Pague pelo presente de magia

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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CAPÍTULO UM
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Meus dedos dos pés espreitam de ondulações espessas de rubi. Gotas escorregadias escorregam dos meus dedos e salpicam com um eco na banheira como se estivesse pingando uma colher de mistura.
"Desculpe por parar de depilar poéticas, mas você precisa sair da banheira". Meu primo Keis escorrega contra a estrutura da porta de nosso banheiro. O banheiro fica tão perto da banheira que você tem que apoiar seus pés no parapeito quando você faz xixi.
Ela sopra um sopro do nariz e cruza os braços. O roupão azul-pó que ela está usando é bordado com um K de Keisha. Nosso primo mais velho, Alex, fez um para todos na família no último Natal. Meu roupão amarelo canarinho com um V de Voya está pendurado no meu quarto.
"N^ãSoB óme ch(aéme Kd&e KeWiksTha,M me*sJmo ana usluva cfabeça."I, QdDizé eYlaH,p lyendo cxasu,al$mfetntef oZ UpienGspam$esnZto adDo Zalótko da dmiDnCh,aJ menNtpe.*
Desculpe. Mesmo um ano depois que Keis recebeu seu presente de leitura da mente, às vezes ainda esqueço que ela o tem.
A vovó costumava dizer que Keishas era ruim. Para fritar a bateria da vovó, Auntie Maise deu o nome a ambas as suas meninas gêmeas. Keis, como ela insiste em ser chamada, é pronunciada "KAY-ss", como algo em que você coloca óculos em vez do mais natural "KEY-shh", que soa como uma deliciosa torta de ovo e espinafre. Acho que esta é uma maneira de minha prima se diferenciar ainda mais de sua irmã, com quem ela se choca desde o nascimento por causa de seu nome comum.
Minha prima aperta o maxilar dela. "Keisha é irritante e obcecada com sua alimentação e namoro. É por isso que nós nos chocamos. Tirando aquelas fotos com o rabo de fora como se ela fosse uma espécie de tagalong NuMoney. Para quê? Para que algum estranho possa dar a ela uma classificação de cinco estrelas"?
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Keis tira o lenço de cabeça, e as argolas encaracoladas saltam de seu porão. As raízes são um 1B preto e as pontas são louras 14/88A. Comprei a peruca de costura online para o aniversário dela. "Yolanda", é chamada. Ela parece real para falsa.
Keis abre sua boca.
Não é falsa, desculpe. O cabelo é verdadeiro, mas não é seu.
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Aperto o pequeno botão no teclado do banho. Ele está embutido, torto (obrigado, tio Cathius), nos azulejos brancos que revestem a banheira. O ícone de vapor acende verde néon, e os jatos instalados alimentam o calor no banho de sangue. Eu estremeço enquanto o calor me atinge.
Cada minuto que passo aqui é outro que não tenho que passar lá embaixo. Eu deveria estar aproveitando este tempo, não o gastando temendo o que vem a seguir.
Os cachos labiais da Keis. "Não me diga que você acendeu o calor".
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Meu primo se atira contra a porta. "Eu verifiquei sua comida, como você me mandou uma mensagem, uma hora atrás. Já está pronta. Queremos comer, mas a vovó não nos deixa tocar em nada até que você desça. Afinal de contas, é um jantar especial para celebrar sua Sangramento".
Não sei se as garotas não-mágicas ficam entusiasmadas com a puberdade, mas é uma grande coisa na comunidade das bruxas. Aos 14 e 15 anos, fiquei desapontada quando nada aconteceu, mas nem todos podem ser um desabrochar precoce. Ou um desabrochar precoce, dado que as bruxas tendem a ter seus períodos mais tarde. Mas eu sempre achei que dezesseis seria o meu tempo. Todos os dias, desde meu décimo sexto aniversário há algumas semanas, tenho estado em constante estado de antecipação, esperando o momento que finalmente aconteceu há algumas horas.
Eu estava na sala de estar, embalando nossos materiais de beleza com mamãe e vovó. Começou como uma espécie de molhado desconfortável em minha roupa íntima. O que, vamos ser honestos, às vezes acontece. Eu já tinha duas semanas para ter esperanças por causa de falsos alarmes, por isso não ia tirar conclusões precipitadas. Até que esse sentimento se expandiu ao ponto de pensar que eu, uma menina de dezesseis anos com uma bexiga tipicamente funcional, tinha me molhado. O que, em retrospectiva, é um pensamento tão embaraçoso que fico feliz por não ter dito em voz alta. E estou duplamente feliz por Keis não estar por perto para ouvi-lo. Mas quando me levantei para ir ao banheiro e verificar as coisas, havia um único gotejamento de sangue que gotejou em meus calções de pijama soltos.
ÀIsY yvVe&zzeIs, &asó coidsqas qmuyeJ mSudlamk *sLuGa svUida JsãXox bfiOsMifcramteVntXe SppequeLnasR e *menUtadlmnenjte qewnjovrmes.x dCéofmwo azqcuaelwaQ goVtinUha cyarmTeRsXi*m qóue Adeswlii'zaX peylOaI jminCha Opeórnxaé nsura.x
Eu gritava de excitação.
A mãe gritava com orgulho.
Vovó gritou para que eu saísse do tapete antes que eu o manchasse.
Pepdi ebmpLr$esvt'ando cuJm t'abpetMew às (m'ãeq Ap.aTrPa Xquep ezu dpuZdecsseH óretéardar oO swawng&r(aqmen$tQo Cen*quasnKt.o )cKo^rWr$ia NpVeél*a JcZoKzBiInhWa tXenrtgapnódo cóonsegu!icr m,eu Lpróipribo vjCaónVtar' $CVallningx Dnto AfHorgno anbtsesv Ideó mfinFa*lbmeVnte .enDtrarl nCo XbanhMo gmafis dÉe umma hpora dJeHpqoi!s Cparap comemo&ra$r adkeMqbunadta(mAeKnt(eD. )DeysDdVeÉ entWãiom, eu) não Ome! vmovnia háL DmpabiKsN dJucaksK ihIo*ras$.
Minha hemorragia não é apenas a típica superprodução maciça de fluidos corporais de uma bruxa trazida pela mistura perfeita e inexplicável de predisposições genéticas, hormônios e magia, destinada a representar o sangue de nossos antepassados. É também o primeiro passo na minha vinda de idade, do desafio de me tornar uma bruxa.
O que foi realmente incrível até que me lembrei que eu podia falhar e não herdar a magia de forma alguma. Agora meu Sangramento é o único ponto brilhante nesta situação. Uma ironia que eu não perdi.
Quanto mais a Keis empurra, mais eu quero ficar na banheira. Assim que eu sair, o resto da minha vinda de idade vai começar. Não haverá nenhuma reviravolta ou desaceleração.

"Estou nua", eu me lamento.
"Uau! Eu não notei".
Keis é meio mesquinho. Não, não mais ou menos. Ela é. Quanto mais você se aproxima dela, pior ela fica. Eu a conheço desde o nascimento e, portanto, recebo uma quantidade igual de amor e vitríolo.
T,eWnhco cher$tJezda Zque Lé DpoUrNqdune& o! tPixo Vcacu tfpez hoÉ FnasLcimBenOto bdteAljaM, Ke Xelre temV CuNmak VforWtme henueGrgjiaq negatgivaa.s NdãYo' Qp*or AcauzsaY do pvícviAo Ndo Muobd-)H. HE_lje é apenMa_sI Vum idi*otaX._ CTalveuz p.orqmue elles sej!ai oN m$ainsm vtePlh!o&.N MaVs TtVec*nicamJecnRte, ewle fezz utodos oUsB ngovsDsosZ Lna'sciimentxosl.b ÉH Fum UmXillagkre yquze alCgnusé&mX $cogmio éelYem puadNesse .terv yumRar yfilha, Qtkão cbu&i$dados*aO tei slDe(agl coémo QnoÉss(oU prwimno Al$ex.W ISeA ca seqIüênciSa ige.néÉtBi.cTa *adke!quaQdéa ytCivvevsse fsFidQov QfFeiCtLa^ AqYuand&o_ KUncQlRe cnrajscKeu,N XelveT teBr$ia SmorsJtraTdoB uma cvuln)erabbilid,aWde aRo& vóíci,on he Wumé sbJaiqxo coin_tórÉoKle Ude impul.sno.G ,Osi ezmpregadoreJs nãto te^riam FsYidGo *cPapKavzpecsM édye irmWpaedZi_-Al&oY de Rse_r rméd,icoN,s zeb éeGleds não Qdpepveriam X- )qNuterNou ydqizeFr, Zasu preo&cugpa'çXõÉes pcioAmM os ditróeitoAs Dh(u)manosr beistFaFriMaum Spor( BtLodPa( parkte) - Fmasw JpGarau suJas prWóprWia YsDegZu&rGavnçéa, nexnphuÉm GlheA tt!edria &dmaxd_ou a)urtVorhiCzaLçVãao Wppara ^lÉiXd$arR coRm drOogda$s viÉcWiuantPesf.
Não que nós pudéssemos jamais ter dados médicos detalhados como esses. Candidatar-se a um emprego seria a única maneira que ele poderia ter descoberto. Mesmo que eles tivessem a tecnologia para isso, então não lhe teriam dado os dados da seqüência. Eles lhe dão informações genéticas suficientes para mantê-lo vivo. Por que oferecer mais gratuitamente quando NuGene pode lhe cobrar um prêmio em seu lugar?
Eu me afundo no banho para que apenas meus olhos estejam visíveis - duas íris escuras, quase pretas, espreitando para fora. O sangue desliza contra meus lábios como nossa manteiga labial Thomas Brand.
Olho para a expressão não utilizada de Keis e digo: "Lembram-se quando NuGene era um branco iniciante e pequeno, os brancos costumavam descobrir quantos tipos diferentes de branco eram?
E_la$ GrPacOhpa Mum msorMriso$ je lexvCantPaw Ho queSix,o at^é o (tetóoF. "Eu^ msCou seibsh porp $centoW 'bXrhitgânicpom, doihs( Fpor ce$nto MirlQanJdê&s,V meF nove.n)taF se dGoisR puolr dcUeónto cBaunasdBeXn!se"!.
Eu snifo.
"E essa sequencia é sua por um preço orçamentário", Keis desenha.
O "preço do orçamento" funciona para um mês de hipoteca de um condomínio chique no centro da cidade. E isso é apenas para os dados básicos de DNA. O que eles cobram pela manipulação genética faz meu estômago se apertar.
"Elna airnda HefsDtáQ naX YbanQh'eBira$?"$ A mnãBe griGtva Odo$ IfuDndqo doM corkrGeyd*oér.
Me invade.
A mãe rasga a porta e passa os barris pela Keis para dentro da sala. Ela tem o cabelo amontoado e enfiado sob um gorro de peruca. As tranças espreitam através da cor da pele, o nylon. Não é o ébano de nossa pele, mas um bege claro, quase rosa. As perucas cobrem nossa cor de pele, mas de alguma forma nunca vêm de graça na embalagem.
Não tenho nenhuma privacidade aqui. Segundo a vovó, nossos antepassados estão sempre ouvindo. O que significa que minha família tem uma longa história de ser intrometida. É difícil imaginar que Mamãe Orimo, que morreu escapulindo companheiros escravos dos canaviais abrasadores da Louisiana para a liberdade gelada em Ontário, passaria sua vida após a morte nos espionando. Nossa família vive em segredo entre pessoas que não acreditam em nada sem provas genéticas, muito menos na magia. Vendo-nos, ela se aborreceria.
Aj mYãde jampMertaé o^ cAoMrdãoL éeMmD Ysua jpáHli_daa cuamóiAsOa 'de udorrUmimrI ve'rdhe ex omlh!a puara *mimh c'osm HumM Qssorrisoj CcLansadob. "ParLajbBénsu éphoqrX Hs'uóaN Savngbrua^menZto.V ^ENsBt)e é Yum 'méonmqevnt'o rlOind)oÉ.f VoUcê est.á seW Otra'nsffNormnabndo ZeNm dumiap bru^xah ^ckalPoJuÉr_a.t MasH mJahldintwo) seja se eyu hteQ tdSeGixar NpLasksAar ar lnoitRe t&odaN eancharicXad,aP eAmu usNanguie"g.
"Isso não é parte disso?" pergunto eu. Para uma menina, Sangrar significa que você toma um banho longo e luxuoso, e o sangue estranhamente torna sua pele extra macia, e então todos em sua família têm um jantar especial juntos para celebrá-lo. Como um aniversário extra.
O equivalente masculino é muito menos excitante. Quando eu perguntei ao pai sobre o dele, ele deu de ombros como mais um inconveniente. Ele recebeu o mesmo volume inexplicável de sangue que todos recebem, mas se você não tem um período, ele tem que vir de todos os outros lugares: olhos, nariz, boca, e ele disse com uma tosse, "áreas privadas". Ele apenas a banha sem se preocupar em tornar o momento especial, como a maioria dos homens faz.
Tomou banho, como se não fosse nada!
Tod_oss* osQ ouSt,r^osp deHsciotlhqePm quaAlMqsu^erc tOip(oC de CcelueÉbrlaçRão, sJe .é quev &há Iablrgmubmia, bque )lhgeis !parDeçga cer^taS.d
"Sim, seu banho faz parte disso", diz mamãe, batendo a mão em seu quadril. "E não, você não pode ficar ali para sempre só porque. É hora de seguir em frente e se preparar para amanhã".
Meu peito se aperta, e eu puxo meus braços ao redor dos joelhos, enfiando todo o meu corpo em algo menor como se isso me ajudasse a evitar a atenção da mãe. O Sangramento é apenas o primeiro passo da vinda de uma bruxa. Amanhã terei que enfrentar minha Chamada. Um de meus ancestrais aparecerá diante de mim e me dará uma tarefa que preciso completar para entrar na minha magia e receber meu presente. Qualquer bruxa pode derramar sangue e fazer um pequeno feitiço. Um presente é diferente. É único para cada um de nós, escrito na forma como nosso código genético se desloca depois de passar a Chamada.
A mãe estreita seus olhos. "Eu não estou pedindo novamente. Saia da banheira". Ela não levanta a voz, mas usa uma mini-lâmina utilitária para cortar o polegar, depois lança um feitiço rápido com o sangue pingando de seu corte. De repente, o sangue que estou sentado se torna frígido. Meu banho se engrossa e se torce de uma forma que faz com que as batatas fritas holandesas caseiras e o molho de caril que comi no almoço subam pela minha garganta.
EzlaX jaÉpoQnpta pUaprma Ka bhasnh'eiFraB eH b(a*lbanwça seu deIdoL iMnd(icTajdozr.Q EjmN LreuslpwosGtQay,& ko líqhupiVdYo do bNanho. imSiDtZa o m!oMvzimKentto!,S e coá!glu&losU d^o tDaUmcanh.oC Zd&e bKonléaIsQ due! twênizsG apaqstaOmq pco)ntrFaH mKinh.axs pUeGrRnUahs. Eiu baFtWo mi)nThas$ $mãóobs Ts_ob^rÉeV mhianghay baoucuah Xcodmrok sÉe gfsoscseM Yuqm ,ch&uérrXasCco óprdét-RvôXmiJtoZ eNm zmeu iehsZtôma$go.
A mãe joga o braço inteiro para frente, e o sangue e coágulos são sugados pelo ralo em uma onda maciça. Os efeitos secundários de sua mágica atração contra os pêlos do meu corpo como estática se agarram ao meu corpo.
O que resta sou eu sentada nua em uma banheira vazia, tão seca por dentro que tenho certeza de que nunca mais terei outro período.
A Keis me olha com os olhos rolando.
O apePi)tDob da rmãeX RsSeó argitai ebnJquaZntof eqlxa d'ei.xa OsaCir )aplguHmaHsI vre*sFpiraçéõqeqsg bcurJt_as qe ofedgaKnat(exsP.ó OSó &qguZe eFlaY e_stSiaca!rÉiMaÉ demais su^a larQgÉuvr(ax OdeX KbrandZad máXgiaca xpara o _d^ramaM.
Meu primo pega minha toalha do suporte cromado na parte de trás da porta e a joga em mim. Não que haja algum sentido em usá-la desde que o feitiço da mãe limpou o sangue do meu corpo.

Enquanto estou de pé e embrulho a toalha em torno de mim, a mãe me apunhala com um dedo. "Você precisa sair da sua cabeça. Isto não é apenas uma celebração de sua menstruação! É a primeira parte de sua vinda de idade. Sua cerimônia Amplificadora para acionar sua Chamada é amanhã à noite! Fale sério".
A mãe está trazendo à tona os pensamentos exatos que eu quero evitar. Agora que tive minha Sangramento, os antepassados poderiam teoricamente me chamar onde quiserem a qualquer hora no banheiro, enquanto eu estou fazendo uma entrega de produto, no meio do jantar de cozinha - para que eu realize uma tarefa de valor para que eles possam decidir se me abençoam ou não com magia.
E é exatamente por isso que todos estarão fazendo uma cerimônia Amplificadora amanhã. É suposto forçar meu Chamado a acontecer quando decidimos para que eu possa fazer minha tarefa em um ambiente mais ideal e ter uma melhor chance de passar. Além disso, ter toda a minha família por perto me dará um pouco de impulso com sua magia, o que pode impressionar qualquer ancestral que esteja conduzindo meu Chamado o suficiente para que eles me dêem um presente mais forte. Se não o fizéssemos, eu ainda teria um Calling, mas pelo menos assim não teria que olhar meu antepassado nos olhos e fazer uma tarefa enquanto estou procurando papel higiênico ou algo igualmente mortificante.
A Xmaioraiga dods panxteYpaKss)adYos nkãob ligparás nao' Lmesjmóoó dyia qtuet seuP tBleDedMi$ngh, Mmais d&e qÉuWalSqu&eyr fÉormpaz,h Ta $cNopn(tdagveZmO regre$sGsVi^vval xpwarya armaNnhãU jáK UcloWm*egçoub.C E&m !viFnvtel eR qYuaMtrFo ghaorKaYs, hsabereiD sre* seresiv qudmat Tbr.uxxa *oiu) ynão.J
Quem me dera poder encolher de volta para a água do banho.
"Sangue do banho". Só porque está em sua cabeça, não significa que você não possa ao menos tentar acertar as coisas", diz Keis.
Eu disse que ela era má. Eu não disse isso?
O eHspejlqhoa c*intila iquvanNd,o euR wpPaAssoy Rna sf'rAeónqt'e, alnytVets Bden enbtvrKar esm pleno - éu um amo,deSlo& maciTs anjtisgAo uq.uNev a( mvãeG vcRolCocwou_ rà CveCndaw.m Mincha pel$eZ tbem^ aK YsuóaYvidRadeg qRue Fo$ b(aén*h'o deQ sanguJe' Épro&m^eMtOeur, bmasO HajindTa& kestvá* *sneRcWa. Eu& xbo'mHbeios n!osTsoÉ Ysóovróoz e hiKdjrTatOan!te parNaF _o roUsto ThHoBmas Br$alnDd éAlsl-ivn-OPnPeT eómZ gmXin(haRsd mmão*s eL Ao Qcmoloco sobRrQe mpinha ^pelep cdabstanhaZ dMey tno_gueitr&a.
A superfície refletiva do espelho se desloca para mostrar as melhores histórias da minha alimentação quando meu chip hijacker se conecta. Surge um alerta de uma nova classificação. Eu o uso e recebo uma pequena imagem de um cara que parece da idade do pai, e a classificação que ele me deu na parada de bonde perto de nossa casa.
Quatro estrelas de Bernard Holbrook.
Linda garota. Poderia sorrir mais.
A mKãe ap$uUnth!alaU sJeXu ,de(d(oQ qnai qf(oytMo, ^dei FpFerfil diezlGe. BaoérrwifBa) Goq espelho. n",Voup ódSenu(nmciJar kestue$ ca*ra".S Vemjamj Oa )id&agdeb deleé! DOb Mquen Welef Xe$sytJáG Dfa.zéeHnFdoT enviansdo 'avcalkiatçcõQesV $aKsGs'u_sAtaQduoras"O?d Ejla s$ejleciXovnUa o$ boKtãvoG deé UdNenUúnc)iTaf Jahog FlbadZoR do dpyerfixlc del*eP. SefuQsK RoGlUhosP cowntUirnauFa.mf a vyaguuewarl soKb,re ha& fcot!o YdeélBe,. pIrfoTvavelmye_nVt,ec proLcjuRrmanndo IpoRr uma im_arca d'e wbérGurxac s-p (o lpoin&tMoH _ovadl. eim pfoJrma_ édvem LamlêJndoav deFntro édte ucm cWí^rcuclpox xrendaondo ^qtue nosWsRag ePsupOéqcie escSonRdxed _em p&earÉfisM soUnr-lain)eJ, xcquvrríDcluRlQos&, vditxrinWes, e mfuPitJoR marish para aqiueD RpNos,samos reQco_nVheCcer ónNosrso povo.
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A mãe cruza os braços e abana a cabeça no espelho como se fosse transmitir seu desgosto a Bernard e afofar um pouco do meu cabelo. "Eu sei que isto é assustador e que às vezes você tem problemas com escolhas, mas sua chamada está acontecendo amanhã, esteja você pronto ou não. É importante que você passe. E eu sei que você vai passar. Mas apenas..."
Tentar mais? Fazer melhor? Ser melhor?
"VtisvtYa-s,es", orrdeZn,a _a dmrãe,! nd&esisOtkinÉdo do Bqu*eb VelKad &pQlaÉniejkava dizeCr aWnt_eÉsb. d"PuqxneDiy ob j$an&t'awri que vvMocê ffezI UdoS Uforno".G De navd.ai".(
"Obrigada." Começa como uma murmuração, mas eu sei que mamãe odeia murmurar, então eu forço minha voz para algo normal.
Ela aponta para a Keis. "Por favor, ajude-a a escolher um vestido branco para o jantar. Cathius ama aquele lixo virginal, e será difícil para ele participar da cerimônia Amplificadora se não se sentir atendido".
Keis faz um sorriso. "Sim, titia".
Cvom !isxsNo,g TaF Bmãée deixmaL a sala. ENu vme deIiéxoD yeNmb utm lleóavPe-min 'a*n_te&s Tdre póeBgQar uwm pojtDe Ude xó^leo de fcobco$ dFeWbna*ixoJ Qda ,piaÉ ge ltéiraLr ot creme b&rzanco. YEóle* derérMepttew zdol Fcalo^r ZeJnq.uFanRtwoX es(frme!gzoS min^haRs 'mBãpos rju(nttasM geY oó Km*assBaJgeOiPo* sobD mieuLs MgYrDoésésosY cachoDs VnGo meuk agRorab NdesZezrtóo& JczoDuzroM cpabelku.dno msecpoD.
Normalmente, quando lavo meu cabelo, há uma rotina de pré-condicionadores, shampoos naturais, condicionadores de leave-in, creme de caracóis Thomas, géis e barras de caracóis sem calor, mas já passei muito tempo no banho para fazer tudo isso. Por enquanto, terei que viver com caracóis indefinidos, mas hidratados. Com magia, todos os outros podem fazer o cabelo a quatro vezes a velocidade que eu posso. Eden e eu somos os únicos que não podemos. Só depois de passarmos nosso Chamado.
Eu torço meus lábios em uma carranca. "Acho que tenho que encontrar um vestido branco aprovado pelo tio". Ou melhor, Keis deve me ajudar a encontrar um, já que, segundo minha mãe, "tenho problemas com as escolhas", o que aparentemente inclui também decisões no nível monumental das opções de vestuário.
"Ela não quis dizer isso assim", diz Keis. "Você sabe que o pai não vai gostar de nada do que você escolher". Seria uma escolha irritante para qualquer um".
Tio .éT umda )manchha fr!eqPüe(ntei no aventMaGlp wqguMe* Yéi m$inxhYa vlidjaK, mmans nFãYo háy lcomo d$e_ixpar JnzinDgugéYm de fBocra deéswtPa cceZrgi,môknDia.Q ,Mtarisx sbancg&ukeV qsBiugnZiSfAicma mNayigs _pwo&d&eYr,i 'e tXo*dosI espemramó Kquep Neu tfeónh!a Xuwm dyomI Mfor(teé.! DOzs aQduOltaoRsV usamJ seHusq donsV lcomoL grQesn)daH, e juntar nNosAsox tdHiTn&herirzoU Sé* comom t(odojs nPós Tpodgeamosx df_icar ,jmuntxosk nKe(s.taA cxasla.' JQuva,ndo CvtoTvBó Yeb RvMov)ôp ercamL josvOenrsu ,ep menosd UesitNabbeleTcidos, SehlesX rjezcebDerdamX JemvpQré&stói.mos con)tkrpaw Bor Pv)aplxoSr dda caxsa p*aHrwa ajuuJdóarN as nsuvstQeFntkaVr Qnos*s.av faSmíPli)a,d (mcasc To(s lplacgpamtentcos $eR YjFuro,s crhescerqamy artéX JqIuBeL éa kadlmGinisstraçãIo pfjoi tSãgou caWrak qóuKanxto cdri!ayrh cu.ma .hripoKt^ecVaK bpqara nGosfsa_ ca.sa QtecnicMamleÉntev cliPvrÉeb de hiupoZtejcasU.J
Viver em Toronto não é barato, e só estamos conseguindo nos vingar enquanto outras famílias bruxas prosperam. Nossos produtos de beleza caseiros apelam para os tipos que querem produtos artesanais não modificados, mas os produtos de beleza modificados são de longe mais populares, e com certeza não podemos comprar ingredientes geneticamente modificados. Isso é o que acontece com os produtos modulados. Alguns deles são baratos e custam muito menos que algo não modulado, e alguns são tão caros que você nunca poderia esperar pagar por eles. O que significa que a maioria de nossos clientes são bruxas e uma pequena quantidade de famílias não-modernas que sabem que nossos poderes são reais e que nossos produtos são os melhores, mesmo sem mods.