What Dreams May Come (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  “Enough of who you?”

  “Writers,” Esther said simply. “For some reason, a lot of you reject what you hear and see in your heads. If you go too long ignoring it, it builds up and then you do all sorts of weird things. Mumble to yourself. Nightmares. Daydreams. Total anarchy and chaos. Before you know it, the writer is either sitting in a corner feverishly humming to his- or herself or on Prozac.” She hesitated. “You’re not on Prozac, are you?”

  No, but she was beginning to think she ought to be.

  Taryn frowned at her and completely disregarded everything she was saying. “How did you get into my house anyway?”

  “The front door. You left it unlocked.”

  No, she hadn’t. However, she wasn’t about to argue. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “I know where all good writers live.”

  The ache increased. “I’m not a writer,” Taryn insisted. “I’ve never been one.”

  Esther patted her hand in an extremely patronizing manner. “That’s what Hemingway said, too, when I sent him A Farewell to Arms, and then look at what he went on to do.”

  Okay, they were both nuts. But insanity aside, there was only one matter that was weighing heavily on her. “Can you get me back to Sparhawk?”

  Esther sighed heavily. “No.”

  Tears welled in Taryn’s eyes as she heard the last word she needed to. She didn’t even want to think about not seeing him again.

  Esther leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “But you can.”

  Taryn swallowed as hope began to swell inside her. “What do you mean I can? If I could, don’t you think I’d be there?”

  “Hon, you already are. Why do you think you can hear him in your head right now?”

  “Because I’ve gone insane.”

  Esther laughed and shook her head. “No, sweetie. You hear him because you’re a writer.”

  Here we go again.

  “I don’t have time—”

  “Remember a few weeks ago, when you had that strange dream about a man lost in the woods?” Esther asked, interrupting her denial.

  Taryn snapped her mouth shut. That dream had haunted her for days as she tried to figure out what it meant. She hadn’t told a soul about it. Not even Janice.

  “How do you know about that?” she asked the old woman.

  Esther shrugged as if it were nothing unusual. “I’m the one who sent that dream to you. I’m the repository for romance novels.”

  “The what?”

  “Repository,” Esther said in a patient voice. “There are several dozen of us and we are the keepers of books written and those yet to be written.”

  Taryn was about to reach for the phone to call the cops when her room suddenly changed from her bedroom to what appeared to be a giant library.

  Her heart hammering, she looked about at the glistening shelves that were covered with thousands and thousands of leather-bound books as far as her eyes could see. It was the most incredible thing she’d ever heard of. “I have totally snapped a wheel.”

  “No, dear. I knew you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it yourself.” Esther, who was now dressed in a glowing red robe, walked down a row of shelves, dragging her finger lovingly along the edge of the carved wood. It was obvious the old woman loved every volume in the room.

  “Where is this place?” Taryn asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s ‘other.’ There’s no place like it on Earth . . . exactly.”

  Esther walked over to the shelf on her right and swept her hand across the spines that held no author name whatsoever. “These are all the books that have yet to be written. Each one is a very special creation, and I am one of the overseers who is charged with making sure that the people who live inside the books get to the writer who can birth them properly.” She pinned Taryn with a dark stare. “You were destined to be a writer, Taryn, but you have gone astray. Do you remember when you were a girl and you wrote all the time about all the people who talked to you whenever you closed your eyes?”

  “Yeah,” she said defensively, “and my mother told me to get my head out of the clouds and focus on what was important.”

  Esther sighed. “I hate it when that happens. We lose so many wonderful stories that way. ‘Be practical. Stop listening to the characters who only want to live.’ It’s why we have people like Sparhawk, and it’s why we end up losing them, too. Such a tragedy, really.”

  Taryn frowned at her words. “What do you mean, losing them, too?”

  Esther indicated a steel vaulted door that was on the wall behind Taryn. “That is the Valley of Lost Souls. It’s where we send the books whose characters have revolted.”

  “Revolted?”

  She nodded. “You see the characters for the books that haven’t yet been written are in a holding pattern while they wait for their stories to be finished. We, the repositories, send out an idea, usually the first chapter or a snippet from later in the book, to the writer. It plays over and over again in the writer’s head until the writer is forced to sit down to write it. If the writer fails to follow the idea and commit it to paper, then the characters can get caught in a loop where they relive the same scenes over and over again, sometimes with only minor changes until they essentially go mad from the monotony. Then they can get a little cranky and revolt against the writer and us.”

  Esther shivered as if the very mention of it horrified her. “So whenever we sense that is happening, we pull the characters out of that writer’s mind, then send them on to another writer where the process repeats until someone finally pens the story of their lives.”

  Taryn stared at all the volumes of “unwritten” books. “I don’t understand. Where do all these ideas come from?”

  Esther shrugged as she glanced over the infinity of books. “They are gifts from the universe to mankind. Honestly, we don’t know where they come from. They just appear on the shelves, and we are charged with bringing them to life. It’s kind of like a child being born. Where does his or her soul come from? Some call it God, others fate, whatever you believe or want to call it, it sends the books to us. Our personal theory is that a baby’s soul and a character’s soul are born from the same place. Some are destined to be living, breathing people in the flesh, and the others are living, breathing people on paper.”

  Esther picked up a book off the shelf closest to her and handed it to Taryn.

  Just like the copy of Knightly Dreams Esther had given her in the store, there was no author listed. The cover showed a dark-haired Regency rake holding on to a scantily clad blond woman. “This book has been sent out over and over again these last few years. The first writer decided she didn’t want to do romances and went on to write mysteries instead. The next one was all excited to write it until she got married. Another one got all the way to the middle of the book before she got rejected one time too many and decided she couldn’t take the rejections anymore. She quit and burned what she’d written. The last writer we sent it to finished the first three chapters, but has since become distracted by a rumor that no one wants to read historical romances anymore. So she has set the book aside to write something she thinks is more marketable.”

  Esther sighed as if her heart were broken. “All we have now are the first three chapters and they repeat over and over again. The characters are in London, in the Regency period, where they attend the same party and speak the same lines ad nauseam. Miles is a rake, but he, like Sparhawk is tired of listening to Henrietta rant about her season and her boorish uncle out to steal her inheritance. If the writer doesn’t return soon, then I shall have to send this off to another to write before we lose the characters completely.”

  “Lose them how?”

  Esther took the book back and held it lovingly in her arms. “They essentially start writing the story themselves and refuse to take orders from a writer. If we have a strong enough writer who loves them, then she can save them. If there is no writer, then they can no longer be corralled and the story falls apart.
You have medieval knights abducting Regency governesses, dogs sleeping with chickens. Chaos. Total chaos. The story is then lost for all time, and we are forced to place the book in that room.” She indicated the vault again. “It’s truly tragic. The greatest book of all time is in there now because the author who was destined to write it thought he was losing his mind when he started hearing the characters talking to him. He’s now on Prozac, living in an isolated cabin in Montana.”

  Taryn was still confused by all of this. “Are you telling me that Sparhawk isn’t real?”

  “Oh, no,” she said sincerely. “They’re all real. All of them. Just like you or I, only they live in their own world that is apart from ours. I allowed Sparhawk to cross over from his world into yours in a more tangible form so that he could win you. I knew that if you didn’t fall absolutely head over heels in love with him that you wouldn’t save him, and if he had to go back on the shelf one more time, he would rebel and take over his book so that no one would ever be able to finish it. Now it appears that Alinor has rebelled instead of him and threatened the whole thing.”

  Esther handed her a copy of Knightly Dreams. Sparhawk was again on the cover, just as he’d been originally. Only now the author’s name read Alinor de Blakely.

  Taryn ran her hand over the embossed letters. “How can she do this?”

  “Alinor has found the original copy and has taken it over. She wanted Sparhawk back and so she has written his return.” Esther opened the book to show her the parts that now held her name on the pages.

  Taryn’s heart stilled as she saw her life laid out in ink. It was horrifying. “This can’t be.”

  “Yes, hon, it can and it is.” Esther turned to the last page of the book, where it showed Alinor marrying Sparhawk.

  Taryn’s heart sank. The book was over and she wasn’t mentioned at the end.

  “Don’t despair,” Esther said quickly. “Notice there is room on the page and if you turn to the last page of the book, it’s completely blank.”

  “Most books are like that.”

  “Yes, but not all. Those with no blank pages are the ones that are completely finished. There is nothing more to be done with them. But books like this one, where they have blank pages, can still be added to.”

  A glimmer of hope went through Taryn. “What exactly are you saying?”

  Esther handed her a pen that appeared out of thin air. “I’m saying that you can alter Alinor’s book and make it your own. We are all the authors of our own lives, Taryn. We make the rules of our world, and we are the ones who decide which road to take. It’s all up to you and you alone. This story ends the way you want it to. But only if you have the courage and the imagination to see it through.”

  It sounded too good to be true. Too easy. “But it won’t be a published book.”

  Esther held her hand out to indicate all the books around them. “Only a small percentage of all books written ever get published, dearest. Many more stay in the hearts, minds, and closets of their authors forever after they are committed to paper. They are there solely for the author’s pleasure and benefit alone. But more importantly, they are there for the characters because until they are on paper, the characters aren’t truly alive. Every author owes it to her people to birth them as best as he or she can.”

  Esther urged her toward a table that also appeared out of thin air. “Sparhawk the Brave is in desperate need of a champion of his own. Someone who can save him from certain death and torment. Otherwise he will spend eternity with Alinor lost in the vault.”

  Taryn knew from the short time they had been together just how much Sparhawk hated the thought of being stuck with Alinor. Esther was right. It would kill him.

  If what she said could be believed, then Taryn was his only hope. . . .

  Esther gave her a hopeful look. “So what’s it to be, Taryn?”

  Four

  Taryn was still confused even after Esther had dropped her back into her home. Then again, who wouldn’t be confused being dropped in and out of places? She still wasn’t completely sure she wasn’t in the middle of some psychotic episode. Her entire concept of reality was completely altered now. Maybe she was in a book.

  Maybe nothing was real.

  No, she thought as she pinched herself for the eighth time. She was real. This was her house. Her life. And there for a time, Hawk had shared it all with her.

  Now, as she lay on her bed with the paperback that had Sparhawk on the cover, her mind drifted through the last few days—something that was easy to do since everything they had shared was there in black-and-white. Everything. Every time they had made love, every meal, every line. It even had her in the library or whatever that place had been.

  It was so odd to see her name on the pages, to read in the book what the two of them had done.

  But even scarier than the passages with her in them were the ones where she was off in her own world and Hawk was in his. Alone. Those were horrible scenes with Hawk being wounded and tortured for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was Alinor’s way of getting back at him for his having escaped in the first place.

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to suffer any more than she wanted to face the rest of her life without him. He’d been wonderful.

  God help her, but he really had been her hero and she wanted him back.

  “I have to save him,” she whispered as she read one particularly painful page where he was gored by a wild boar in the woods while saving Alinor from pygmy bandits. . . . Pygmy bandits? Ay! If Alinor really was writing this, she had lost her mind completely.

  Taryn sat up with the book. “Okay, let’s pretend that I’m not hallucinating and that everything Esther has told me is the truth. . . .”

  Then she could save him. She laughed in spite of herself. This had to be the most ludicrous thing she’d ever done. But what the heck? What did she really have to lose?

  “Either I’ll get him back or they’ll lock me up,” she said under her breath as she grabbed the pen. “Okay, Esther. Here goes nothing.”

  Closing her eyes, Taryn conjured up a picture of Sparhawk in her mind as he was on page 342 in the book, just after his return to his world.

  He should be alone, sitting at the table with his head in his hands. The chapter ended there, but there was blank space at the end of the paragraph. . . .

  Taryn opened her heart and listened carefully until she could see and hear Hawk clearly. Her chest tight in fear of failing, she started writing. . . .

  Sparhawk sat in his hall, completely bereft of hope. Alinor had hidden the master book so well that he had no idea where it might be. There was no way back to Taryn. No way to get out of this so long as Alinor had control of their story.

  Damn her for this! How could she be so selfish? But then, that was what had caused him to want to escape her clutches to begin with.

  “I miss you, Lady Taryn,” he breathed.

  “I missed you, too.”

  Sparhawk shot to his feet as he heard the tender voice behind him. It couldn’t be, and yet as he turned, he saw his lady there, watching him with a guarded expression. Her smile was gentle as she looked up at him.

  “Wow,” she said, looking around his hall. “It really worked.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was it possible? “How is it that you are here?”

  Taryn held the book up in her hand, and this time the author’s name on the cover was hers. “I’m making some changes in how the story goes.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  She drew near him. “Esther said that I was supposed to be the writer of your book, so here I am . . . writing for the first time since I was a kid. It’s actually kind of fun. Did you know Alinor is off shopping?”

  “’Tis what she told me.”

  “Yeah, but she has tacky taste in jewelry,” Taryn said as she made a note in the book. “But that’s okay. The jeweler is about to look a lot like my ex-boyfriend. In fact, I’m thinking Rob really should e
nd up with Alinor. She’s demanding and beastly. They should be quite happy together, especially after I give Rob some very choice moles in awkward locations.” She wagged her brows at him.

  Hawk shook his head at her. “And what about me?”

  Taryn sat down at the table where he’d been and started writing. One minute they were in his castle, and in the next they were back at her house, naked in her bed.

  Hawk frowned at her. “I don’t understand this.”

  “Neither do I. At least not exactly. But that’s okay. Esther said that I was the author of my own life, so I am going to make sure that . . .” Taryn paused as a bad thought struck her. “Wait. I’m being extremely selfish here. I didn’t even ask you what you wanted.”

  Fear gripped her as she realized that for all she knew, Hawk wanted to return to the Middle Ages and be with someone else.

  His gaze hooded, he looked rather hesitant. “Do you want the truth?”

  Be careful what you ask for; you just might get it. . . .

  Her mother’s favorite phrase went through her as panic swelled in her heart. C’mon, Taryn, you’re a big girl. You can handle whatever he says.

  As a character, Hawk had never had any say in his life. The least she could do was give him a choice in this. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I want the truth.”

  He reached out to brush the hair back from her face. “What I want . . .”

  She waited for him to speak as he continued to play in her hair. “Is . . . ?” she prompted.

  “You,” he said before he pulled her into a sizzling kiss.

  Taryn groaned at the taste of her medieval knight. Hawk was everything she had ever dreamed of. Everything she’d ever wanted. She nipped at his lips before she pulled back. “Okay, then, we shall have a big wedding. . . .”

  Sparhawk watched as she started writing lines in her book. Every time she got to the bottom of the page, she turned it over and a new blank page appeared magically at the end of the book so that she could continue onward with her writing.

  He tried to read what she was writing, but couldn’t understand it. “What are you putting there, Taryn?”