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  BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

  Comes a Horseman

  Germ

  Deadfall

  Deadlock

  DREAMHOUSE KINGS SERIES

  1 House of Dark Shadows

  2 Watcher in the Woods

  3 Gatekeepers

  4 Timescape

  5 Whirlwind

  6 Frenzy

  frenzy

  BOOK SIX OF

  DREAM HOUSE KINGS

  ROBERT LIPARULO

  NASHVILLE DALLAS MEXICO CITY RIO DE JANEIRO

  © 2010 by Robert Liparulo

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmit-ted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc. books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  [[CIP data to come]]

  ISBN: 9781595548160

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 11 12 13 14—6 5 4 3 2 1

  [[DEDICATION TO COME]]

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  READ HOUSE OF DARK SHADOWS,

  WATCHER IN THE WOODS,

  GATEKEEPERS, TIMESCAPE,

  AND WHIRLWIND

  BEFORE CONTINUING!

  “We are not here on earth to change

  our destiny, but to fulfill it.”

  —GUY FINELY

  “What good is the present

  if we can’t change the future?”

  —EDWARD KING

  prologue

  SOME TIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE . . .

  Xander flew out of the portal as though shot from a can-non. His legs kicked, his arms spun. His feet hit the ground, tangled together, and he went down. He tumbled over pine needles, a small bush. His shoulder struck a tree trunk. Clawing at the bark, he scrambled to stand.

  Cold wetness struck his face, contrasting with the warmth of his tears, of the blood already on his cheeks.

  Holding the tree, he turned his eyes skyward. Beyond the branches and needles, ash-colored clouds churned as though stirred by angry fingers. Rain burst from them, spattering fat drops across the woods. For the briefest moment he thought Of course, of course the heavens would be crying too!

  Then he pushed off the tree and began running. His sneak-ers slipped and slid over the wet ground cover. They sailed out from under him, and he fell, soaking his hip and leg with mud. He rose and ran, feeling he was heading the right direc-tion, but not certain. He crested a small hill and descended the other side.

  He stopped to get his bearings. He blinked rain out of his eyes, only to have it replaced by tears. He pushed his palm into each socket, shook his head, and tried to get a hold of himself. To his right, he recognized a short cliff of earth, tree roots protruding like veins. He knew where he was.

  He stumbled forward, raised his face again, and screamed: rage, pain, grief . . . it all roared out of him. He dropped his head and sobbed.

  No, no, no . . .

  This isn’t happening. It isn’t!

  Then he saw the underside of his forearms, and knew it was happening . . . it had happened. The blood was still there. It glistened darker than movie blood, thicker. It coated his arms as though someone had slathered paint over them with wide brushstrokes.

  Oh, God, he prayed, let it be paint! Let there have been some mistake and make it not blood, anything but blood!

  But he knew better.

  Raindrops plopped on his forearms, cleaning away the red in small starbursts and long streaks. Suddenly, he didn’t want it to be gone, washed away. There was a finality to it that he couldn’t stand. He crossed his arms over his chest, protecting them from the rain.

  He ducked his head and plowed into the bushes. Branches scratched at his face, his arms; they snagged his clothes. He yanked himself free and tumbled out on the other side, landing in the long grass of a meadow. He pushed himself up and saw the log where he and David had first found Young Jesse—the boy who would become their great-great uncle—sitting there, carving a piece of wood.

  He ran across the meadow to another clump of tall bushes and pushed through. Wooded land rose and disappeared. He kept going, mounted a hill, and looked down a shallow slope to where the house stood.

  Barely a house, really. Only the framework had been com-pleted, two-by-fours forming the shape of the house in which Xander and his family had been living for barely eight days.

  How could so much have changed in eight days!

  He spotted Jesse then, standing under a makeshift roof on the railless porch—at least that much of the house was finished. He was talking to a man. Had to be his father. The guy looked rugged: scruffy stubble over a square jaw and hol-low cheeks, short-cropped hair, more gray than black, muscles pushing against a dirty white T-shirt.

  The man caught Xander’s eye, and he scowled. He reached back to a workbench, grabbed a hammer, and stepped forward.

  Jesse, seeing Xander now as well, slapped his hand against
his father’s chest. A big grin broke out on the boy’s face and he yelled, “Xander!” He turned to his father. “That’s Xander, one of the boys I told you about,” he said. “Your great-great grandson.”

  The man’s scowl softened. Then he noticed Xander’s con-dition, and his features became worried and puzzled.

  Jesse hopped off the porch and ran toward Xander. “You’re back!” he said. “You said you would be, but—“

  He stopped, eyed Xander up and down. He took in the blood, Xander’s deep frown, his wet, red eyes. “What . . . what . . . ?” He looked past Xander. “Where’s David?”

  Xander fell to his knees. He covered his face and smelled the blood on his hands. He looked up at Jesse. “Dae’s . . . dead. Jesse, Taksidian killed him!”9

  •••••••••

  Jesse’s image clouded away as tears filled Xander’s eyes. He cried, big wailing sobs. Now that he’d said it, nothing could hold back the torrent of his emotions.

  Someone dropped down beside him, put strong arms around him.

  It was Jesse’s father hugging him. He didn’t say a word, just embraced him, as if knowing it was the only thing he could do. Xander reached to the arm that was crossing his chest and gripped it.

  Jesse said, “Are you . . . are you sure?” His voice was high, like a six-year-old kid’s, and he was trembling. Tears poured down his cheeks.

  Xander nodded. “I saw it. He . . . stabbed him. Taks . . . he ran away. Keal . . . our friend . . . he’s a nurse . . . he checked . . . there was no . . . no . . .” He couldn’t say it: no pulse, no heartbeat, because that said too much: no life . . . no David. It was too late.

  He pushed Jesse’s father away so he could look at him. “Don’t build it,” Xander said. “Don’t build the house.” He looked past Jesse to the towering framework. “Burn it! You have to!”

  Jesse’s father shook his head. “That won’t help, son.”

  “But if there’s no house, then we wouldn’t move in. Taksidian wouldn’t try to take it. David and Taksidian would never meet, and Taksidian won’t kill him!”

  “You’re here,” Jesse’s dad said. “If we don’t build it, someone will. You being here now proves it. We can’t change that. I’m sorry.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Xander looked from the man to Jesse and back again. He dropped his head.

  Jesse’s father touched his face. “You’re hurt,” he said. “That’s a bad gash on your chin.”

  Xander slapped away his hand. “It’s not me!” he yelled.

  “David . . . it’s David. There has to be something we can do!” he said, then whispered, pleadingly: “Something.” He looked at Jesse, and his anguish turned to anger. “Why didn’t you warn us?” he yelled. “You see me here now, telling you what happened. You’re fourteen. You come to the house to help when you’re in your nineties! You must have known. You never warned us! Why?”

  Jesse’s lips quivered. “I . . . “ He squeezed his eyes, push-ing out fat drops. “I don’t know!” He rushed to Xander and knelt in front of him. He grabbed Xander’s shoulders. “I will! I promise, I will!”

  “You don’t,” Xander said. “You didn’t.” A fact. Simple as that.

  Xander stared into Jesse’s eyes. They were so blue, like the old man Jesse’s. For a moment he felt it was him—Old Man Jesse, not fourteen-year-old Jesse—making the promise. Xander wanted to punch him, punch him and never stop punching him.

  “I wouldn’t forget this,” Jesse said. “I wouldn’t, not ever.”

  “Maybe,” Xander said, “maybe . . .” He turned to Jesse’s dad. “I need to write it down, what happened. I need paper, paper and a pen.”

  “Son, it’s too late.”

  “I need a pen and paper!” Xander yelled. “Please.”

  Jesse’s dad rose, he looked toward the house, back to Xander.

  “Please,” Xander said. “I have to try. Something. Anything.”

  Jesse’s dad trudged off toward the house, head low.

  “What are you thinking?” Jesse said. He sniffed.

  “Keep my letter,” Xander pleaded. “Read it every day. Maybe you won’t forget now. Maybe you will warn us.”

  “I will. I promise.” Jesse’s eyes dropped to Xander’s arms. He pushed his fingers into the blood, then looked at his red fingertips. His face scrunched up in pain and sorrow.

  Jesse’s dad returned with a scrap of paper and a pencil. Xander leaned back to sit on his heels. He spread the paper over his thigh and scribbled a word. His hands were shaking so badly, even he couldn’t read it. He groaned, tried again. Then he drew a picture. He looked at it and knew it was pointless. David was dead. Jesse never warned them. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

  He leaned forward, wanted nothing more than to disap-pear, to be gone from this pain and this day.

  David. David.

  His brother’s face filled his mind: floppy long hair, dim-ples, Dad’s hazel eyes—more green than brown. Those eyes always seemed to sparkle . . . until they didn’t. He had held David in his arms, yelling for help. So much blood. David had watched Xander’s face. He hadn’t seemed scared, he’d seemed almost at peace. Then his breathing had failed, and those eyes stopped sparkling; they had focused on some-thing far away and stayed that way.

  Xander’s forehead landed in the mud between Jesse’s knees. He felt the boy’s hands on his back, comforting. But nothing could comfort him now. He let out a long howl. The tears came again, the wrenching sobs, and he knew they would never stop . . .

  CHAPTER

  one

  ATLANTIS, 9552 B.C.

  David had gotten himself into a real mess this time.

  He and Xander had followed Phemus, the big man who had kidnapped their mom, from their house to this awful place. Taksidian and Phemus captured them in a town square, and while soldiers were chaining them to a line of children heading to war, David broke away. He darted into a workshop of some kind, heard the soldiers looking for him in an alley. But when he turned from the door, a group of tough Atlantian kids waited for him. They had come through a door on the opposite side of the workshop. Knowing what was coming, David had spun to the door behind him.

  Now the six boys rushed up behind David, intending—he was sure—to kill him.

  Their screams chilled his heart, but he moved: he grabbed the length of wood that barred the door and yanked it from its brackets.

  His attackers’ shadows fell over him.

  He hollered—an animal-sounding gush of effort and frustration—and spun, swinging the wood like a baseball bat and striking the lead attacker in the head. The energy of the impact vibrated into David’s arms, and the boy collapsed in front of him. The others braked, reeling back as David swung again, missing two of them by inches.

  A kid kicked at the fallen boy, saying, “Theseus?”

  Theseus groaned, and the others turned snarling faces toward David. Six of them—five now that one was down. All of them were armed with weapons: a club, a chain, a hammer. Every one bore signs of the rough life he had led, from a black eye and bruised ribs to fresh, bleeding gashes and missing teeth.

  “Go!” David yelled, shaking the length of wood toward the door behind the boys, at the far side of the room. It was open, and sunlight streamed in, turning the attackers into shadowy figures. The place was as big as a barn, with planks of wood stacked taller than David. The only open area was between the two doors, where he and the boys now faced off. “Go!” David repeated.

  Instead, a boy dived in, whipping a chain in front of him. David swung the wood. It struck the boy’s hand, and the chain went flying. The boy screamed and wheeled away, clutching his hand.

  Before David could reverse his swing, a boy of about ten lunged in with a jagged piece of metal. David twisted away, and the weapon tore into his tunic-like shirt. The boy tried to pull away, but David turned to swing, and the boy got the metal tangled in the shirt. The boy’s eyes squeezed shut as the wood sailed toward his head.

  Da
vid slowed it down in midswing. He didn’t want to kill the kid, even if these punks wanted to kill him. There was no hate in his heart—only panic and an intense desire to get away. Still, the impact made a sickening thunk! and the boy released his weapon, freed his hand, and stumbled back. He tumbled over the boy already on the floor—Theseus—and landed beside him.

  Immediately another boy leaped, a hammer raised over his head. David jabbed, making contact with the boy’s stomach. The kid buckled and fell sideways.

  David felt a fist slam into his own stomach, and the air inside him burst out of his mouth. He bent over, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs. The boy who’d punched him did it again, this time on the side of his face. David spun, and someone shoved him hard. He crashed into the door. On the other side of it, he knew, soldiers were pacing the alley, look-ing for him. Someone kicked him in the small of the back, and he yelled.

  Turn! he told himself Fight! If you don’t, you’re dead!

  But he was desperately in need of air that wouldn’t come . . . his back pulsated with pain . . . and the bony punch to his face had him seeing stars. The expression was true, he registered in some corner of his brain; dark starbursts flashed in front of his eyes as he tried to regain his senses.

  He knew what was coming: a club cracking into his skull or a piece of metal slicing into skin, muscle, guts.

  No!

  He pushed off the door and started to turn. Hands grabbed him. They seized his arms, his shirt; one gripped the hair on the top of his head. They pulled, trying to get him into the center of the room, where all of them could pounce from every angle. He kicked the door, kicked it again, and it rattled and thumped.

  The boys roughly turned him around and hoisted him up, and he saw Theseus was on his hands and knees, shouting angry commands.

  “Ton arpakste! Ton kratiste! Thelo to proto htypima!

  ”

  Theseus rubbed his head and ear where David had clob-bered him. As he rose, he picked up the club he had dropped. He squared himself in front of David, a wicked smile on his face.