was a different voice. Clearly, the Department was not expecting this kind of dissension. Unlike the smooth, practised words of the previous Department wanker, there was an edge to the second voice. He was lying.
The anger that I felt before solidifies into something far harder. I feel my cheeks turning red and it’s not because I’m embarrassed. Breathing hard, I take a step back. Panic attacks aside, I’ve never experienced such an overwhelming surge of emotion. Dante once told me that taking another person’s life is incredibly difficult, regardless of how justifiable the action may be. At this moment, I’d happily kill anyone connected to the Department for harming so much as a single blonde hair on Ashley’s head.
I focus on my breathing exercises to bring myself back under control. Almost unconsciously, I start pinching the tips of my fingers rhythmically. I tilt my head back to gulp in fresh air and, as I do, I catch sight of a head on one of the rooftops. So the Department is still using that vantage point for their archers to keep an eye on us. I commit the face to memory and swing round to see if I can spot anyone else. With my attention diverted, I miss the arrival of the outlier. It’s not long before I hear him, however.
‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
I stare in the direction of the new voice. Whoever he is, he’s a tall fellow so it’s easy to pick him out. That and the fact that he’s stark naked. An outlier; at least one of them isn’t being plagued by sleep paralysis.
When I first apparated in the Dreamlands, Dante mistook me for an outlier. It happens a few times every week. Someone stumbles into the Dreamlands by accident. They’re not Travellers like everyone else, they just happen across the pathway in their unconscious minds that brings them here. As far as they’re concerned, what they experience is nothing more than a dream; in fact, they’re likely to wake up with zero memory of their visit. I don’t think any outlier has ever appeared twice.
The man seems determined to get to the front. The crowd, which is used to such appearances, parts to let him pass. To block his way might cause an argument or, worse, an actual fight. That’s not a problem for the outlier because he doesn’t have the conscious awareness that the rest of us have. Essentially, we can get hurt but he can’t.
The bonus is that his nudity provides some much-needed levity. There are plenty of nudged elbows and titters. The Department won’t like that, I think. It’ll loosen its hold over the people in the square even more.
The outlier makes it to the centre. For a moment or two, I see nothing more than the top of his head then he swings up onto Dean Salib’s statue with his hairy bits swinging around. He favours us with a grand toothy grin and launches into a remarkably tuneful version of ‘I Will Survive’. I start to smile, just as a movement to my left catches my eye.
By the time, I realise what it is, it’s already too late. There’s the thwack of a bow and the outlier looks surprised. He stares down at the blossoming red around his chest. ‘I’m not that bad a singer,’ he croaks, before falling backwards and disappearing.
The crowd freezes then someone starts to boo. Within heartbeats, another person and another join in. Soon the square is filled with the hisses and catcalls of almost thirty thousand people ‒ and they’re all directed at the Department.
While the reaction makes me happy, I’m concerned about what the Department is planning to do about it. I look back at the rooftop, scanning for the archer. When I see him notch another arrow, my heart lurches up to my mouth.
‘Get out of here!’ I shriek. It’s pointless: my words are swallowed up in the chorus of boos.
I run. I’m no longer the weak arse who can’t get over a fence, not here in the Dreamlands. I spring round the fringes of the crowd and leap, grabbing hold of the window ledge on the first floor of the building. I’m
The anger that I felt before solidifies into something far harder. I feel my cheeks turning red and it’s not because I’m embarrassed. Breathing hard, I take a step back. Panic attacks aside, I’ve never experienced such an overwhelming surge of emotion. Dante once told me that taking another person’s life is incredibly difficult, regardless of how justifiable the action may be. At this moment, I’d happily kill anyone connected to the Department for harming so much as a single blonde hair on Ashley’s head.
I focus on my breathing exercises to bring myself back under control. Almost unconsciously, I start pinching the tips of my fingers rhythmically. I tilt my head back to gulp in fresh air and, as I do, I catch sight of a head on one of the rooftops. So the Department is still using that vantage point for their archers to keep an eye on us. I commit the face to memory and swing round to see if I can spot anyone else. With my attention diverted, I miss the arrival of the outlier. It’s not long before I hear him, however.
‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
I stare in the direction of the new voice. Whoever he is, he’s a tall fellow so it’s easy to pick him out. That and the fact that he’s stark naked. An outlier; at least one of them isn’t being plagued by sleep paralysis.
When I first apparated in the Dreamlands, Dante mistook me for an outlier. It happens a few times every week. Someone stumbles into the Dreamlands by accident. They’re not Travellers like everyone else, they just happen across the pathway in their unconscious minds that brings them here. As far as they’re concerned, what they experience is nothing more than a dream; in fact, they’re likely to wake up with zero memory of their visit. I don’t think any outlier has ever appeared twice.
The man seems determined to get to the front. The crowd, which is used to such appearances, parts to let him pass. To block his way might cause an argument or, worse, an actual fight. That’s not a problem for the outlier because he doesn’t have the conscious awareness that the rest of us have. Essentially, we can get hurt but he can’t.
The bonus is that his nudity provides some much-needed levity. There are plenty of nudged elbows and titters. The Department won’t like that, I think. It’ll loosen its hold over the people in the square even more.
The outlier makes it to the centre. For a moment or two, I see nothing more than the top of his head then he swings up onto Dean Salib’s statue with his hairy bits swinging around. He favours us with a grand toothy grin and launches into a remarkably tuneful version of ‘I Will Survive’. I start to smile, just as a movement to my left catches my eye.
By the time, I realise what it is, it’s already too late. There’s the thwack of a bow and the outlier looks surprised. He stares down at the blossoming red around his chest. ‘I’m not that bad a singer,’ he croaks, before falling backwards and disappearing.
The crowd freezes then someone starts to boo. Within heartbeats, another person and another join in. Soon the square is filled with the hisses and catcalls of almost thirty thousand people ‒ and they’re all directed at the Department.
While the reaction makes me happy, I’m concerned about what the Department is planning to do about it. I look back at the rooftop, scanning for the archer. When I see him notch another arrow, my heart lurches up to my mouth.
‘Get out of here!’ I shriek. It’s pointless: my words are swallowed up in the chorus of boos.
I run. I’m no longer the weak arse who can’t get over a fence, not here in the Dreamlands. I spring round the fringes of the crowd and leap, grabbing hold of the window ledge on the first floor of the building. I’m
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