“Did you send for the Dreamwatch, Foreman-nimi?” Yumi asked, looking up. “Have they found the thing? Painter says that it could grow dangerous in a matter of days if not dealt with.”
The foreman leaned backward in his seat, which gave a plaintive creak. “Tell me more about this thing he supposedly saw. Nikaro. Was he wounded, facing a stable nightmare?”
“No,” Painter snapped. “I fought it off, thank you very much.”
“He used his powers,” she said, “to drive it away.”
The foreman squinted his eyes. “Nikaro. Used those half-rate paintings of his to drive away a stable nightmare?”
“That’s what he said.” Yumi looked to Painter, who nodded firmly.
The foreman studied her, then sighed. “I should have expected this…”
Painter frowned. Expected? A stable nightmare?
“Nikaro always likes to be so dramatic,” the foreman said softly—as if more to himself than to Yumi. “Always needs to be at the center of everything. And we know how much he likes a good lie… Doing his job never has been good enough for that one. Needs people paying attention to him, telling him how great he is.”
Painter stepped back, his stomach turning over. He’d long known what the foreman thought of him, but hearing it still hurt.
“Foreman-nimi?” Yumi asked. “There was a family. They saw it, and Painter wants to check on them. He promised them financial help? He gave me an address…” She stood and wrote it quickly, able to write in his language as he was able to write in hers.
The foreman grunted and read the address. This finally seemed to give him pause. But then he tucked it away in his pocket and shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” she said, bowing again. “Thank you so much.”
She left, holding the door long enough for Painter to slink out behind her.
“There,” she said, halting at the curb. “We handled that.”
“Except we didn’t,” Painter said. “He didn’t believe you.”
“What? He said—”
“He said what he needed to,” Painter explained, “to get you out the door. But he thinks I made up the story about the stable nightmare in order to get attention. That （lowly） man!”
Yumi appeared to shrink farther into her oversized clothing. “So he’s not going to stop the creature?”
“Doubt it,” Painter said. “If we’re lucky, he’ll check on the address. But it’s been three days—and I told the family to get out of town. They’ll likely have found a way, even without the money I promised them.”
“He might look into it,” Yumi said. “Maybe he’ll find them and see evidence of the nightmare?”
“Maybe,” Painter said, sighing. “Hopefully. Unless he decides to ‘take care’ of things by writing me up.”
“Your world makes no sense,” Yumi said. “People simply…mislead one another?”
“I’ll bet they do the same on your world,” Painter said. “Just not around you. People are people, Yumi. Your world is different, yes, but I doubt it’s that different.”
She started toward his flat again, and he gave minimal guidance as he walked beside her, fuming. And, deeper inside, feeling utterly humiliated. Based on the foreman’s expression and attitude, the man wasn’t going to investigate at all.
That nightmare had been crafty, powerful. Painter had given it a fright, so it might stay away a few days. But it would be back.
“What if you’re right?” Yumi said as they walked. “What if the spirits sent me here to help you with this nightmare? What do we do?”
“I’m thinking about it, okay?” Painter snapped.
By the time they neared the apartment building though, he still didn’t have any good answers. Maybe…the nightmare would get noticed by someone else? But if it had gone this long without being captured, then it must be distinctly cunning. It would probably only draw attention once it started killing…
“Hey!” a voice said. “It’s you!”
Painter and Yumi stopped on the street by the apartment building as Akane came out the front door. Gorgeous as always, she was wearing street clothing again—skirt, blouse, makeup—rather than her work gear. She went out most evenings before their shift began, clubbing, or…other normal-person things?
He didn’t really know, to be honest. Perhaps this was what she wore to go to the grocery store.
“Yumi, was it?” Akane said, looking her up and down, lingering on the sweater-turned-skirt.
“Yes,” Yumi said. “Um…I lost my trunk of clothing on the way here. I had to borrow my brother’s things.”
“Good save,” Painter said. “Get rid of her. We need to get back to the flat and discuss what to do.”
“I haven’t seen Nikaro around,” Akane said. “What’s up with him? He hasn’t been reporting to his shift.”
“Oh!” Yumi said. “He has…um…some big project he’s been doing. Somewhere else.”
“Your brother,” Akane said flatly, “invited you to the city, then left you alone. After you’d lost your luggage?”
“Yes?” Yumi said, shrinking down in her—his—clothing.
Painter groaned as he saw his chances with Akane fading even further. （Which proved him to be an optimist, since he assumed he’d ever had chances in the first place.）
“Quick!” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Thank you and excuse me,” Yumi said, with a quick bow, then slipped past Akane into the building.
Akane lingered, holding the door. Before Yumi and Painter could reach the stairs, she rushed in after them and caught up to Yumi.
“Hey,” Akane said, “this is probably none of my business, so tell me to go stick my head in the shroud if you want. But…are you all right, Yumi? Could you maybe use some help? Someone to take you shopping for some new clothes?”
Painter sighed. Akane was always—
Yumi, shockingly, burst into tears. “Yes,” she said between sobs. “Oh, yes, please.”
Yumi, of course, instantly felt mortified at her breakdown. She tried to control her tears as she took Akane by the hand and bowed to her in thanks.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t against the rules for a yoki-hijo to cry. Many of these rules had been instituted by older yoki-hijo themselves, after all—and so they’d made crying in front of others the thing that was against protocol.
I find it telling. They all understood. For one living the life of a yoki-hijo, breakdowns were basically inevitable. You just had to hide them as best you could.
Regardless, Yumi knew she shouldn’t act this way. It was just such a relief to have someone pay attention to her needs. Akane’s attempt to help, albeit in a small way, was physically overwhelming.
This place was just so strange. That sky felt like it would swallow her, but that was somehow the least of it. She’d seen enormous vehicles—carrying tons of people—moving through the nearby streets. These buildings towered around her, stacks of stones piled so straight, glued together. They could have been mountains. And then there were those twin lines of light glowing and hovering in the air above every street, connected to every building, forming garish glowing signs.