The Dream Weavers

Prologue

          

          Ding, ding, the bells chimed as the door swung open. Outside of the quaint creamery, the wind howled, swaying the baby oak tree planted in the patio. Midnight was approaching, and the cafe was well beyond closed. Only one employee was left to mop up the mess a large group of children left from earlier that day. 

          "I'm sorry, sir, but we're not-SLAM." The door violently swung shut, startling the man. He slowly lifted his head up and opened his mouth to kindly ask the customer to leave, but when he saw his face, he froze. His demeanor changing completely, the 30-year-old swung his mop up to pin the stranger's neck against the wall and brought out a gun from his waistband in one swift movement. Click. "I thought you were imprisoned," he growled. The taller figure didn't bat an eyelash, even as the barrel of the gun was shoved closer to his face. 

          "Did you miss me?"

          Pressing the mop harder against his windpipe, the defender threateningly asked, "How did you get here? Where are your guards? What do you want?" 

          "Tsk tsk, all the wrong questions, Siberias Greystone..." He peered at the employee name tag on his attacker's shirt, "Or should I say 'Jerry'?" In a flash, the intruder professionally twisted the gun from the other man's grip and switched their positions. "You've gotten rusty." The shop worker struggled, vainly trying to slip out of the man's grip. He watched as his attacker slowly switched the gun for something from his coat. 

          "I'm sure you and the Guard have been looking for this." A small, ring shaped bracelet of leather with feathers hanging from the bottom and an intricate web in the middle dangled from his long fingers. It emitted a faint, golden glow along with a soft rhythmic beat.

          "N-no! You couldn't have found it! The only way was to -"

           "To kill the Inquisitor? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt." He dropped the item back into his pocket while returning the weapon to his hand. He held it up as if examining it, then pointed it to Siberias's neck. With the cold metal against his victim's throat, the mysterious man gave a calculated glare. "Now before I kill you, tell me the location of the -"

          "I will never tell you anything, boy," Siberias answered back, snarling. "Born a Weaver, die a faithful one." 

          The figure looked taken aback, slowly loosening his grip on the gun, when suddenly a barely audible voice whispered, loud enough for both to hear, "Kill him now. He is of no use." The attacker's face paled, all signs of previous arrogance and confidence gone. He shakily tightened his grip but did not pull the trigger. "Do it." 

          "B-but, he could be of worth, Fa-"

         "DO IT NOW."

          BANG. The body fell to the ground, limp. The killer slowly bent down to find a scrap of paper materialize out of the corpse's breast pocket. He picked it up and placed it in his own pocket. In the distance, police sirens began to wale. "You did... well. Now warp out of there before you are caught."

          Trembling, the figure rose his hands and dark purple particles began swirling around him, faster and faster until he began dematerializing. Right before he was completely gone, a single tear slid from his cheek as he whispered, "I murdered him."

         "Last night at around midnight, an employee from the local creamery at Fairplay, Colorado was shot and killed. The employee was identified as 30-year-old Jerry Stone, husband to Lena Stone and father to two children. The killer is currently being hunted by police, and there is no evidence leading to a suspect. As a precaution, please be sure to lock up your homes at night and-" Click.

          Dead silence filled the apartment. The three hooded figures huddling around the TV looked at each other, uncertain. "Has he returned?"

          "No... That's his... son."