Chapter 18: The Dreamwalker's Bridge
The crying didn't stop when the others finally let her go. It followed her up the stairs, into her room, onto the bed where she buried her face in the pillow and let the sobs tear through her like something with claws. The pillow muffled the sound but not the shaking, not the way her shoulders heaved and her breath came in ragged, broken gasps.
She cried until her throat was raw. Until her eyes were swollen and her head pounded and there was nothing left inside her but a hollow, aching emptiness.
Then, at some point, exhaustion dragged her under.
The dream didn't come gently.
It claimed her like a predator—sharp and sudden, yanking her from the edge of wakefulness into a space that was not quite sleep. The air here was cold and silver, humming with a frequency that made her teeth ache. The walls pulsed like living things, veined with light that shifted between blue and white and something darker, something that had no name.
Katrina stood in the center of it, barefoot on a floor that felt like frozen glass.
She wasn't alone.
Corin LeFaye stood before her, his tall frame silhouetted against a shattered mirror that dominated the far wall. His dark linen suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle or a speck of dust, and his sharp-boned face was unreadable. He looked like he'd stepped out of a painting—one of those old portraits where the eyes followed you no matter where you stood.
"Shaw doesn't know I'm here," he said.
His voice was smooth, unhurried, the kind of voice that had probably talked its way out of a hundred impossible situations.
Katrina's heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to run, to wake up, to escape this place. But her feet wouldn't move.
"I'm done being her errand boy," LeFaye continued. He tilted his head, studying her the way a scientist might study a particularly interesting specimen. "But I'm not the one you need to hear."
He gestured, and the mirror behind him shattered.
Not violently—no explosion of glass, no shrapnel. The shards simply came apart, drifting through the air like snowflakes made of silver, and then they reformed. Not into a mirror this time, but into a window.
Katrina saw Mark's safehouse bedroom.
She saw Mark.
He was pacing—back and forth, back and forth—his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His face was ravaged. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his mouth was set in a line that looked like it had been carved there with a knife.
He looked like a man who had been gutted from the inside out.
"Do you see him?" LeFaye asked.
Katrina nodded. She couldn't speak.
"He doesn't know you're watching. He doesn't know I'm here at all." LeFaye stepped closer, his sharp shoulders cutting through the silver light like blades. "Shaw has him on a leash. She's had him on a leash for years. But that doesn't excuse what he did. It doesn't excuse the lies."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not here to make you forgive him," LeFaye said. "I'm here to show you the truth."
He reached out and touched her temple.
The world exploded.
---
Memories flooded through her—not hers, but his. Mark's.
She saw him as a young man, barely twenty, standing in a sterile prison cell with gray walls and a single window that looked out onto a city she didn't recognize. He was trembling, his hands clenched at his sides, and across from him sat a woman with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice.
Evelyn Shaw.
"You have a sister," Shaw said. Her voice was soft, almost kind. "Emily, isn't it? Such a sweet girl. She's studying music at the conservatory. Piano, I believe."
Mark's face went pale.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to work for me." Shaw smiled. It was the smile of a predator who had already won. "You're talented, Mark. You have a gift for infiltration, for deception. I can use someone like you."
"And if I refuse?"
Shaw's smile didn't waver. "Then I suppose Emily will have to find a new dream. It would be a shame if something happened to her hands. Such delicate instruments."
The memory shifted.
Katrina saw Mark standing in a hospital room, staring down at a body on a gurney. A woman with dark hair and a face that looked like his—the same jawline, the same curve of the cheek. Emily. She was pale, still, connected to machines that beeped and whirred. A car accident, the doctors said. Or maybe not an accident at all.
Mark's hands were shaking.
He was crying.
That was the day he stopped refusing.
The memories kept coming—years of service, years of lies, years of doing things that made him hate himself more with every passing day. Shaw's errands. Shaw's commands. Shaw's cold, calculating smile whenever he did something particularly monstrous.
And then, one memory in particular.
Mark standing on a street corner in Chicago, watching Katrina walk out of a coffee shop. The sun was in her hair, making it shine like ink, and she was laughing at something on her phone. She was beautiful. Alive. Real.
And something cracked open in his chest.
Katrina felt it—the exact moment when she stopped being a target and started being something else. Something that made his heart beat faster and his hands sweat and his mind rebel against every order Shaw had ever given him.
She felt the way he'd looked at her that first time, really looked at her, and thought: I can't do this. I can't hurt her.
She felt the way he'd tried to warn her, indirectly, by being kind. By being gentle. By giving her small moments of happiness that he knew wouldn't last.
She felt the way he'd fallen in love with her, slowly and then all at once, and the way it had terrified him more than anything else in his life.
---
The memories faded.
Katrina was back in the silver dreamscape, standing in front of the window that showed Mark's ravaged face. Her cheeks were wet. She hadn't realized she was crying.
"Now you understand," LeFaye said quietly. "He's not a monster. He's a man who made terrible choices for reasons that felt impossible at the time. That doesn't make it right. But it makes it human."
Katrina's hands clenched into fists.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you need to hear what he has to say."
LeFaye gestured, and the window between them dissolved.
Mark stood before her.
Not a projection. Not a memory. Him. His breath caught when he saw her, his eyes widening with something that looked like fear and hope and grief all tangled together.
"Katrina," he whispered.
She didn't move.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I'm so fucking sorry. I should have told you. I should have warned you. I should have—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I love you. I love you, and I'm a monster."
The words hung in the air between them.
Katrina felt the truth of it in her bones—his self-hatred, his fear, his desperate hope that she might still want him. She felt it through the bond LeFaye had created, felt it like a second heartbeat, felt it like a knife in her chest.
"I know you're sorry," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "That doesn't mean I forgive you."
Mark flinched.
"You lied to me." She stepped closer, and her hands were shaking. "You lied to me every single day. You made me feel safe, and loved, and wanted—and all of it was built on a foundation of bullshit that could have gotten my friends killed."
"I know."
"You know?" She laughed, and it was a bitter, broken sound. "You know, and you still did it. You still took that bottle and gave it to me, knowing what would happen next."
"I didn't know what was in the wine." Mark's voice was raw. "I didn't know Shaw had marked it. She told me to keep you occupied. She told me to let you leave with whatever gift Ruthie gave you. I didn't know—"
"Because you didn't want to know!" Katrina shoved him, hard, and he staggered back. "Because it was easier to believe her lies than to face the truth. Because you'd rather be her puppet than be a man who takes responsibility for his own choices."
Mark stared at her.
His eyes were wet.
"You're right."
"Damn right I'm right."
"I'm not going to beg you to forgive me." He straightened, squaring his shoulders. "I'm not going to ask for anything. I just needed you to know—I needed you to see... I've been living in this nightmare for twelve years. I thought I couldn't escape. I thought there was no point in trying."
"Then why are you here?"
He met her gaze.
"Because you made me want to try."
---
The air between them shifted.
Katrina didn't know what was happening—whether it was LeFaye's magic or her own desperate, fractured heart or something else entirely—but the distance between them began to close.
"You made me want to be better," Mark whispered. "You made me want to fight. You made me remember what it's like to be alive, instead of just surviving."
Katrina's breath hitched.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to push him away and never look back. She wanted to be strong and cold and untouchable, the way she'd been for thirty years in the void where no one could hurt her.
But she couldn't.
Because when she looked at him, she wasn't seeing the Green Knight or Shaw's puppet or the man who had lied to her. She was seeing Mark—the man who made her laugh, who held her when she woke up screaming, who looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the universe.
She was seeing the man who had fallen in love with her, despite everything.
"I don't forgive you," she said.
Mark nodded. His jaw was tight. "I understand."
"But I want to."
His eyes widened.
She reached for him.
The kiss was desperate—not gentle, not tender, but raw and needy and full of all the things she couldn't put into words. Mark groaned against her mouth, his hands fisting in her hair, and she clawed at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against hers.
They went down together, onto the glass floor that reflected their tangled bodies from every angle. A thousand Katrinas. A thousand Marks. A thousand moments of connection and betrayal and longing, all of it mirrored in the shards that surrounded them.
Mark's mouth was frantic on her skin—her neck, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. He pushed her shirt up, revealing her stomach, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just below her navel.
"I missed you," he breathed. "God, I missed you."
She shouldn't have missed him. She'd known him for weeks. She'd known he was lying to her for hours.
But she had missed him. She'd missed him before she'd even known what she was missing.
His fingers found the waistband of her leggings and pulled. She helped him, arching her hips, and together they stripped her bare. Then he was kissing his way down her thighs, spreading her legs, his breath hot against her cunt.
"Please," she gasped.
He didn't tease. He didn't take his time. He buried his face between her legs like it was the only thing keeping him alive, licking and sucking and thrusting his tongue inside her with a desperation that bordered on worship.
Her hands found his hair.
Her back arched off the floor.
"Fuck," she moaned. "Oh, fuck, Mark, right there, right there, don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
He used his fingers, too—two of them, then three—stretching her, filling her, curling against that spot deep inside that made her see stars. His tongue continued its assault on her clit, relentless and hungry, and she felt herself climbing toward the edge faster than she ever had before.
"Come for me," Mark growled against her cunt. "Let me taste it. Let me feel you come apart."
The words pushed her over.
She came with a scream that echoed through the silver dreamscape, her body convulsing, her cunt clenching around his fingers. Mark kept licking her through it, drawing out the orgasm until she was shaking, until she had to push him away because it was too much.
Then he was on top of her, his cock sliding against her thigh, hot and hard and leaking with need.
"Katrina," he said. "Please. I need—"
"Yes." She pulled him closer. "Yes, fuck me, now, I need you inside me."
He pushed in.
The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the way his cock hit that perfect spot deep inside her with every inch. She gasped, her nails digging into his back, and he groaned, low and guttural, like the sound was being torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You feel so good." His voice was ragged. "Can I—can I—"
"Fuck me," she said. "Stop asking permission and fuck me."
He did.
The rhythm started slow, each thrust deliberate, controlled—but control was a thin veneer, and it shattered almost immediately. Within minutes he was pounding into her with a ferocity that left her breathless, each stroke driving her harder against the glass floor.
The mirrors around them caught every movement—every arch of her spine, every bounce of her breasts, every clench of her hands on his ass, pulling him deeper, harder, faster. She could see their bodies reflected a thousand times. She could see his face contorted with pleasure and desperation. She could see her own expression, raw and wild and absolutely shameless.
"I love you," Mark gasped. "I love you, I love you—"
She didn't say it back.
But she locked her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and when she came again—third time, fourth time, she'd lost count—she screamed his name like it was the only word she knew.
He followed a moment later, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like relief and agony all at once.
---
They lay tangled together on the dream floor, the mirror shards reflecting their intertwined limbs from every angle. The silver light pulsed softly around them, the hum of the strange space fading into something almost peaceful.
Katrina's head rested on Mark's chest. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek.
"That was—" he started.
"Don't." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't ruin it."
He fell silent.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside—Shaw, the wine, the danger that lurked around every corner—seemed very far away.
Then LeFaye reappeared.
His sharp face was almost gentle, the way a knife might look gentle when it wasn't pointed at you.
"This place is shielded," he said. "Shaw will never see what you plan here."
Mark and Katrina sat up.
"Plan?" Katrina asked.
LeFaye's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You want to stop her, don't you? Evelyn Shaw. You want to make sure she never hurts anyone you love again."
Katrina's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Then you'll need help." LeFaye reached into his jacket and produced a small, black card. It glimmered in the silver light, covered in symbols that seemed to shift when she looked at them directly. "This will allow you to contact me without Shaw knowing. I'm not on your side—I'm on my own side. But for now, our interests align."
He tossed the card to Katrina. She caught it.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you helping us?"
LeFaye's expression flickered—something dark and ancient passing behind his eyes.
"Because twenty years ago, Evelyn Shaw destroyed someone I loved. I've been waiting for the right moment to return the favor." He stepped back, and the dreamscape began to fade at the edges. "You're not the only one who wants her dead, Katrina Harlow. Remember that."
The world dissolved.
---
Katrina woke with a gasp.
She was in her bed at the beach house, the sheets tangled around her legs, her heart pounding in her chest. The room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the moon through the window.
The black card was in her hand.
She stared at it for a long moment, her breath still ragged, the ghost of Mark's touch still burning on her skin.
Then she sat up.
The others were downstairs. She could hear them moving—Mandy's voice, low and worried; Felicity's soft responses; Calista's footsteps on the stairs.
Mai was still unconscious. Huy was watching over her.
And somewhere across the street, Mark was waking up from the same dream, in the same bed where they'd made love that very night, knowing that everything had changed.
They had a plan.
They had a war to fight.
And for the first time in thirty years, Katrina felt like she might actually be ready to fight it.
The black card was still in her hand when she stood up, the symbols on its surface writhing like something alive. She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans—the same jeans she'd been wearing when she fell asleep, still smelling faintly of Mark's cologne and her own sweat.
Whatever LeFaye had done, he'd done it in the space between sleeping and waking. Her body remembered everything. Her thighs ached. Her lips were swollen. And between her legs, the evidence of what she and Mark had done was still wet, still sticky, still undeniable.
She didn't bother cleaning up.
She had a war to plan.
The stairs creaked under her feet as she descended, each step a small proclamation. The living room was lit by a single lamp, casting long shadows across the walls. Mandy sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop open on her knees. Felicity was curled in the armchair, her blonde hair escaping from its messy bun. Calista stood by the window, her silver hair luminous in the dim light, her golden eyes tracking Katrina's every movement.
Huy knelt beside the couch where Mai lay unconscious, her dark eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the ceiling.
They all looked up when Katrina entered.
"What happened?" Mandy asked. Her voice was flat, controlled—but beneath it, Katrina heard the edge of something sharp. "You were crying. Then you were quiet. Then you were—" She paused, searching for words. "We heard things."
Katrina didn't ask what they'd heard.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
She crossed the room and sat on the floor, her back against the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest, and told them everything. The dream. LeFaye. The memories. Mark's confession. The plan taking shape in the space between them.
Mandy listened in silence. Felicity's eyes went wide. Calista's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted—a subtle lean forward, a tightening of her jaw. Huy remained motionless, her gaze distant, as if she were only half-present.
When Katrina finished, the silence stretched long and thin.
Then Mandy exploded.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" She slammed her laptop shut, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. "You're standing there telling me you trust him? After what he did to Mai? After what he planned to do to all of us?"
Katrina didn't flinch.
"He lied to you," Mandy continued, her voice rising. "He manipulated you. He worked for Shaw, for fuck's sake. He probably still works for her. And you're going to stand here and tell us he's changed? That we should trust him?"
"I didn't say trust," Katrina said.
"Then what are you saying?"
Mandy's face was flushed, her shaggy brown hair wild around her shoulders. She looked ready to fight—not just Mark, not just Shaw, but anyone who got in her way. It was the look of a woman who had spent her life being underestimated, who had spent her life preparing for exactly this kind of betrayal.
Katrina understood that look.
She'd worn it herself, once. For thirty years, in a void where no one could hurt her because there was no one left to hurt her.
"I'm saying I know what it's like," Katrina said.
Her voice was quiet. Steady. But there was something underneath it, something hard and sharp as a blade.
"What?" Mandy's brow furrowed.
"Being trapped. Being used. Being someone's puppet because you don't see another way out." Katrina stood, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, she didn't look like a victim. She looked like a survivor. "You think I don't know what Mark did? You think I don't understand the weight of it?"
She stepped closer to Mandy, and her voice dropped.
"I spent thirty years in a void because a monster told me she loved me. I know what it's like to be manipulated by someone who knows exactly which buttons to push. I know what it's like to wake up one day and realize you've been a tool in someone else's hands for longer than you've been a person."
Mandy's expression flickered.
"So when I say Mark is different," Katrina continued, "I don't say it because I'm naive. I say it because I've seen inside his head. I've felt his self-hatred. I've watched him relive every lie he ever told me, and I know—" She pressed a hand to her chest, over her heart. "I know he's telling the truth now."
The room was silent.
Mandy sat back. Her mouth was still set in a hard line, but something in her eyes had shifted. She was looking at Katrina differently now—not as the fragile survivor who needed protecting, but as something else entirely.
Calista moved first.
"I knew it," she said.
Her voice was soft, almost amused. She stepped away from the window, her silver hair catching the lamplight, and crossed to Katrina's side.
"I knew you had it in you. From the first day you came to the house, I could see it." Calista's golden eyes flickered with something that might have been pride. "You just needed the right moment to let it out."
Katrina's throat tightened.
"So what's the plan?" Calista asked.
It was Katrin's turn to straighten. She'd been thinking about it since the dream had shattered—the steps organizing themselves in her mind like pieces on a board.
Simple. Direct. Risky as hell.
"Shaw thinks the wine worked," she said. "She thinks Mandy and Felicity are mindless servants now. She thinks she's won."
"Does she?" Mandy asked.
"She doesn't know Huy interfered. She doesn't know Mai's unconscious instead of obedient. She thinks we're exactly where she wants us."
Katrina looked at the two of them. Pride, sharp and unfamiliar, bloomed in her chest. They were ready.
"So we let her think that."
---
The plan unfolded in pieces, each one built on a fault line in Shaw's own strategy.
First, Mandy and Felicity would pretend to be what Shaw expected: hollow-eyed servants stripped of will. They would not fight. They would not resist. They would apologize when they made mistakes, anticipate her commands, and whisper rehearsed, worshipful phrases.
It was a role they could play perfectly. Neither understood the wine's full effects, but both were certain of the symptoms Shaw would be looking for—the blankness, the compliance, the desperation. Felicity's face would be easy to mold. Mandy had spent years perfecting her unflappable, chipper mask; turning it into a vacant one was only a different kind of effort.
Katrina would be the broken heart. The woman who had been used, discarded as a cautionary tale. She would come to Shaw's door in tears, begging for answers.
It would give Mark the opening he needed.
Mai would stay home—sedated by Huy's spell, locked in a sleep so deep no one could wake her without Huy's permission. They would tell Shaw she was recovering, or that she had resisted, or whatever lie served them best. Huy would guard her until this was finished.
The rest of the plan called on every other person they trusted: Beth, with her knowledge of the roads and alleyways; Bruce, who could trace a piece of gear straight back to its maker; Marty, who could access the time stream, Kim and Maryam, who didn't back down from any threat; Rick and Stacy, who had resources Shaw couldn't touch; Ben, who was still waiting for Mandy to call, and especially Jess, who could access the Golden Wands' inner sanctum and find the evidence needed to bring Shaw down once and for all.