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  Finley cleared his throat and said, “I don’t mean like a moment where you laughed with Jasmine or the high that you get on flying trapeze, but real unaffected happiness. Something that you’ve sustained for a long time. Do you remember ever having that?”

  “Damn it, Finley! Are you insane?” She slammed the steering wheel with her palm. “I’m grieving Dave’s death and you’re drilling me about my happiness.”

  He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze, which was cemented on the road in front of them. “Yes, because I need to know. It’s important. Do you think you’ve ever been happy? Really happy?”

  “Why do you need to know this?” she said, unable to understand this line of questioning and its horrible timing.

  “I just do,” he said, his voice soft, troubled.

  Zuma knew what happiness looked like. The state of real happiness laced through the people’s thoughts she read. It was different than a fleeting emotion. Even if something bad happened, when it passed happiness would return for these people. It was a foundation in their thoughts. These people’s thoughts Zuma had telepathically read were coated in happiness, like little chocolate-covered pretzels. She’d seen it in her parents and her siblings. She’d seen it in Dave. But her extent of experience with happiness ended there. She’d only ever witnessed it in other people. It wasn’t that she was depressed all her life. Quite the opposite actually. Zuma, for as long as she remembered, was indifferent. Most of her life was gray.

  “Zuma,” Finley said, breaking into her introspection, his voice pressing.

  “No,” she finally admitted. “No, I’ve never been happy.” And she pulled the car off the road toward a gas station.

  Chapter Nine

  Morning sun sliced through the car windows, piercing Jack straight in the eyes. He pushed up, slightly confused by the surroundings of the backseat where he was lying. Then his reality poured over his consciousness, etching the day ahead of him back into his mind. He’d meant to use an hour of dream travel time to investigate Knight’s compound. However, he’d been too exhausted and allowed his consciousness to be sucked into dreamland before he directed it to a set place and time.

  He bolted to a sitting position, his neck suddenly making mention of the odd angle it was forced to lie in for the last several hours.

  “Oh, shit!” Jack said, clambering over the seat and into the front. How long had he been asleep?

  By where the sun sat on the horizon it was morning and he was hoping it was still early, but once he started the car and the clock on the display powered on, his heart sank.

  Nine o’clock.

  He’d lost so much time accidentally falling asleep. Jack knew that going after Knight was a time-sensitive mission. He had to get down there and do it fast. There were so many obstacles that arose as more time went by. He didn’t think Titus would stop him, but he couldn’t be too sure. And he was also hoping to push through and beat Sebastian back to the warehouse. Jack figured if he drove through the night at top speed he might catch Sebastian. He wasn’t just planning on taking out Knight, but also Sebastian. This was the boy who actually murdered Dave. But Finley said Sebastian did a lot of jobs for Knight and Jack feared he’d be reassigned before he could catch him at their compound.

  It was essential that he took out both Sebastian and Knight, but one question surrounded that goal: How?

  The tires squealed as Jack pulled the car onto the freeway. He knew something would come to him. An idea. A strategy. He prayed one would. He looked up to the heavens. “Dave,” he said aloud, “if you can hear me then please lead me on this mission. Show me how to avenge your death.”

  If Jack had really been willing to follow signs from heaven then he would have heeded the construction warnings ahead on the road that read “Caution” and “Detour.” Instead, Jack sped past them, fueled by his anger.

  Chapter Ten

  Zuma might have loathed Finley at the current moment, but she wasn’t going to allow him to starve or dehydrate. She returned from the convenience store and wordlessly pushed a bottle of water and a protein bar at him. The girl figured that much like her, Finley hadn’t thought to eat. It was late morning and Zuma knew the only way she was making the long trip was if she kept up her reserves, and also stayed focused.

  They drove for a long thirty miles in silence. Zuma’s emotions were now not her greatest weakness. She’d meditated during those miles and found a way to restrain her feelings until they were like the thoughts she read in other people’s heads. Her emotions were someone else’s. She took the same position she was accustomed to taking with other people’s thoughts: she created boundaries, a cold, distant perspective. This had been the way her mother had taught her to maintain her sanity. Her mother told her that when she came into her gift of telepathy, the first way to lose her mind was in other people’s thoughts. And although Zuma had never known happiness, she was victim to bouts of depression if she allowed the passing thoughts of strangers to take over her being. Most people don’t realize that every person is having a stressful thought at least every twenty-six seconds. At least that often, but usually more often than that, and those stressful thoughts can drain a telepath. That’s the reason Zuma always thought she was unable to be happy, because of her gift; however, her family wasn’t like her. They were different. They were all happy. Happiness was synonymous with the name Zanders, except when it came to Zuma.

  The girl now had managed to put that same protection she used with other people’s thoughts around her own emotions and she felt suddenly strong in that fragile moment. She felt that she could actually speak to Finley without crying from heartbreak. Zuma drew in a long breath. “You said that Knight produces Dream Traveler children using surrogates,” she said to Finley, finally breaking the silence. “So, before when you said you didn’t know if your parents were dead or not, is that because that’s how you were born? From a surrogate?”

  Months ago Finley had gotten upset at Zuma for being flippant about her parents, saying if he knew about his family he’d never be so insensitive. The statement had cut Zuma in a new way. She still felt that laceration upon her once pristine heart from his cold remarks. How was it that Finley was the first person to scar her? And more importantly, how was she never hurt before him?

  “Well?” she said when he’d been silent too long.

  He threw his gaze out the window, watching the rolling hills pass by.

  “Oh, what, are you not going to answer my questions now?” Zuma said, sensing an opportunity for a battle and sensing it might make her feel better.

  “When have I ever answered your questions?” he said in a monotone voice. He was still sulking. Since he learned Zuma had never been happy, he’d been in the worst tortured state of silent frustration.

  He hadn’t ever really answered her questions, she realized. Her mind skipped back to before Dave’s death. Even after Finley confessed his love for Zuma he was unwilling to answer her questions about who he was and where he came from. It had been like that since the beginning. And could she really blame him? No, she couldn’t. And would probably be the same way in his position. However, this didn’t make her need to know any less.

  She tossed a look at Finley. His demeanor made him look sewn up at every seam, arms crossed, eyes cast far away, long legs angled at the door.

  Zuma sighed and tried to make it sound like resignation. “Well, maybe you’ll tell me how you learned on your own that you could dream travel?”

  Silence.

  Or maybe even the smallest of details weren’t ones Finley was willing to give away. Not now that he had no way to come back from his misfortunes. He was a vault more than ever before.

  “Have you known how to dream travel long?” Zuma asked, bent on pulling something, anything, out of him. She needed to know more about Finley, and the more he stayed shut up, the more the need turned into a desperate craving.

  Silence again. He was working now to keep up his silence and she knew that. She also knew she co
uld break him. It was a gift of hers, in a way.

  “Oh, come on, Finley, you can’t ignore my questions for another ten hours,” she said, tossing an errant strand of blonde and pink hair out of her face.

  “You’d be surprised what I can ignore,” he said dully.

  She fired right back. “Like the presence of a killer prancing woefully close to all of the Vagabond Circus members,” she said, thankful for the opportunity to punish him a little.

  “I wasn’t ignoring Sebastian’s presence,” he said and then bit down on the corner of his bottom lip. She noticed then how nice his teeth were. There had been little opportunity to see them, as the guy hardly ever smiled. His white teeth were flat in all the right places. Sharp in all the other right places.

  “Fine,” she acquiesced. “I’ll give you that.” And just then Zuma allowed herself to be reminded that Finley had supposedly been trying to stop Sebastian. It was just that Finley, in his effort to protect Dave, never wanted to consider the notion of telling anyone the truth. He never wanted to divulge Sebastian’s intent to murder because Finley’s own history was wrapped up in that secret. And the thought of Finley’s personal truths sent a cold shiver over Zuma’s back, making her grip the steering wheel tighter. His upbringing was cruel and harsh and not something she could even pretend to imagine.

  Finley then turned suddenly and she sensed the action before he moved. His arms were still crossed and he stared at Zuma. She almost winced from the penetrating effect his eyes had on her. How had she so soon forgotten the way he regarded her, always regarded her? His gaze appeared to try and pull her apart at the seams so he could make her anew.

  Zuma pretended his look had no effect on her and sighed now, this time with defeat. “What’s with the look?” she said, hoping she sounded annoyed rather than affected on a new level.

  “What are we now, Zuma?” he said, his voice calculated.

  She slightly let off the accelerator, taken aback by the unexpected question. And wasn’t she the one who was drilling him?

  “What do you mean?” Zuma asked, feeling like she was twitching inside from his sudden attention on her. Cars began passing them. Some gave looks of annoyance brought on by her sudden slowed speed since a lot of cars had been traveling together at ten miles over the limit for a while.

  “Well, we were partners,” he said. “And our act was saving the circus. It was bringing new life to the people. Whatever you feel toward me, are you going to allow that to stand in the way of the success of Vagabond Circus?”

  Jack was risking his life to take Knight out because he was afraid that as long as Dave’s murderer was loose the people of Vagabond Circus would never be free. He had put that in his note to Zuma. And last night she’d told Jack that she’d do whatever it took to keep Dave’s circus alive. Did that mean continuing to perform with Finley? And if it did, then would she be able to? Would Zuma be able to dance and move beside Finley knowing she was in love with him and also forbidding herself from ever fully experiencing that emotion for her partner? She pressed on the gas pedal, accelerating suddenly, overtaking all the cars that had passed her.

  “I don’t know, Finley. I can’t think about the future right now,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  By midafternoon Jack hadn’t been given any epiphanies regarding how he’d take down Knight and Sebastian. Completely deflated by no bright ideas he forced himself to construct his own strategy. He was just passing the line into Ventura County when he decided on a plan. Given the best case scenario he could pull it off. Anything less and he knew his life hung in the balance. But Jack didn’t care. He’d use his last bit of life to kill Knight if that’s what it took. Avenging Dave’s murder was worth it to Jack.

  The first part of his plan relied on hoping a mostly dormant skill of his would surface under the pressure of the moment. Dave had been working with him to draw out the skill, like he did with Jack’s levitation gift, which was also slow to come. Jack’s life as a Dream Traveler had always been like that. Trying. Taxing. Strained. His brothers could dream travel without incident from an early age and their gifts flowed to them easily, hardly requiring much practice. But for Jack it was work. Being a Dream Traveler was difficult, but it was who he was and Dave believed that the effort required to use his powers meant they were great. And more than ever Jack needed to believe him.

  The second part of the plan relied on the only other option Jack saw available to him. He pulled off at an exit and parked at a shop. It was a place Jack’s father had warned him to always stay away from. He wouldn’t approve of Jack being there, but that was on a long list of things his father felt Jack did in an unfit manner.

  The bell to the pawn shop door clanged, marking Jack’s entrance into the musty store. An old man looked up from behind the glass countertop. He was wearing a T-shirt that was once white but now was more of a grayish tan. He didn’t make to hide his look of disapproval as he ran his eyes over Jack’s short brown and blond highlighted hair and firm jawline. The boy looked like a varsity football player and the pawn shop owner didn’t care for those types. Any types really, but especially jocks.

  “I don’t buy from minors,” the man said, his voice gruff, his words slurred.

  “I’m eighteen,” Jack said, strolling to the counter, shoulders back. He stood a head over the hunchbacked clerk. “And I’m here to buy.” He pulled out a neatly folded pile of bills. “With cash.”

  The look on the clerk’s face shifted. “I’m listening,” the man said. Jock or not, money was money and he rarely cared where it came from.

  Jack scanned the various objects in the case, his eyes moving past the jewelry and fake watches. In the next case down he found what he was looking for. “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at the item on the bottom part of the shelf. His sweaty finger left a print on the glass, but he didn’t notice. Jack’s eyes were resting on the samurai sword nestled on fabric of green velvet.

  He looked up to catch the man regarding him with an overgrown arched eyebrow. “Lad, that ain’t no toy. That’s an authentic samurai sword. It isn’t even a stupid replica. This here was handmade by a real Japanese samurai.”

  “I’m aware what it is. And it’s been refinished with a bit of premature talent and the handle needs to be rewrapped but I’ll take it anyway,” Jack said.

  “Just a disclaimer,” the man said, unlocking the back of the case and reaching his greasy hands into it. “This can lop off an arm, so I advise you and your party friends to be careful when playing with it.”

  Jack released his first smile since Dave’s death. It was an ironic one. Not only did Jack know how to handle the sword, but during his martial arts training he’d excelled more with swords over nunchucks and escrima sticks. Of course, his time at Vagabond Circus hadn’t given him much opportunity to use this skill, but he was certain that it would seep back, spun by his thirst for revenge.

  “We plan on splitting watermelons with it,” Jack said, happy to play the old man’s game.

  The clerk studied him. He was a man who had seen a lot and met too many rough individuals. They had colored the shop owner and also given him a certain knack for reading brooding hostility in a person. “You know, slicing through melon flesh isn’t as easy a task as you think it will be. There’s a spray and it’s quite messy to clean up. Maybe you want to make this game with your friends a bit easier by using the weapons I got in the case over here.” The man pointed a crooked finger at a glass cabinet holding a revolver, three automatic weapons, and a shotgun.

  Jack didn’t even stop to consider them. “I’ll take the sword and sheath.”

  “Just saying…” the man said, holding his hands up, a look of mischief on his face.

  “What?! What are you saying?” Jack said in an angry rush. His patience was now as thin as the gray patches of hair sitting on top of the clerk’s head. The acrobat was suddenly not in the mood to play with the old man anymore or listen to his quiet accusations.

  “Just sa
ying that men who shoot guns want to get a job done. Men who swing swords want to bring pain,” he said.

  “Like I said, I’ll take the sword,” Jack said.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was impressive to Finley how long Zuma could keep up what appeared to be a vow of silence. Even more impressive was that her expression remained stoic and her posture stone. She’d driven six hours hardly adjusting in her seat to get comfortable. Her long fingers remained gripping the wheel, her foot steady on the accelerator. And he knew as his eyes roamed over her that she was aware he was studying her, but she didn’t look away from the road.

  Finley always had his eyes on Zuma since he arrived at the circus. Watching her had felt natural to him, like it was his job. And in truth, Zuma had enjoyed knowing with such certainty that she could always look up to find Finley studying her. He didn’t stare at her like most people did. Most people gawked at Zuma because of her exotic appearance or stared with envy at her beauty. However, Finley always looked at her in a studious way, as if he was trying to piece her together like she was a marble puzzle. A statue he was constructing from parts of her abstract soul.

  “Do you want me to give you a break and drive?” he said, surprising himself by interrupting the long stretch of silence.

  She turned and regarded him. Finley had lavender circles hanging under his greenish eyes, and his brown hair was still a mess of chaos from the night he spent with his hands tossing through it. “You look like the one who could use some rest,” she said.

  “I wasn’t saying you were tired, I was just asking if you wanted a break,” he said. “We’re only halfway there. There’s a lot of driving left.”