“No.”
“Is there anything that is the same every time?”
“My family, she always kills my family.” Both of his hands dug into her arm. His fear was nearly choking her. Her fear was nearly a cold heat on her skin. The bloated hand had fallen off in the running. She and Malcolm stood alone on the landing, as the stench became stronger. The dead things were coming.
Malcolm’s family, turned into rotting corpses that would tear the boy apart, maybe eat parts of him alive while he watched.
Yes, that would be what Jasmine would do, if she really wanted to terrify. To horrify. If she really hated someone.
That was it: hatred. Jasmine called out, “Lisbeth, I know why you hate Malcolm. I know.”
The first rotted corpse began to pull itself from the wall. “You’re jealous of his family. Malcolm’s family loves him. They love him, Lisbeth. Malcolm’s father loves him. His mother loves him. His sister loves him. His brother loves him.”
The corpses had pulled free of the wall and were reaching for them, but the smell was fading. “You’re family hates you, Lisbeth. Your mother is afraid of you, Lisbeth. I read your file. Your father tried to kill you, and you punished him for it. Didn’t you? Didn’t you!”
The dead things began to melt. There was the sensation of something large sliding through the nightmare, like a whale swimming next to you in the dark. Lisbeth’s power.
“No one loves you. They hate you, Lisbeth. Everyone hates you. Even your own family.”
Silence, not of the ear, but sensation of feeling, silence more profound than soundlessness.
The dream broke and Jasmine was spilled back to wakefulness. She sat up in bed, heart hammering in her chest. That was it. Lisbeth had never been loved, not by anyone, ever. Even sociopaths need the illusion of acceptance from someone. Lisbeth needed to be loved.
THAT morning Jasmine went to Malcolm. They met for the first time in the flesh. She promised him that Lisbeth would never hurt him again. One way or another Jasmine meant to keep that promise.
LISBETH was playing with a nearly life-size doll when Jasmine walked through the door. She knew that Bromley was on the other side of the one-way glass. She no longer cared.
“Nice doll,” Jasmine said.
“My mommy sent it to me.”
“Why?”
Lisbeth frowned up at her. “Why what?”
“Why did your mommy send the doll to you?”
“What do you mean?” Lisbeth asked. The lovely, golden-haired doll lay very still in the child’s lap.
“Why did your mother send you a doll? Why would she send you anything? Most parents never contact their children once they come to the school.”
Lisbeth gave a lovely smile, eyes shining. “Because she loves me,” she said, very matter-of-fact, very sweet, and as soon as she said it, Lisbeth knew it had been a mistake.
Jasmine laughed, then the laughter died. She stared down at the child, met her brown eyes, and did not look away. “No one loves you, Lisbeth; you and I both know that.”
“I hate you,” Lisbeth said, voice quiet and precise.
“I know,” Jasmine said. “Why did you kill Nicky?”
“Didn’t.”
“Why, Lisbeth?”
“Why what?” the child said, voice sulky.
“Why did you kill Nicky?”
“I could have killed you last night.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Get out! Get out!” She stood, screaming. Lisbeth began to beat the doll against the floor. Bits of plastic began to shatter onto the floor. One blue eye lay winking to itself, naked against the floor.
“Why did you kill Nicky?”
“Because he wouldn’t let me do what I wanted to do. Just like you won’t let me!”
“No,” Jasmine said, quietly, “I won’t.”
JASMINE waited the following night, waited until the children had been asleep for a couple of hours. Malcolm wasn’t sleeping tonight. Vanessa was sitting up with him, keeping him awake, at Jasmine’s request. He would be safe tonight, she could see to that.
Tomorrow night was another problem. Jasmine had made her decision; either Lisbeth was “tamed” tonight, or the child would die. There was one more possibility: that Lisbeth would kill her.
The thought flowed over her skin like a cool breeze, tickling the hairs on her arms, sliding down her spine like an ice cube. Fear; it was an old companion. Dr. Cooper wouldn’t know what to do if she wasn’t afraid of her patients.
Jasmine flowed from dream to dream; bright glimpses of color, motion, thoughts, feelings. She pushed forward like a swimmer, concentrating on getting to the other shore. Then it came, terror, it screamed along Jasmine’s nerves, opened her mind, called to her.
She didn’t enter the dream this time, she pushed at it from the outside, shoved the fear aside. Lisbeth’s anger flared over her, but there was nothing for the girl to use to trap Jasmine. Outside of dreams, you were safe. “No, you can’t. You’re afraid of me, like all the others.”
Jasmine smiled. “You made the mistake they all make. Just because I’m afraid of you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be afraid of me.”
Lisbeth began to gather her forces. Jasmine could feel it, like a thunderstorm building in the distance. She might break the dream, or at least change it. “How would you like to visit one of my patients?”
The girl hesitated, power swirling around her. “Patients?”
Jasmine explained what she did; by the time she finished Lisbeth was smiling, that same angelic twist of perfect lips. Lovely and meaningless as a lifelike doll.
“Would you like to see one of their dreams?”
“Do you mean it?” Lisbeth asked.
“Yes.”
Lisbeth licked her lips, breath easing out. It was almost a lust reaction, anticipatory, and far too old for the child. But then in many ways Lisbeth was no longer a child; she had haunted people’s dreams too long for that. “I’d like that.”
“All right.” Jasmine paused as if thinking. “We’ll visit William. You’ll like William, and I know he’ll get a kick out of you.”
Lisbeth giggled, the first real little-girl sound Jasmine had heard her make.
“I can hold on to you and take you to his dream, if you stop fighting me.”
Lisbeth frowned at that. “What does that mean?”
“Just relax and let me do the work. Be the passenger for once instead of the driver.”
“You promise to take me to this William. Promise I’ll get to see a real killer’s dream.”
“Promise,” Jasmine said.
Lisbeth nodded, and lowered her protection. Jasmine felt Lisbeth’s consciousness slide against hers, almost a faint bump as the child released all control. An adult empath would never have lowered everything, but Lisbeth didn’t have the experience in dealing with people who were her equals. Until now she had had no equal. Ten was still very young.
William was asleep, and he dreamed, as he often did, of past glory. He was lying on a twin bed with a little girl. She was wearing blue shorts and a red tank top with cartoon figures on it. Jasmine remembered the clothes from photographs. This was six-year-old Caitlin, and it was William’s version of a wet dream.
Lisbeth sighed. “Oh, this is great.”
The child was crying, saying, “I want to go home now, please.”
“Not yet,” William said, voice soothing, as his hand rubbed the tiny bare leg. “Not yet, soon. If you do everything I say, I’ll take you home.”
“You said there were kittens here. Where are the kittens?”
“I’ll show them to you.”
“I don’t want you to touch me. Don’t!” The child’s fear stabbed outward like her words. A sharp gut-jerking cry.
Lisbeth hovered as close as Jasmine would allow, soaking up the terror. Feeding off the child’s small body. The cries for help, the pleading; Caitlin would ask about the kittens William had promised to show her just seconds before he placed one hand around her slender baby neck and squeezed. He would crush her windpipe. He was a very strong man.
Her small, nude body lay beside the man, dead. Her head was thrown to one side; eyes mercifully closed. She looked like a broken doll, skin perfect and flawless.
Jasmine brought herself and Lisbeth into the dream. The broken little girl vanished, and William was suddenly fully clothed again.