CHAPTER ONE
Carnelian, California . . .
Blood dripped from the bottom of the laundry cart.
Ambrose Drake flattened one hand against the wall to keep himself on his feet. He was back in the underwater world. That meant he was dreaming again. He struggled to focus on the glary aura of the figure pushing the cart toward the swinging doors at the far end of the corridor. Was that what a ghost looked like?
“What’s going on?” he said.
The words came out in a slurred, raspy jumble that he knew probably made no sense, assuming he had managed to say them aloud. It was hard to talk underwater. He thought he had been getting better at navigating the strange atmosphere down here below the surface, but either he had been fooling himself or he had regressed, because tonight he was having trouble just staying upright.
And what the hell was he doing on his feet? He was supposed to be in bed.
Shit. Was he sleepwalking again? That was not good. It meant the nightmares and hallucinations were getting worse. But did you know if you were sleepwalking? That didn’t sound logical. If you were aware that you were walking in your sleep it meant you were awake. Didn’t it?
Or did it mean you had slipped over the edge of sanity and fallen into the abyss? Maybe his worst nightmare had finally become his new reality.
The rattle of rubber wheels on the tiled floor distracted him. The glowing figure propelling the cart was leaning into the task now, picking up speed. Seconds later cart and ghost vanished through the swinging doors.
That seemed to indicate the figure had heard the question and had reacted by leaving the scene as quickly as possible—which led to another disturbing conclusion. Maybe the ghost with the laundry cart leaving a trail of blood drops on the floor was real. You could never be sure when you were in this deep.
“Am I awake or asleep?” he mumbled. “Only one way to find out.”
He took his hand off the wall, pushed aside the hallucinations, and managed another couple of steps forward. His progress was complicated by the fact that the corridor was drenched in underwater shadows. He finally realized what was wrong. The window in his mind was open. That explained why he had seen a glowing ghost pushing a laundry cart.
“I really do not need this.”
It took some doing, but he succeeded in shutting down his aura-reading vision. He was back in his normal senses now. The eerie, murky shadows disappeared. The hallway was abruptly illuminated in the light of the overhead fixtures.
Okay, he was not dreaming and the window was closed, but something was very wrong. He did not have overhead fixtures in his bedroom.
A whisper of horror sent a jolt of panic across his senses. He had walked out the front door of his house and into an unknown building. The damned sleepwalking was going to get him killed. Another terrible thought struck—was he in his underwear? Please don’t let me be strolling through some strange place in my underwear.
He made himself look down and was overwhelmingly relieved to discover he had on a pair of pajama bottoms. Or was he still dreaming?
“Shit. Wake up. Wake up.”
This time he was sure he had spoken aloud. The sound of his own voice was reassuring. It drew him back toward the surface. He rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of the white walls of the hallway and the cold white tiles underfoot.
Sleep clinic.
A murky memory swept back, bringing in the tide of semi-reassuring reality. He was spending the night in the Carnelian Sleep Institute in an effort to get control of the nightmares. He should be in a bed. There ought to be a lot of wires attached to him. What the hell was he doing out here in the hallway?
The scream.
He had heard a woman scream. That’s why he was standing barefoot in the hall. The answer to the mystery was in the laundry cart. He had to find it and look inside.
He lurched forward a few more steps and nearly lost his balance. The problem with staying upright was a new one. He had always taken his fast reflexes and excellent coordination for granted. After the spell of amnesia eight months ago, both had actually improved. His sleeping habits had gone to hell, but he was faster and quicker than he had ever been. Tonight, though, it was all he could do to keep his feet under him.
He steadied himself, but the sudden change of position caused him to look down again. This time he saw a crimson rivulet trickling under the closed door of a patient room. Maybe he was still dreaming. Still sleepwalking.
To test the theory, he leaned down to take a closer look at the blood.
“Mr. Drake, what are you doing out of bed?”
The stern masculine voice was familiar. Dr. Conrad Fenner, the director of the Institute. He sounded seriously agitated. Alarmed. Furious.
Startled, Ambrose lost his balance altogether and pitched forward. He would have fallen flat on his face if his reflexes hadn’t finally kicked in. About time.
He landed on one palm and a knee and instinctively started to get back on his feet. His fingers skidded through the little river of blood.
“Get up, Mr. Drake,” Fenner ordered. “You should not be out here. We must get you back to your room.”
“Something’s wrong,” Ambrose said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “I heard a woman scream.”
“No, you did not,” Fenner said. “You are dreaming. Sleepwalking. Here, let me assist you.”
Ambrose started to tell him about the blood on the floor but was interrupted by a sharp stinging sensation in the curve of his shoulder.
“What?” he mumbled.
He wanted to ask another question, but he was going back down into the depths, and this time there were no shadows. No light at all. A great weakness was overtaking his senses. He was vaguely aware of Fenner urging him to his feet and steering him back to his own room.
“Hurry,” Fenner snapped. “I can’t carry you.”
The next thing Ambrose knew he was slumped in a chair. Fenner was leaning over him, working swiftly to clean his hand, the one that had slipped into the crimson stream.
“Blood on the floor,” Ambrose said. He stared at his fingers but he could no longer see the red stain.
“There was no blood,” Fenner said. His authoritative tone was infused with anger and anxiety. “It was just a dream, Mr. Drake. Trust me, you won’t remember it in the morning.”
When he was finished, he helped Ambrose get out of the chair and stumble onto the bed.
The darkness was closing in fast, but Ambrose managed to open the window in his mind one more time. Fenner’s aura pulsed in a way that indicated he was telling the truth. He was certain that Ambrose would not remember what had happened tonight.
“A woman screamed,” Ambrose said, not because he believed he could convince Fenner of that fact but because he hoped repetition would anchor the memory in his brain. “A woman screamed. A woman screamed.”