east with more of the rundown, slum-like housing. These were the houses
cast in mold and rot instead of paint hues, with glassless windows and
overgrown jungles for front yards. The people who emerged from these houses
wore wife beaters and spaghetti straps. The streets smelled of trash and
cigarette smoke.
    Jason’s house stood just past these
houses, situated between a neighbor and an alleyway. The McKinney house was