Chapter 9

—Holly Wainright—

The forest was dark and cold, the trees brushing against each other in the wind. The sky was completely coated with clouds, and drizzle stung me in the face as I walked through. I had a feeling the rain would thicken, and I was anxious to get back to the hotel—wherever it was.

"Bill?" I shouted. "Georg? Gustav? Christie?"

My booming voice ricocheted off of the trees, bouncing around like rubber as if mocking my loneliness. I was the only one in the woods, and yet I still searched desperately for a sign of life.

"Bill? Georg? Gustav? Christie?"

The rain became heavier, and I started to hear thunder. I grew extremely nervous; I was surrounded by trees. What if lightning struck?

"Bill! Georg! Gustav! Christie!"

Suddenly, I saw a figure in the distance. When I ran toward it, I realized it was a man with cornrows and baggy clothes sitting beneath a massive oak tree. "Dimitri?"

But when the man looked up at me, it wasn't Dimitri.

"Tom!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing out here?"

"Holly, please help," he pleaded. "Time is running out."

"Why, Tom?" I demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Hurry, Holly…"

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash. A white light blinded me for a split second, and I opened my eyes to a horrific sight; lightning had split through the oak tree and pierced Tom's body. I screamed as the man with the cornrows growled in pain and shook till the lightning ceased, and suddenly he lay on the ground with blood gushing from his mouth.

"TOM! NO!"

I knelt beside Tom's motionless body, but when I blinked a few times to push back tears, I was even more frightened to find that Tom was no longer there; he had been replaced with Bill's body, equally lifeless and just as bloody.

"Bill…" I found myself in so much dismay that I could barely speak. "Bill, don't leave me!" I fell over the singer's bloodstained torso, sobbing and shaking.

My eyes flew open, and I gasped in surprise. After a few seconds of disorientation, I realized with relief that the whole thing was a dream. I lay on what I believed to be Bill's bed, and I looked down to the discovery of a dog licking my hand.

"Scotty, down!"

The dog pushed itself off the bed and retreated to the corner of the room, where I saw Bill sitting on an ottoman. I smiled at the sight of the singer as his dog jumped onto his lap and scooted under him, begging for a belly rub. But the longer I stared at Bill, the more it became apparent that he was extremely weak. His cheeks were sunken in, he was tremendously pale, and his tiny clothes still looked baggy and oversized—it appeared that he was having trouble merely sitting up.

"Bill…"

"Are you okay, Holly?" the singer interrupted. "You were mumbling and fidgeting in your sleep. It sounded like you were having a nightmare."

I sat up, trying to trace my memory in my aching head. Slowly the dream came back to me, just as scary as when I had it. "I—I'll explain later, maybe over breakfast. But…how long have you been in here?"

"About twenty minutes," he replied. "I wanted to see if you were up."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Bill smiled shyly. "So I could thank you for the linguine."

…

With one arm around his waist and another holding his arm around my neck, I carried Bill back to his usual spot on the living room couch, the dog—Scotty was his name?—following close behind as if making sure Bill was secure in my grasp. I was exceedingly nervous the entire walk; I felt every one of the singer's protruding ribs rubbing against my hand, as well as the sharp bumps in his spine sawing at my arm. It felt as if one false move could end in me crushing Bill into a pile of dust on the floor. The singer was so weak that he couldn't even walk, and I wondered how he managed to get off the couch in the first place.

On the way to the living room, we inevitably passed Dimitri, and Bill let out a moan. I picked up the pace towards the singer's couch, just barely catching a glance at David watching us pass by.

Bill sighed in relief when I finally got him on the sofa. "Thanks, Holly." Once he got settled, Scotty approached and demanded more attention, nuzzling his master in the neck with his shiny wet nose. Bill slung an arm around the dog's head and started scratching him behind the ear.

"Do you want me to get you some breakfast?" I asked.

The singer pressed his lips together, unsure. "Maybe."

"I'll bring you something," I decided, "and you can eat it when you feel like it."

Bill smiled gratefully, and I made my way back into the kitchen. But before I could harvest some food, David approached me.

"Hey," he greeted. "Holly, right?"

I nodded.

The manager smiled. "How did you do it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Bill hasn't gone so long without crying when you came here," he explained. "So it's true, huh? The story of you saving the band members from different ordeals?" When I nodded again, David continued. "Bill really seems to like you. Your friend Christie asked, and you have my permission to join the band on their trip back to Germany."

"Both of us?" I asked.

The manager beamed. "Of course, if you want her to come. The more, the merrier."

I thanked him, then proceeded to fill a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon. I had a feeling that the only reason David wanted me to come with them back to Germany was because I kept Bill happy. But that alone was reason enough for me; Bill needed me, and I promised Christie I'd let her hang out with the band. We had even gotten prepared for such an occasion—we bought five outfits each at the mall the day before.

But there was another reason why I had to pursue the band: my dreams. I had been having so many nightmares about Tom, and they just kept getting scarier and more real. I had a horrid feeling they meant something, and I was anxious to figure out what.

"Are you okay, Holly?" Bill asked as I set his breakfast on the coffee table.

I looked back at the singer. It was ironic that he was the one asking that question; his face was bony and pale, and he was so weak he could barely move. I didn't remember him being like this when I first saw him a few days ago; I figured excessive moving around onstage and going days without eating may have altered his body or metabolism or something. And when he ate an entire plate of linguine, he just might have made himself sick.

"I'm fine," I replied.

The singer cocked his head to the side. "Are you sure? You seem bothered by something."

What I was bothered by was my recent dreams. As much as I wanted to tell Bill about it—especially considering how much he's shared with me about Tom—I was scared to. Bill was finally starting to cheer up after…months, apparently, and I was afraid that merely mentioning Tom's name might cause him to start crying again.

"It's nothing," I insisted. "Just a bit shaken by my nightmare."

Bill nodded, guessing he shouldn't question me further, and continued to caress his dog.