Читать книгу: «Jillian Spectre and the Dream Weaver»

Chapter 1

When you graduate from high school, you're often told you can change the world.

In my case, well…been there, done that.

But when you're an eighteen year old mystic seer who can physically be in two places at once and, oh yeah, you have what might be considered supernatural healing powers and an actual angel from Heaven on speed dial, saving the world is sort of an obligation. So instead of simply being Jillian Spectre, college freshman majoring in the ever popular undecided, I'm moonlighting as a comic book character. Boring classes that require regurgitation by day, redhead superheroine by night. No mask, no costume, no secret underground lair; just a freckled hundred and fifteen pound girl … and saving the planet is not above my pay grade.

So when my cellular version of the bat phone rings, and I see who's calling—

"Jillian, my partner's been shot! I need you right now!" says Detective Spencer Ball, NYPD's astral projection investigator and my occasional partner.

I know the routine. "Mom, I'll be right back!" I yell in the direction of the kitchen, as I stretch out on our living room couch, put the phone on speaker and close my eyes. Spencer, affectionately known as Fuzzball, quickly recites his hypnotic relaxation technique, making me relax and focus on his location as he describes the scene and the person in need of help.

And that person will die in minutes without me. I can hear the fear and concern in the detective's voice.

I create the scene in my mind and, in a blink, I'm there. In a moonlit alley somewhere in Manhattan.

The massive pool of blood on the ground and the twitching man make me jump back. It's one thing to have the detective tell you about it, another to actually see it.

"Jillian, hurry!" says Fuzzball, who is kneeling down next to his partner, pressing his hand over the guy's chest as blood oozes out.

I crouch down on the cool pavement next to his partner, a lean, dark haired man in his thirties whose dark eyes are flickering. "What's his name?"

"Jim." He turns to his partner. "Jimbo, she's here to help. Hang in there, buddy."

I take the dying man's trembling hand as he is gasping for air like a fish yanked out of the water. "Jim, look at me."

The man turns his head and locks eyes with me. His are deep pools of fear. I hear gurgling coming from his throat as he tries to talk and see blood trickle out of his mouth.

He knows he's going to die.

I tighten my grip on his hand. "You're going to be all right," I say.

He bites his lower lip as a single tear rolls down the side of his face. "Spence, tell my wife—" His voice is a whisper, barely audible.

"Hang in there!" says Fuzzball, grabbing Jim's face with his free hand and turning it so that he's facing me. "Now, Jillian!"

I close my eyes, see the dying man in my mind, and send as much of my life force as I can into him in one incredible rush. I see the blood flow stopping, the bullet working its way out, the wound beginning to heal, his breathing returning to normal, calm returning to his eyes—

And then I black out.

I'm holding a different hand and my hair is gently being stroked when I wake up. I already know the touch before I open my eyes.

I look up and see my boyfriend Ryan. I'm back on the couch with my head and shoulders on his lap. "Welcome back, Sparks." He leans down and kisses me on the forehead.

"Did I save him?"

Ryan flashes a big smile. "Yeah. Fuzzball called. Doctors at the hospital say they can't explain it but he's going to make a full recovery. Guess they don't study redheaded guardian angels with healing powers in med school."

I start to sit up but a throbbing headache pushes me back down and I grab my forehead. "Whoa. How long was I out?"

"Three hours."

"Wow. It's been a while since healing knocked me out. I thought I was past that. Damn, I'm fried."

"You should be. The guy was as close to death as anyone you ever saved."

"Yeah, no kidding. I've never seen anything like that. It was like a scene out of a gory movie. Good thing tomorrow's a Saturday so I can rest up." I reach up to run my fingers through his thick dark hair and let myself get lost in his deep blue eyes.

"Well, hate to tell you this, but we don't have the day off."

"What do you mean?"

My mom walks into the living room and smiles at me. "Good, you're up. You feelin' okay, sweetie?"

"My head feels like there's a man inside banging a Chinese gong, but I'll live. What's this about not having tomorrow off?"

Her smile disappears as she turns to Ryan. "You didn't tell her?"

"She just woke up, Mrs. Spectre. Didn't have a chance."

"Tell me what?"

She turns back to me with a familiar look that tells me something is very wrong. She bites her lower lip, then exhales. "We need to go to The Summit. Sebastien called."

Uh-oh. An emergency trip to the home office for those with paranormal powers. This can't be good. "Yeah? And?"

"There's been a change with your father."

So it turns out my father, the deadbeat dad who abandoned me and mom when I was a year old, the guy who tried to turn society into a bunch of pod people with a mind controlling cell phone and now has a day job as a comatose villain, has taken a turn.

For better or worse, we don't know. Although worse wouldn't break my heart considering he nearly killed my boyfriend and best friend. But something tells me if that were the case, we wouldn't have been summoned to western New Jersey by Sebastien, head of The Council. The old guy in charge of monitoring everyone with paranormal powers doesn't mess around.

Sebastien leads me, Ryan and Mom into the antiseptic secure chamber. It's become my father's permanent home since we basically fried his brain and his ability to meld with technology by using a powerful computer virus provided by your tax dollars and Fuzzball's Man in Black buddy who works for the feds. He's still in a coma, face drawn, skin lacking in color, oblivious to the rest of the world. Nothing's changed since that day in May, the last time I saw him.

Well, nothing had changed until yesterday, according to Sebastien.

"So, what happened?" I ask, looking at my father through the glass. "He looks the same."

"His brain waves changed slightly," says Sebastien, as he stares at my father's body. "We monitor the activity constantly and last night something happened that we cannot explain."

"Is he waking up?" asks Mom, staring at the man who was once the love of her life before turning into an evil maniac. Her tense face tells me she's still conflicted, still wondering if we shorted out the evil part of his brain and the good man might be inside.

Sebastien shakes his head. "No. But we detected a change in his Delta waves. Jillian, you know the implications of that."

I nod. "Yeah. The brain waves of the subconscious. How he was going to control me with the phone. So, could he simply be dreaming?"

"Our experts don't think so. There was no rapid eye movement detected, and dreams would produce a different kind of brain wave pattern that we've seen before from him. The change in his pattern is not unlike what we saw when you combined yours with Ryan and Roxanne. Our theory is that…well, the simplest way to put it is that we think he's been contacted."

Ryan furrows his brow. "How is that even possible?"

Sebastien shakes his head. "We don't know," he says, then turns to Ryan. "Which is why I asked you to come along. We were hoping…"

"You want me to read his mind?" asks Ryan.

"No!" I yell, throwing out one arm in front of Ryan before Sebastien has the chance to answer. "My father almost killed him twice, and you want to risk his life over some brain wave change? Find another way."

"There is no danger," says Sebastien.

My blood pressure spikes. "How the hell can you be sure of that?"

Mom grabs my arm. "Young lady, watch your tone. Don't yell at Sebastien."

"I'll yell if he's going to risk my boyfriend's life."

"We know there's no danger because we already tried using other mind readers. None of them suffered any after effects," says Sebastien. "But they also got no results."

"Then why do you need me?" asks Ryan. "I just finished my apprenticeship. I'm sure the people you've got here are the best and have a lot more experience."

"You've made contact with him before," says Sebastien.

"There's another part to that equation," I say. "My father also went into his mind, remember?"

Sebastien ignores my comment and keeps looking at Ryan. "We feel you may experience different results because of your previous connection with Jillian and Roxanne. Your powers are slightly different than the average mind reader."

"What are you talking about?" asks Mom.

Sebastien looks at the ground. "I admit, I should have told you this before. But when the three of them connected it took his powers in a slightly different direction. Roxanne's as well. They are both more finely attuned, as if they somehow absorbed some of Jillian's incredible gifts."

"I don't care if he's the best mind reader on the planet," I say, folding my arms. "He's not doing it. End of story."

Ryan rests his hand on my shoulder. "Hang on a minute, Sparks. The two times he attacked me he sent his own thoughts. He can't do that now."

"You don't know that!" I say.

"Yes, we do," says Sebastien. "There is no risk. But it is up to you, Ryan. I certainly understand if you don't want to do this."

Ryan nods, and I can tell he wants to do it.

Damn friggin' testosterone. That rampant Y chromosome needs a leash.

I reach for Ryan's hand and tangle my fingers in his, then give him the most soulful look I can muster. "Please don't. You're not bulletproof."

"I'll be fine, Sparks," he says, smiling. "Besides, you're here to heal me if anything goes wrong. You've done it before. Twice."

Damn friggin' logic. Why am I in love with the only eighteen year old guy on the planet with a forty year old brain?

Ryan turns to Sebastien. "You want me to do this now?"

He nods. "The sooner we find out, the better."

"Okay." Ryan closes his eyes, which is what he does when he's about to read a mind. I squeeze his hand harder and he squeezes back.

My heart slams against my chest and I focus on him, ready to send as much healing energy as I can muster. But thankfully nothing happens.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity but is actually about sixty seconds, he opens his eyes and looks at me. "See, I'm fine."

My heart downshifts as I wrap my arms around his waist and lean my head on his chest.

"Did you get anything?" asks Sebastien.

Ryan nods as he puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer, then kisses the top of my head. "Not much. It's him, but he's like an innocent five year old who has no idea what's going on around him. And I didn't see any of those dark images he sent into my head before. I didn't pick up anything that might be taken as evil."

"Good," says Mom.

"But…" says Ryan.

Sebastien's eyes widen. "Yes?"

"Someone's been in his mind."

My best friend Roxanne furrows her brow as she pulls another slice of pizza from the pan that sits on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. "Someone powerful contacted your father?"

I swallow a bite of the steaming double supreme and wash it down with a sip of my super-sized-anti-Mayor-Bloomberg Dr. Pepper. It's funny, even though the guy's out of office people still associate him with declaring DEFCON ONE on soda, and the pizza parlor actually named its extra large drink the Bloomberg Special when the law got tossed by the courts. It's the New York carbonated middle finger at the guy. The restaurant is crowded for a Sunday night, the Mom-and-Pop eatery filled with loud conversation, the smell of baking pies and the sounds of Sinatra. "That's what Sebastien said. It has to be someone strong to get through their security."

"No way to identify the person?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Not yet, anyway. All Ryan got from my father was that he'd had a visitor."

"So what was this person of power looking for?"

"The theory is that it's one of my father's minions who wanted to determine if his powers are totally fried. Or maybe try to bring him back to full strength. Which scares the hell out of me."

"Aren't you glad you didn't heal him."

"Yeah, no kidding." My heartbeat is picking up a bit and I realize we need to get off the subject. After saving a life on Friday and spending all day at The Summit yesterday, I need something mindless. "So did you and Jake have a good time last night?"

Roxanne surprises me as she shrugs. "Not really. We went to dinner and after that I wanted to go home."

"What happened? I thought he was taking you dancing at that new club?"

"I wasn't in the mood after hearing about his hot Political Science teacher for an hour."

"Hot teacher?"

She rolls her eyes and pushes her shoulder length black hair behind her ears with her hands. "Oooooh, Ms. Cruise. She's soooo interesting and she makes her lectures come alive with her incredibly expressive face and all the boys have a thing for her and it's amazing that she's forty and never married…I mean, I know college boys have it bad for women who are a little older, but geez, it was like he was talking to another guy. Then he goes on and on about a meeting he had with her after class and how she really takes a personal interest in her students and seems to think he's got a future in politics. Finally I'd had enough so I told him I didn't feel well and he took me home."

"Rox, I wouldn't worry about it. Freshmen boys are like kids in a candy store when they see college women after four years of high school girls. Even Ryan's got his head on a swivel."

"Yeah, but we're college women now."

"Yeah, but we're eighteen and a forty year old has been around the block already. It's the experience factor, and, as you know, we don't have any." I reach across the table and pat her hand. "Look, you've got nothing to worry about. Besides, if by some strange turn of events things didn't work out with you and Jake there'd be a line of hot guys waiting for a shot at a six foot babe with legs up to her neck. It's not a bad lookin' crop on that campus."

"I suppose. Still, I've got it bad for the little guy and it kinda hurt me a little, ya know?"

"Aren't you the one who always said men take longer to grow up?"

"Stop hitting me with my own logic, short stuff."

"Maybe you need a little of your own logic. Remember when you first started dating him you went out with someone else to keep him in line?"

"I'm not playing those games anymore."

"I'm not saying you should actually do it. But just talk about a male teacher and give him a taste of his own medicine."

"The only male teacher we've got is that eighty year old English professor who died and didn't get the memo."

"Okay, not my best idea. Tell you what, I'll send my alter ego into that classroom and see what the hell is going on with that teacher."

After four years of challenging my stomach to a daily culinary smackdown in a high school cafeteria that served dishes which looked suspiciously like lab experiments, there was no way I was gonna eat college food. Roxanne and I had already done reconnaissance during our spring campus visit and were treated to a mystery meat dish she referred to as "cold shoulder" since a: it was cold, and b: she found a bone in it that looked like a shoulder blade she'd seen in her cousin's butcher shop. Besides, with the campus in Manhattan I could throw a stone and hit any number of terrific and reasonably priced places to eat. However, the school does have a subsidized coffee bar, which offers terrific flavored joes at a dollar a cup, so I'm enjoying a mug of almond amaretto while I attempt to navigate through the 1800s literary version of the health care law, Moby Dick. Get this: the book is required reading for my Modern Literature course. Which begs the question, would you have to be living during the Abe Lincoln administration to consider this book modern? Anyway, after thirty pages on the care and feeding of whales I'm ready to impale myself on a harpoon and making a point to hit the college bookstore on the way home to pick up the Cliff Notes. Hey, I can spend fifty hours reading this dated monstrosity or getting the thirty minute recap and spending my time doing noble deeds. Seems like a no-brainer to me. I could even do a testimonial for the Cliff Notes people that they could put on the back cover:

"The condensed version of Moby Dick gave me the time I needed to save the planet."

-Jillian Spectre, superheroine

Anyway, the java bar is packed and I'm sitting alone at a corner table for two when a tight pair of jeans moves into my field of vision. I look up and see a Greek god standing before me with a cup of coffee.

"Mind if I join you? All the other seats are taken."

A quick glance around the room tells me this is true. Not that I care with a guy like this, since one does not often encounter mythological figures who look like fashion models, so I gesture toward the chair opposite me. "Sure."

"Thanks." He places his books and coffee on the table as he sits down and slides his chair closer to the table, then extends his hand. "Trip Logan."

My hand looks tiny and disappears into his as we shake. "Jillian Spectre."

His handshake is gentle despite his size. He cocks his head toward my novel. "You're not actually reading that mind-numbing thing, are you?"

I close the book and slide it off to the side. "I made a valiant attempt, but I started to lose interest at Call me Ishmael."

"Ah, yes, I remember this school's concept of Modern Literature. When I took it we were reading the Rosetta Stone."

I laugh and take in this vision as he sips his coffee. The guy's built like a linebacker: incredibly broad shoulders, huge ripped biceps straining to escape from his short sleeved shirt, forearms with bulging veins that belong on a blacksmith. One of those men whose chest looks twice as wide as his waist. He obviously lives in the gym. At least six-foot-four, maybe taller. He looks like he could bench press a Toyota but has a silky smooth voice. Throw in the angles-and-planes face, thick black hair, dark brown eyes and dimples, and my heart is beginning to flutter. I think back to Ryan's favorite phrase when he sees a beautiful woman. "I'm your boyfriend, but I'm not dead."

I'm not dead either. Besides, with Roxanne's news that Jake has a bit of a wandering eye, I could just be on a scouting mission for her, seeking out young men built like Thor.

Yeah, let's go with that.

I look at his stack of books, a collection of history and political science. "Let me guess…pre-law?"

He nods. "You're very perceptive. I start applying in a couple of months."

"Oh, so you're a senior."

"Yep."

"What kind of law do you want to practice?"

"Criminal. I'd love to be a prosecutor, put bad guys away."

"Very noble. So, not going for the big bucks?"

"Maybe someday, but right now I just want to make the world a better place."

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

He locks his spectacular deep-set eyes with me and it's all I can do to remind myself I'm taken. "I realize that's kind of a naive rose colored glasses way to look at things, but it feels good to help people. So, what do you wanna do?"

"Same deal. Help people. You might say it's in my blood. But right now I don't have a major." I sip my coffee and then it hits me. He's taking political science. "Hey, you ever have a teacher named Ms. Cruise?"

"The Cruise Missile? Nah, I had someone else for freshman poly sci. But I know who she is. Anyway, she apparently knows her subject matter. Served a couple of terms in Congress. She was known for sleeping around there, too."

"What do you mean…too?"

"She, uh…well, she has quite the reputation around here. Let's just say it's possible for male students to get extra credit, if you get my drift."

"They call her the Cruise Missile?"

"Legend has it that she zeroes in on one student every semester like a heat seeking missile. Apparently her affairs with freshmen are legendary around here."

"So why is she still teaching here?"

"Because legend has it she also had an affair with the college president, and she's holding that little bit of information over his head. Along with some incriminating photos."

"Wow. I guess I'm not in high school anymore."

"Nope. Welcome to the real world."

Ten minutes worth of great conversation later, he looks at his watch. "Well, off to class." He stands up, slugs down the rest of his coffee and tosses the empty cup in a nearby trash can. "It was nice meeting you, Jillian."

"You too, Trip. See you around the campus."

He grabs his books. "So, uh…would it be too forward of me to ask for your phone number?"

"It wouldn't, if I didn't have a boyfriend."

He playfully puts out his lower lip in a pout. "Figures. The good ones are always taken. Well, see you later."

"Yeah," I say, as he turns and heads out of the room, leaving in his wake a sea of longing looks from every girl in the place.

Including me.

The aforementioned "hot teacher" Rebecca Cruise holds court in a classroom that looks like an amphitheater and has what is commonly known as stadium seating, with the rows sloped downward toward the teacher. I've been in the room for another class, so it's easy to focus on it as I stretch out on the couch. I'm going to materialize in the back row during Jake's class so I can make a quick, unnoticed arrival and getaway.

What I don't expect is to arrive in the dark.

The only light in the room is provided by a projector which is filling the front wall with a PowerPoint presentation while the teacher strolls by the front row.

She comes as advertised.

Ms. Cruise is a tall, stunning, blue-eyed blonde, maybe five-nine with a short leather skirt showing off spectacular legs atop red four inch heels and a tight gathered burgundy top that leaves little to the imagination. Not exactly the costume de riguer for a college professor, as she looks more like a middle-aged party girl in search of a red plastic cup. If you looked up "cougar" in the dictionary, you'd see her photo. A quick look around the room shows the class is comprised mostly of guys, all of whom are riveted as she prances around the room. I spot Jake in the front row, the glow from the projection lighting up his face and the fact that he's practically drooling over his teacher as he leans forward on the desk.

Luckily in the last row it's pitch dark, so I'm unnoticed. Besides, no one's sitting back here anyway, as most of the class is crammed into the front half of the room.

Anyway, she's whipping through slides that are highlighting some of the more notable revolutionaries in history, many of whom are guests of the state. (Fuzzball's cute little term for "prisoners.")

"Political resistance has always been the instrument of change throughout history," she says. "It is necessary for societal growth. It's up to each of you to carry the torch and challenge authority. And you don't need a degree to do that, you can start now. Use your freedom of speech." She launches into this wild monologue which tells me she's a stereotypical radical professor whose main objective is not to teach but to influence her students with her own views.

Then, she says something that makes me sit bolt upright.

"It's a shame that the Spectre phone crashed, because it was on the way to changing society for the better."

My eyes narrow as she extols the virtues of my father, his failed invention, and how it would have allowed people to live in the present and not place any trust in blind faith. I look around the room and see heads nodding in agreement.

Including Jake's.

Which makes no sense. Jake knows how evil my father was. I mean, the guy tried to kill Roxanne, the supposed love of Jake's life. Jake hates him with a passion.

But right now he's smiling, agreeing with the lunatic stuff his teacher is spouting.

So what is this woman doing to him and every other student in this class? And how the hell is she doing it?

This is more than a guy being all gaga over a hot woman. This is something else.

Is she a minion of my father? Is it possible she's got some mind controlling powers? If she's got powers, Sebastien will know.

Finally, after this five minute manifesto about how to possibly recapture the false utopia promised by the Spectre phone, I've had enough.

"Excuse me, I'm just curious," I yell, stopping her in her tracks.

She shades her eyes with her palm as she moves away from the projector, squinting in vain to see who's interrupted her from the back of the room. I know there's no way she can see me in the dark. "Yes?"

"Well, you know, I pay forty grand in tuition in order to learn about political science, not to listen to your opinions. Would it be possible for you to stick to the curriculum and leave your personal views at home?"

A collective "whoa" floats through the room from the students. The teacher's face tightens, her eyes narrow into a glare. "Excuse me?"

"Hey, you said we should challenge authority. So I'm challenging yours by saying the Spectre phone was part of the biggest con job in the history of this country. I'm happy it crashed. It would have destroyed society."

"Who's back there? Lights!"

And just before a student in the front row reaches the light switch, I book on outta there.