Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5)(63)

We couldn’t say more, because the elevator doors opened, spilling us out onto a floor of polished black. Steel gray walls and etched glass surrounded another receptionist’s desk, but she was far less friendly than the young woman below. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun and her makeup made her face a pale mask with black-lined eyes and scarlet lips. She took in our jeans, dusty shirts, and Mick’s tatts askance, but told us coolly that Mr. Smith expected us.

Her tone implied that we were late, although we’d come straight from the lobby, traveling as quickly as the elevator let us. She pushed a button under her desk, and one of the steel panels on the wall slid open, revealing a short hall that ended in another steel door.

She had no intention of leaving her chair to escort us. The door at the other end of the hall opened, however, and a young man in a gray business suit stepped out to wait for us.

As we entered the hall, the steel door to the reception area glided shut behind us, sealing us in. I seriously didn’t like that.

“Mr. Burns? Ms. Begay?” the man asked. “I’m Mr. Smith’s PA. Follow me, please.”

The door behind him led to yet another short hall, one wall of it lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. We were about thirty stories up, and my stomach turned over to see the cars and people moving such a long way below. I’d been to the top of the Empire State Building but hadn’t experienced the vertigo I did now.

The PA touched a button on a remote, opening yet another gray, brushed-steel door. Beyond this, at last, was an office.

The office took up about an acre of space and rose two floors, the walls on three sides nothing but windows. Standing in the middle of it was like being on the edge of a cliff. I had to admit that the view of the mountains to the south, east, and north was spectacular, as was the vast grid of streets laid out in precise right angles spreading out below. In Phoenix, all streets, with very few exceptions, ran north and south or east and west. I’m sure that exactness appealed to Emmett.

Emmett was just rising from a desk across the vast floor, which here was polished white. Though it felt solid enough, the expanse of gleaming white did nothing to help my vertigo. The desk had a glass top on a brushed steel frame, and was empty, except for one slim computer monitor and a small keyboard. No paper, pens, files, or paperclips cluttered Emmett’s desk. I’m sure they didn’t dare.

“Thank you,” Emmett told his PA. “I’ll call if I need you.”

The PA looked doubtful about leaving his boss with two such disreputable-looking characters, but he nodded and withdrew through another seamless door. The nameless PA was human, I knew from his aura, which was clean and without taint of magic. He was simply a man doing the job he’d been hired to do.

Emmett was as scrupulously neat as ever, a new pair of glasses on his nose. Or rather, a different pair—he might have many. These had emeralds on the temples, which went with the subtle shade of his green silk tie.

His aura, unlike the PA’s, roiled dark gray like winter storm clouds. Every magic he’d learned or stolen from other mages whirled within him, making his aura inky, thick, and evil.

“Janet,” he said in a pleasant tone. “I am pleased to see you have recovered without permanent damage. I hear the Hopi County sheriff’s office and jail did not emerged unscathed. They have to level the place and build again. Hard on the taxpayer.”

I ignored his observations. “How did you get into my dream?”

Emmett’s eyes widened the slightest bit. “Riding dreams is easy. Doing anything effective there, on the other hand, depends on the person having the dream. I could never hurt you inside your dreams, my dear. Your instincts are too quick, and your magic is strong. I could only hurt your physical body while you were lying in bed having the dream—that is if you weren’t constantly protected by a dragon.”

Mick said nothing, but he didn’t have to. He regarded Emmett calmly, as though unworried about anything that might happen in this place.

“You did a spell on Mick that tore him apart,” I said to Emmett, my anger rising. “It was horrible.”

“But saved his life.” Emmett came around to the front of his desk and leaned his hip on it, for all the world looking like an executive trying to speak casually to an important client. “He was about to become dragon offal.”

“Are you saying that if Mick had died in the dream, that would have been real?” Cold horror spiked through me.

Emmett shrugged. “Who knows? I haven’t studied dreams extensively—I’ve never needed to. Or dreamwalking, which is what you seem to have been doing.”