The Kappa Deltas gathered outside for a third night in row, singing the same incessantly droll songs, hooting at the fraternity pledges passing by in convertibles, and blathering on and on about how much spirit they had. Scott and I sat at our desks, fretting over an impending deadline racing toward us the following morning.
“Give me your dreams, boy, and I’ll let you sleep another night,” whispered the invader, his fuzzy mouth lightly brushing Jack’s ear as he slept.
“Boys need their dreams,” growled Castagere, the dream guardian sworn to protect the budding imaginations of Jack and his little brother John. Unfurling himself from under the bed, the great monster extended his razor-sharp claws, reaching for the teddy bear across the chest of the sleeping child. “I’ll tear the stuffing from your seams.”
The congregation gathered at the center of the large room, bathed in a dappled light streaming through the cracked and shattered windows; reflecting off the bone-white floors, the light illuminated the faces gathered to pass judgement. A tall man strode to the center of the group, cracking his knuckles and clearing his throat.
Sid sighed as he leaned against the rotting sill below the window, his forehead pressed to the filthy glass, staring at the raging hordes below. It was the third riot this month, although it was proving to be the most violent one since the Columbus Day massacre of 2073.
The doughy, white faces blur together so late in the day. It was astonishing that a tall, black man with dark grey eyes would stop in front of Hakim’s carpet shortly before the bazaar closed.
“I hear you carry Father Blades. Is this so?” asked the Black Man in a crisp, heavily accented English.