This Dream Will Devour Us Extract

Read an extract from This Dream Will Devour Us by Emma Clancey.

Chapter One

You don’t know how lucky you are.

Call me cynical, but I think that’s BS. It’s a condescending pat on the head, a not-so-gentle command to sit down, shut up and stop complaining about your very real problems. Someone else has it worse, so count yourself lucky.

Here’s my take.

Most people don’t realise how unlucky they are. Yeah, only one person in a hundred million wins the lottery, but surely my odds are better. Only a tiny fraction of people will die in a car crash, so it won’t happen to me. Only 0.4 per cent of applicants are accepted into the Dream Engineer training program, yet I have a decent shot, right?

And then there’s the most dangerous miscalculation of all:

Only one person in the entire world will win the final invite to the Lamour brothers’ Dream Gala, and surely, surely—

‘It will be me.’ Sam gazes out the window of the library, fixing the cuffs of his school blazer like he’s already imagining the suit he’ll wear to the Exclusive-with-a-capital-E Gala. ‘I just get this feeling, you know?’

No, I don’t know. I didn’t give up ten dollars for a ticket in the sweepstakes. Luck’s never shined on me before. Why would it start now?

Sam’s gold lottery ticket glints behind his clear phone case. He’s spent more of our tutoring session smiling at that gilded glimmer than tackling his overdue Pharmacology of Magic worksheet. Clearly, fantasising about hanging out with the Lamours at a magical gala is a better use of his fifty-grand tuition than studying.

This year, for the first time in decades, the Dream Gala will be held here, in New York. Two weeks from now, the richest of the rich will gather in the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a night of magic and shameless spending.

Obviously, I’m not on the guest list. Not even Sam’s millionaire parents could open those doors.

‘Let’s go over this question again.’ I force a smile. There’s a sharp comment about Sam’s work ethic behind my teeth, but I’m not saying anything that could cost me this job. I’ve carved out my niche helping rich classmates pass their science classes so Mommy and Daddy can brag about how our precious Sam is sure to ace the Dream Engineer entrance exam. (Because ending up at Harvard would be an embarrassment, you know.) I get paid cash in hand, Sam gets to feel charitable for putting money in the scholarship kid’s pocket and his parents never find out who’s really writing his essays. Win-win. I can’t sit the upcoming exam for Sam, though, and at this rate, it will be a miracle if he manages a C.

I tap a short-bitten nail on the worksheet. ‘Compare oral levincium administration to sublingual administration. Any ideas?’

Any Dream Engineer hopeful should know this. If you’re not bothered to learn how to take a dose of levincium, why do you deserve to be a highly paid magic-wielding expert?

Sam blinks. ‘Subling . . . what?’

‘Sublingual.’

I mime putting a pill under my tongue. Playing pretend is the closest I’ve ever come to taking levincium – or, as most people call it, levic. Now that I’m eighteen, I can legally buy levic, but a single tablet costs hundreds of dollars.

‘Sub means below,’ I tell Sam. ‘Lingual means related to the tongue. So, you dissolve the tablet under your tongue instead of swallowing it.’

‘Okay?’

I wait a moment. ‘Do you want to try answering the question?’

‘Take a guess, Nora.’

Whatever. Sam’s paying for my time, not my morals. If he wants to copy my answers, that’s fine with me.

‘Write this down. It’ll help you remember.’ I wave, and he reluctantly picks up a pen, like he expected me to do that for him too. ‘When administered by a sublingual route, levincium is absorbed directly through the mucous membranes of the mouth into the bloodstream. Consequently, the consumer can begin using magic more rapidly than if the drug was swallowed—’

My phone rings somewhere under my stacks of highlighted notes. I jump up, rooting through the papers. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

Sam’s lips twitch, clearly dying to make a snide comment about my work ethic.

I fish my phone from the mess, ready to hit decline. My brother’s name lights up the screen. Hayden Blake.

I pause.

Hayden never calls when I’m working. He’s memorised my schedule to make sure we can spend time together between his IT support gigs. Knowing my schedule also lets him grumble about how much I work. He always tells me I should be out having fun, enjoying my senior year before I get sucked into adulthood. The thing is, Dad was still around to pay our rent when Hayden was in high school. Even though Mom ditched us before I was old enough to spell l-e-v-i-c, the three of us always got by. Or we did, until a year ago. Hayden might not want to admit it, but we need the extra cash I bring in. Dad’s gone. The bills aren’t.

So, why’s Hayden calling?

Sam picks up his own phone. ‘Am I paying for this?’

‘Give me a sec.’ I make myself decline the call. Must’ve been a pocket-dial. Nothing to worry about.

Still, my stomach squeezes.

‘Sorry,’ I say again, sinking into my seat. ‘Did you write down what I was saying?’

I’ve already lost Sam’s attention. His mouth hangs open as he taps on his phone. I glimpse the bolded title of an article: Private message leaked from—

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Sam slides out of his chair, eyes glued to his phone. ‘It’s basically six o’clock anyway.’

I confirm the time on his laptop before he slams it shut. ‘Right, um – if you want help with the rest of those questions, email me.’ Face hot, I add, ‘And, Sam?’

He’s halfway to the door, crumpled worksheets sticking out the top of his bag. ‘Yeah?’

‘You didn’t pay.’

‘Oh, yeah. Can I give it to you tomorrow?’

Sam doesn’t wait for my answer. He hurries away, reading that article on his phone with more focus than he’s put into all of our tutoring sessions combined.

-

I leave the school with my head down, blazer on to battle the cold evening, earphones blasting a PharmaCast episode loud enough to block out the peak-hour traffic. The podcast host is chatting to a Dream Engineer who was recently elected mayor somewhere in California. Their conversation about using levic to capture carbon dioxide quickly pivots to the Dream Gala. Walking fast, I don’t notice the man behind me until he grabs my shoulder.

‘Hey!’ I yank my earphones out with one hand, the other closing into a fist.

‘Whoa!’ Hayden ducks into my view, dressed in faded jeans and one of his favourite flannels. He rakes back a handful of brown hair with a guilty wince. ‘Just me. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

I drop my fist. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Walking home with my sister?’

That’s a weird enough answer that I commit the cardinal sin of stopping dead on the sidewalk, earning irritated looks and more than a few grumbles. ‘Weren’t you working at NYU today?’ My stomach squeezes again. ‘Your call – I thought you’d pocket-dialled me. Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, all good.’ Hayden slings an arm around me and steers us down the street, the trees overhead showing their first green buds. ‘I got off work early. Thought I’d come see you at your big fancy school.’ He’s teasing, but there’s pride in his voice. ‘Tell me what’s been happening. Who’s going to break up two weeks before prom? Who had a ton of levic at their birthday party? I’m deprived of gossip. I’m so old, I’m—’

‘You’re twenty-three.’

‘—ancient, and it’s your job as a young person to at least complain about your teachers.’

I tuck my earphones away as we turn the corner, the buildings springing up to high-rises that cut out the lowering sun. ‘My Pharmacology of Magic teacher mixed up the definitions of pharmaco­dynamics and pharmacokinetics today.’

Hayden sighs, but he’s smiling. ‘Go on. Tell me about it.’

Time zips past when I’m talking about the science of magic. When we get to the subway station, the queasy pinch in my gut is long gone. Hayden’s always a good listener, nodding and mmhmm-ing in all the right spots. He asks a few questions that make me wonder if he’s been reading up on levic. It’s something he would do, for me. I don’t know where he would’ve found the time, though. Lately, he’s been out of the apartment before I wake up and not back until I’m flipping through chemistry flashcards in bed.

At the top of the subway entrance, Hayden pauses. He looks over his shoulder, scanning, like he’s searching for someone on the crowded crosswalk. The pinch in my stomach returns.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask. People stream past us, all in a rush to get home.

Hayden flashes a smile. The wail of a passing ambulance cuts off his answer, but I make out the familiar shape of ‘all good’ on his lips.

It’s not so convincing the second time.

-

We make it onto the subway platform as a hot gust of wind announces the train. I squeeze on after Hayden and gag, greeted by the BO-meets-sugary-body-spray stink of a half-dozen girls in school basketball jerseys. A tired-eyed woman in scrubs wrinkles her nose beside me, clutching her enormous coffee to her chest like she’s desperate to defend it against the toxic smell.

‘Oh my God,’ gasps one of the basketball girls. They’re huddled around her phone, shoulders knocking together with the sway of the train. ‘Read this bit. I hate that all the world is allowed to love you out loud, except for me . . .’

Her friends break into giggles.

‘Who do you think he wrote it for?’ one asks.

‘Probably some model,’ someone speculates.

‘Or that race car driver the Lamours just signed for their team. He’s ridiculously hot.’

‘I’m betting on the Swedish princess.’

‘Isn’t she engaged?’

‘As if you wouldn’t turn down an engagement for Remy.’

More laughter. From the corner of my eye, I spot a Dreamers Magazine article on the nearest girl’s phone.

Interesting.

Eighteen-year-old Remy Lamour is always making headlines. He could be spotted eating plain toast and journalists would call it front-page news for a week. Ditch your gluten-free diet: Remy favours rye for breakfast. He ticks every box: handsome, filthy rich and heir to Lamour Laboratories, the company that synthesises levic. Remy makes magic. Literally.

But a mysterious relationship? Not once has the press caught Remy within a mile radius of romance, unless you count that time a fan broke into his bedroom. (I heard she used fifteen grand of levic to get around his security. And landed a decade in prison for her efforts.)

I’m not planning a B&E, but I’m not immune to the lure of the Lamours. Have I ever fallen asleep thinking about Remy – or his older brother, Henri? Maybe. Once or twice. Per week. It’s nothing weird, I swear. Just Henri Lamour IV pinning a shiny gold Dream Engineer badge to my lapel. That’s not the end to my fantasy, though. I’ve got big plans for that badge.

The basketball team break into louder giggles, and curiosity overwhelms me. ‘Any idea what’s going on?’ I murmur to Hayden.

He shakes his head, gaze drifting across the car.

I pull out my phone and search Remy’s name. The results brim with recent news stories.

A lover for Lamour? Private letter leaked from levic golden boy

Five lines from Remy’s letter that prove romance isn’t dead

The hunt is on for Remy Lamour’s secret partner

Leaked letter exposes tensions between Lamour brothers

There are hundreds. I tap one at random.

A picture of a handwritten page loads at the top of the article. The leaked letter. A teenager’s messy, private feelings plastered across the internet for anyone to see.

I know it’s wrong. But like the rest of the world, I can’t look away.

The first line of writing is blurred, as if someone edited the photo to hide who Remy addressed the letter to. And then . . .

I can’t believe I’m admitting this, Remy writes. I miss you.

Oh, stop. You’re a thousand miles away and I can still picture that awful smirk of yours perfectly. Stop it. Actually . . . picturing that is making me miss you less. Carry on.

No, that’s a lie. I often feel like the entire universe is conspiring to make me miss you. It’s impossible to go a day without seeing your face in the news or catching your name in a conversation. And, of course, when I fall into bed and close my eyes—

A jittery sensation climbs my arms, and I squeeze the phone’s off button. Unbelievably, I think I feel a jolt of sympathy for Remy. His whole life has been in the public eye, but this is different. This isn’t a carefully edited interview or statement from his PR team. His raw feelings are right there, posted for the entertainment of a few billion strangers. My stomach lurches when I imagine him discovering the headlines.

And then I think about the real reason my dad is dead, and my sympathy shrivels up.

Remy and I are four thousand miles and a six-hundred-billion-dollar fortune apart. Practically different species. He doesn’t need my pity, and I’m not going to waste my time giving it. I swing my bag around so I can put my phone away and—

Oh, no.

Ten pounds of textbooks in a canvas tote smack into the woman in scrubs. There’s a pop as the lid flies off her cup. Coffee erupts into the air. My hands fly out, as if I can somehow save fifteen ounces of boiling liquid from decorating the subway car.

The coffee freezes in midair.

Brown globules hang above my outstretched hands, drifting with the sway of the subway.

One brushes my finger. It’s hot and liquid, as it should be. Only . . . floating.

Like a video on rewind, the coffee slurps back into the woman’s cup.

Hayden reacts faster than me. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He fumbles for his wallet. ‘Can I buy you another one?’

His foot nudges mine, reminding me that I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I mumble an apology and hear the woman snap at me, but my mind is stuck five seconds in the past, when coffee hung suspended in the air. When she used levic.

I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s got magic to spare. Doctors – and paramedics, police, firefighters – often use levic at their jobs. She must’ve left the hospital with some of the drug still swimming in her bloodstream.

I wonder how much those milligrams cost.

When Dad got in that car crash, he only just made it to the hospital alive. In the packed ER, a doctor gave Hayden and me a minute to decide what to do. Option one: standard treatment. Surgery with a slim chance of success. Option two: levincium-moderated treatment. A team of levic-wielding Dream Engineers and surgeons manipulating the torn tissues in his body. A ninety-six per cent chance of mending the ruptured arteries bleeding inside his fractured skull. Excellent odds of a full recovery.

And an $887,000 price tag.

The doctor acted like we had a choice, but we didn’t. I don’t blame him – I blame the system. I blame the policies that determine who can afford levic.

And the family who profits off it.

Six years from now, after my extensive levic-wielding training, Henri Lamour will give me my Dream Engineer badge. Or maybe it will be Remy. I don’t care. I’ll gush my thanks and tell them how excited I am to be a part of their legacy. I’ll take my high-six-figure salary and the near-limitless levic supply handed to all DEs. I’ll prove myself one of the best, discovering new ways to improve the world with magic. There are dozens of specialties to choose from: space exploration, environmental conservation, grand-scale illusions, body alteration. I already know I’ll pick levic-based medical care.

After graduation, DEs are free agents, funded by the Lamours and fought over by companies and governments and hospitals all around the world. With a DE badge on my lapel, I could go anywhere. Do anything. Leverage my connections to call for policy reform. Research new levic- and cost-efficient surgeries. Set up a clinic and offer subsidised care. If that all fails, I’ll use my oversized salary to put magic in the hands of the people who actually need it.

I grip the strap of my bag, remembering that night in the ER. If I can save one person from feeling as powerless as I did, then it will all be worth it. All the study, all the saving, all the schmoozing I’ll have to do to climb the DE ranks.

Of course, my whole dream hinges on whether I get into the training program. My grades are more than adequate, but I’m not naive enough to think it’s a meritocracy. A quarter of the spots are filled by Dream Engineers’ kids, and most of the rest go to the rich and well-connected.

‘You’ll get in,’ Hayden whispers. He’s diplomatically shifted away from the woman with the coffee.

I glance up, surprised. ‘How did you know I was—'

‘You’re always thinking about the DEs. Plus, you’re making that face.’

‘What face?’

‘The I-want-to-kick-a-Lamour face.’

‘I think that’s just my face.’

Hayden’s laugh abruptly turns into a grimace. He grabs a pole to steady himself, eyes screwed shut.

‘You okay?’ It’s the third time I’ve had to ask him today, and my pulse ticks up.

‘Yeah,’ he starts. ‘I’m—’

He grabs his head in both hands. A swear slips out, which is so unlike him that I know he’s in pain. Serious pain. Beads of sweat burst onto his temples. Conversations go quiet around us.

I drop my bag. ‘What’s happening?’

‘My head,’ he slurs. ‘Something’s wrong with my—’

He slumps sideways. One of the basketball girls squeals, and I just manage to catch his sagging body before he tumbles onto her. His eyes are closed, his breathing laboured. His limp weight drags us both down until the dirty floor smacks against my knees. Dozens of strangers crowd around us, their mouths open. One of the basketball girls elbows a friend, her lips shaping the numbers nine-one-one.

‘Hayden.’ I shake his shoulder. Blood roars in my ears. ‘Talk to me. Talk to me, please.’

His eyes open, but he can’t seem to focus his gaze. His right pupil is vast and dark, reflecting my horrified face. Air spills out of my lungs with a sob. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t accept that the one person I have left to love is crumpled at my feet, his face frozen and slack.

I wrench my head up, searching for the blue smudge of scrubs through my teary eyes.

There. ‘Help,’ I gasp.

The woman kneels beside me. She might hate me, but she’s got a better chance of keeping Hayden alive than I do, especially if she’s on levic. Her lips press into a thin line as her hand hovers over his head, detecting something with her magic-heightened senses. She glances at me, and the look of pity on her face brings bitter bile into my mouth.

The train is slowing as we approach the next station. Hayden’s hand is limp in mine, his cheek lolling against the subway car floor.

Remember what I said about luck?

It hasn’t shined on me yet, and it isn’t shining on me today.

Extracted from This Dream Will Devour Us by Emma Clancey.

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This Dream Will Devour Us

by Emma Clancey

Sometimes you have to kill a dream to escape a nightmare. An intoxicating mix of magic and the machinations of the rich and powerful creates a compulsive, bingeable read.

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