Page 18 of Dream Weaver

My heart revved a little at the prospect. But getting helpful information from dreams was even more rare than help from a vortex.

Slowly, I stood and stepped away.

“Good night,” I whispered to the vortex. To the night. Heck, to the whole universe and everything in it. The horses, my family…even that quiet someone who had drifted in and out of my thoughts all evening.

Then I headed back to the house and into my nightly ritual.

“One more story,” Claire, now tucked into bed, begged at the end of the second one of the evening. “The one about dream weaving.”

I stroked her cheek gently, regretting the day I’d told her that story passed down from my father’s side of the family — the one about special people with special powers whose dreams bridged all the way over from night to day, ensuring happy endings to big problems.

Probably just a story, but sometimes, I had to wonder.

“Not tonight, sweetie.” Kissing her forehead, I lay down beside her.

The ceiling wasn’t scribbled with answers, but it was a comfortingly blank canvas, so I kept my gaze there for a while. Claire’s breaths slowed as she fell asleep, and I sighed, relishing the simple peace of that moment.

At some point, Roscoe stirred, and I slipped away to my own bed.

It was late, and I had to get some rest. And as for the problem of the lucky axes…

I would sleep on it. Maybe even dream on it, if I was very, very lucky.

Chapter Six

ABBY

Sometime before dawn, my eyes shot open. Two startled heartbeats later, I jerked upright.

Not a bird sang. Not a cicada chirped. Not a breath of air stirred the mighty oaks by the creek. I stared out the window.

It was happening again — that rumbling. Soundless, motionless except for that violent vibration in the air.

Magic. And not just a warning this time.

I shot out of bed and ran down the hall barefoot. Halfway along, another rumble stopped me in my tracks. I gripped the bathroom door, my mind racing. The moment it stopped, I hurried to Claire’s room. She was sound asleep, though Roscoe had jumped off her bed, whining meekly.

I nearly bundled Claire up and rushed her out of the house with Roscoe. But instinct promised me that rumble wasn’t an earthquake and that Claire was safe here. Whatever was happening was somewhere off in the distance.

After a last look at Claire, I padded downstairs. Quickly pulling on a sweater, jacket, and boots, I stepped outside. Roscoe ventured out with me, pressing against my legs.

I sniffed the air, then froze at a rumble of a different frequency. A counterrumble, so to speak, as the earth growled back at the disturbance that had set it off. I had to dig deep topick them apart, but the original disturbance came in shorter, lighter bursts.

Walt had once rented part of his workshop to a sculptor who’d chipped at stone to shape a hunch-backed Kokopelli with a flute and wild hairdo. It had taken days, with a constantchip, chip, chipas pieces of stone surrendered to the tap of his chisel.

This was similar, except that somewhere in the distance, someone was chipping away at magic.

The door to Erin and Nash’s cabin opened, and light spilled over their porch.

Are you okay?she called into my mind.Is Claire?

I think so,I called back, using the special link we sisters shared.

What was that?

I had no idea.

A shadow loomed over their cabin, then soared overhead, making my hair flutter.

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