Free Dreamwalker by Russell James

wouldn’t capture Waikiki Simon for a while. Plenty of time to make this delivery. Cauquemere closed his hand around the luminous sphere and vanished from the palace.
    He reappeared in the darkened bedroom of Bernie Ganzer. The glowing orb in his right hand bathed the room in a soft, rose light. With silent steps, he glided to Bernie’s bedside. Bernie’s round outline lay under the covers inches from his wife. He made a low rumbling noise as he slept.
    Cauquemere opened the drawer of the nightstand. He removed a black .38 Special revolver, Bernie’s sad attempt to defend against home invasion. He slid it into his victim’s hand. Bernie’s fingers reflexively tightened around the grip. Bernie snorted and then settled back into a comfortable drone.
    Cauquemere tossed the orb of nightmares in the air and caught it with his inverted palm. He rested it on Bernie’s forehead. He released the sphere and it melted away. Bernie’s eyes twitched rapidly beneath his eyelids. A thin whimper escaped his lips. He gripped the pistol.
    â€œSo wish I could stay,” Cauquemere said. Bernie would be primed for a murder/suicide as he awoke next to what he thought was his wife-turned-creature. Cauquemere would be ready to pull him to Twin Moon City as his soul was released. The Prince of Nightmares never lost.
    â€œOther orbs beckon for delivery,” Cauquemere said in overwrought apology. “Twin Moon City doesn’t populate itself.”
    Cauquemere stepped back from the bed and returned to the land without dawn.

Chapter Ten
    Pete reawakened at 11:30 in the morning. Daylight flooded his room and kitchen clatter arose from the restaurant below.
    The dream spent in Twin Moon City had left him anything but rested. Rolling out of bed was an effort. The unhealed cut on his arm throbbed occasionally, but at least it wasn’t bleeding. If it wasn’t for that reminder, he’d have chalked the “wounded in both worlds” event up to some dream-within-a-dream. Instead, it was just beyond explanation.
    He planned to devote his off hours today to figuring out what he was doing in Atlantic City, since he doubted he was called here to wash dishes. He dressed and headed downstairs.
    Mama DiStephano sat at the table near the register in a white, short-sleeve top and jeans. Smoke curled from a cigarette at her fingertips as she read the New York Times through a set of half-glasses. A cup of coffee steamed next to two uncut bagels, some cream cheese, and a stack of clean dishes. Her long, black hair was down around her shoulders and she didn’t have on a hint of makeup, not that she needed it. She was Papa D’s age, but had managed the journey better, somehow able to keep trim surrounded by thousands of tempting calories. Pete thought that ten thousand dinner rushes ago, she must have been a knockout.
    Her eyes turned to Pete as he came down the stairs.
    â€œSo, you’re up and around?” She had a thick accent that said New York City, born and raised.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. DiStephano.” It sounded unnecessarily formal having just rolled out of bed, but he wasn’t used to sleeping over his workplace.
    â€œCome,” she said, putting down her paper and beckoning him over, “we’ll have a talk, Petey.”
    Pete flinched at his new nickname, then girded himself for his real job interview. He pulled out a chair upwind of the cigarette’s wisp of smoke. Mama D noticed this and stubbed out what was left of the cancer stick.
    â€œFirst, call me Mama,” she said. “Everyone does. Second, where did you come in from?”
    â€œIthaca,” Pete said. “I left college this semester.”
    â€œSo, college isn’t important to you? An education isn’t important?”
    â€œNo, no. It’s important, I just needed a break.”
    Mama pulled the glasses off the end of her nose and looked deep in Pete’s eyes.
    â€œYou running