Round 5.1 prompt from Multigenre Mashup Flash Fiction Smackdown, October 2023: Write a story with a strong female lead, qualify as mystery genre, and include a twist.

Word count = 2968

Society reviled my kind as abominations. Perhaps we were. But those who eagerly sought my services usually did so in secret places, and not in a grand mansion like this.

Following a stiff-walking butler wearing a dark, long-tailed suit, the Broker pulled me along faster than my weak legs could go. When swirling dizziness overcame me, I stumbled, and would have fallen if not for the painfully tight grip on my arm.

"Hurry," he whispered, snarling. "This is an important client."

Regaining composure, I yanked my arm from my grasp. "Let go of me," I hissed.

A vindictive sneer crossed his wide, stubbled face, and he drew a massive hand back to slap me, but relented with a huff. I stood tall and glared in return, knowing he wouldn't mark my face. Not now before meeting the client. Maybe later.

The butler led us along shiny marble-floored halls into a library, then with a bow, closed tall oaken doors behind us. A flickering fireplace provided faint illumination of fine art lining the walls and shelves of actual books that I would have loved to peruse. Two high-back leather chairs faced away from us toward the fire's warmth.

Because of the client's importance, the Broker dressed up in a black suit. But it was a size too small, and his rotund belly stressed the buttons nearly to breaking point. A fashionista, he was not.

But I was little better, wearing a simple white dress that hung loosely over my gaunt body. Makeup couldn't hide the dark eye circles, nor improve my hollowed cheeks. My thinned and prematurely white hair had long since been cut to a buzz. Once I was beautiful, I supposed, but Dreaming took its toll.

"Is this the Dreamweaver?" came a baritone voice from one chair.

"Yes, my lord," the Broker replied. "She is the very best. I'm sure--"

"Leave us."

"But sir--"

"I am paying an enormous sum for her extended services," the voice spat, "not yours."

The Broker glared at me beneath dark bushy eyebrows as he turned to leave, and I knew what his piercing eyes said. Failure to please the client, thus risking a sizable profit, would bring punishment.

A century ago, the Soul Plagues brought humanity to its knees, and from what remained, warlords and aristocratic feudal states rose to power. But also, the virus created Dreamweavers, a select few with the ability to enter and manipulate dreams. The powerful feared us, enacting tight controls that made us little more than slaves.

Despite the surrounding opulence, I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be property of the Broker. And I didn't want to be a Dreamweaver. But one couldn't choose their worldly circumstances, only how they responded to them — I clung fiercely to that little bit of freedom.

"Come closer, weaver," the voice called.

I limped into view. Custom required bowing before a lord, but I stood tall and glared. "My lord," I said plainly, with no hint of expected reverence.

Seated before me, wearing a fine silk robe, was Lord Aleyn, the patriarch of the Levi Clan, and one of the most powerful men on Earth. The hazel eyes that glared back at me projected confidence that bordered on intimidation. But a hint of mirth grew on his wrinkled face. "You loathe me, weaver?"

"No, sir," I answered. "I pass no judgment."

"Yet, you do not respect my position? I could have you imprisoned on mere whim."

"I am a Dreamweaver, sir, and I have gazed deep within souls. It is there where a man earns my respect."

"Few have that insight," he said, nodding. "What is your name?"

"Fallow, sir."

"Like the graceful deer?"

"No, sir. Like a barren field."

"I find you not such," he said, narrowing eyes. "Nor should you."

I brushed aside his chastisement. "What do you want of me, my lord?"

He chuckled. "To the point. I respect that. I want you, as you say, to gaze deep within souls." When I wrinkled my forehead in confusion, he smiled and pointed to the comfortable chair beside him. "Take a seat, my dear Fallow, and I will explain." Turning, he rang a small gold bell.

After the butler served us tea in ornate porcelain cups, Lord Aleyn leaned forward. "You may have heard of my youngest son's death?"

"My condolences, sir. An undiagnosed heart condition, I recall?"

He shook his head. "It was no medical condition, but murder. Gavin was a disrespectful, rebellious sort, but did not deserve his fate. We are no nearer to finding the culprit, but it must be someone within a small group that evening that poisoned him. I do not wish to purge them all, so I need you to find the killer."

"Me?" I gasped as my eyes widened. "I am no detective."

"Even better, you are a Dreamweaver," he said, raising his voice. "I have arranged that each have a Dream session with you under the guise of recovery from the stressful event." Intense eyes bored into mine as he delivered an ominous warning. "It would be unwise to fail me, Fallow."

With another bell ring, the butler appeared again. "Robert, see to Fallow's every need and comfort."

*****

The accommodations were beyond luxurious, but I suspected they were intended to sway my allegiance toward Lord Aleyn. Nonetheless, I took full advantage.

But how to covertly investigate the suspects? As a Dreamweaver, I had access to their memories during a dream, but they would sense my probing and shut me out. Perhaps, when they were distracted...

My first client was the butler, a tall gray-haired man with a thin face. Was not the butler a suspect in every classic murder mystery? He treated me with kindness, though, and I hoped it wasn't him. But when I quizzed him about serving Lord Aleyn, he only answered vaguely.

He had never employed a Dreamweaver. "Don't worry," I assured him as he laid in bed, covers up to his chin. "You are in control, and I will not take your dreams anywhere you do not wish to go. What do you wish to dream?"

"My wife... She died years ago, and I wish to see her again."

"Of course," I said with a warm smile. This was a common type of request, and one of my favorites.

With a wave of my hand, he plunged into REM sleep, where dreams occurred. Normally, dreams were chaotic, merely random flashes of memory and subconscious yearnings. But as a Dreamweaver, I can direct and focus a dream, creating a vivid and memorable experience.

In the dream, Robert appeared as a younger version of himself wearing tattered work clothes, and I as a healthier version of myself with long platinum hair. "Let's begin," I said.

The empty template morphed into a cozy cottage. A young blonde woman in a simple frock appeared. "Robert?" she said, eyes widening.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he pulled her into his arms.

"I made you blackberry pie," she cooed.

"My favorite," he replied, "especially from you."

Their mutual affection warmed my heart. While they sat close together at a scuffed wooden table and shared a piece, I carefully probed Robert's memory, scrolling through to the night of the murder. There were heated arguments within the formal dining room, but Robert paid no attention, instead serving brandy in glass snifters. He was genuinely shocked when, minutes later, Gavin collapsed. The poison was a fast acting type, so must have come from the brandy, but only in Gavin's glass.

At least, I confirmed that Robert was not the culprit.

Later that night, after I locked Robert's dream into his long-term memory, I retreated to my room, slipped under the blankets, and fell asleep. Over the years, I had crafted my own dream world, a place far away from the strife of the real world, yet to me, no less real — a peaceful place of sunshine, rocky vistas, and cloud-shrouded castles — a place where I was healthy and free.

*****

Kane, a large man with short, dark hair, was Lord Aleyn's chief of security, and sat at a small desk, wearing simple fatigue-green pajamas. Penetrating brown eyes shot suspicion as I entered his spartan bedroom.

"What is the old man's purpose with you, weaver?" he asked suspiciously as I entered. "Is this another loyalty test?"

"I am just a Dreamweaver, sir," I answered, averting my gaze, "and I know not of any motives."

A low growl leaked from his tightened lips. "I will watch you, weaver."

"Yes, sir," I responded. Because of his distrust, it seemed counterproductive to question him now. "I am here for your dream, sir."

"Very well," he said, moving to his bed.

Kane's dream wish was a reunion with old war buddies. We appeared in a rowdy rustic tavern on the eve of battle. I retreated to the room perimeter while a younger Kane, wearing an army corporal's uniform, happily joined his friends. Many of these would die the next day. But here, the Ale flowed freely as bawdy songs rose above the normal din. I felt sorry for the barmaid who navigated through the handsy revelers.

While immersed in the festivities, I dipped into Kane's memories surrounding the murder. The arguments started before dinner as Kane confronted Gavin, accusing him of betraying the clan. Gavin, ever the rebel, laughed in Kane's face, and made a thinly veiled threat that the real betrayal had not yet begun. Enraged, Kane advanced, intending physical harm, but relented when Lord Aleyn and his mistress entered the dining room.

As the meal progressed, Gavin took on his older brother, calling him a "sick suck-up", and the arguments resumed until Lord Aleyn put a stop to it. Kane fumed and silently vowed to uncover Gavin's unknown scheme. But I saw no murderous intent, and he never touched Gavin's snifter.

While a potentially violent man, Kane was not the murderer.

*****

The next night, I visited Lord Aleyn's mistress Candi, who was half his age, and fit the stereotypical profile. Seated at a shiny wooden dressing table within a pink-themed bedroom, she gazed into an oval mirror while brushing long strawberry-blonde curls. A thin silky chemise revealed ample cleavage.

She curled a lip as I entered. "God, you're ugly. How do you live with yourself?"

"It is a challenge sometime, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am, weaver," she sneered. "It makes me sound old."

"Very well... Candi."

She held up two lipstick tubes with subtly different pink hues and wrinkled her forehead. "Which do you think Aleyn would like better?"

"The darker one, I think, Candi," I answered, randomly picking.

"Hmm, I like the other better."

Clenching fists, I struggled to suppress other outward expressions of anger, and thinking it best not to verbalize my opinions about this vain bimbo. "I am here for your dream?"

"I know. This is not my first time." She replied dismissively while sliding into bed.

With a wave of my hand, we passed into the dream realm.

"You are prettier here," Candi said, scanning the healthier dream version of myself.

"What would you like to dream?" I asked.

She smiled. "I know..."

After plucking wishes from her mind, the scene transformed into a grand ballroom illuminated by massive crystal chandeliers. All eyes turned toward Candi as she descended the long staircase wearing a shimmering white gossamer gown that enhanced her feminine features. Upon reaching the floor, the handsome prince bent to kiss her hand.

While occupied by her fantasy, I peeked into Candi's memories. She held a simmering resentment toward Lord Aleyn, who had recently cut off her expense account citing overspending. Low maintenance, she was not.

The business discussions during the fateful dinner bored her, and the following arguments were annoying. Wearing a new revealing black dress, she wanted more attention, especially from the handsome Gavin. Interesting...

My eyes widened at the erotic thoughts that popped up within her memories. Of the charming and handsome Gavin. Oh, my God... Candi was having a secret affair with him. But there was no animosity, and she had not enough intelligence to pull off the sophisticated poisoning.

Candi was not the murderer.

*****

That left Maste, Lord Aleyn's eldest son and heir apparent, looking like a younger version of his father. It was no secret that he despised his younger brother. Maste's brooding hazel eyes scorned me as I entered his spacious bedroom. Dark wooden paneling surrounded sturdy furnishings, including a thick wooden-plank bed, giving the bedroom a dark vibe.

"I am the Dreamweaver, sir," I said. "Your father sent me--"

"I know why you are here," he snapped with a flippant gesture. "Let's get on with this."

So, no preliminary chit-chat then. "Yes, sir."

When we appeared in a blank dream template, I asked, "What is your wish, sir?"

Maste turned, putting on a cruel grin, and grasped my chin within a rough hand. "My wishes are, shall we say, intense? You shall speak to no one of this. Do you understand, weaver?"

I gulped. "Yes, sir. Client privacy is part of the Dreamweaver code." I didn't tell him that his father was the true client.

His dream wish turned my stomach. Erotic dreams were not uncommon, but this one featured abuse. Two teenage girls trembled as they stood naked, chained to a stone block wall within an iron-bar cell. Wall mounted torches provided flickering light. Wearing black leather, Maste's grin widened as he leisurely scanned his terrified victims.

I knew this was only a dream, but could not bear to watch as the cries started.

While he indulged his sadistic nature, I accessed Maste's memories.

Maste harbored deep resentment of Gavin's free-spirited playboy lifestyle. And Gavin so easily provoked him, and took delight in doing so. A simple facial gesture was sometimes enough to boil Maste's perpetually simmering hatred.

'He could ruin everything,' Maste fumed to himself during the second dinner course.

After dinner, while the brandy was being served, Gaven turned up the heat, openly mocking his brother, despite their father's disapproving snarl. Maste exploded in rage, shoving Gavin and launching into a string of profanities. Kane finally separated the feuding brothers and they returned to their seats.

Maste was a cruel, angry man with motive for murder, but at no time did he access Gavin's snifter, nor have any poison. He was not the murderer.

This left me with a monumental problem. I recalled the not-very-subtle threat Lord Aleyn delivered to me if I failed to find the culprit.

Once Maste finished his repugnant scene, I pushed him into a deep sleep and returned to my temporary bedroom. Escaping to my personal dream world, I crouched on a rock ledge across a wide valley from a grand, sunlit castle.

I mentally reviewed my findings over and over, but each time confirming that none of Lord Aleyn's suspects killed Gavin.

Lord Aleyn...

I awoke with a gasp in my bed. There was one other at that fateful evening that I had not yet investigated.

Lord Aleyn.

Once Candi slunk back to her own bedroom, I crept along darkened halls to the master bedroom, carefully opening the massive oak door just enough to squeeze through. Sitting cross-legged on a bearskin rug beside the huge bed, I closed my eyes and carefully entered his Lord Aleyn's dreams. Stealth was required, lest he sensed my intrusion.

His dream was a flickering montage of images, as most dreams were. Scrolling through his memories, I eventually came to the exact moment. While Gavin and Maste engaged in their shoving match, garnering the attention of all others, Lord Aleyn passed by Gavin's snifter glass and poured in a clear liquid from a small vial, then went to help Kane break up the fight.

Alerted by my heavy gasp, Lord Aleyn awoke with a growl, abruptly sitting up. "You..." he spat at me while baring teeth.

Before I could rise, he was upon me. I grunted as he shoved me to the floor, then straddled my skinny body and pinned my arms down with his knees. I had not the strength to escape. His hands flew to my throat and squeezed. Hard.

"Your son... Why?" I gasped with what might become my final breath.

Lord Aleyn's face contorted in fury. "Stupid weaver. I needed you only to find out if anyone saw me administer the poison." His face relaxed, but the grip on my throat did not. "Gavin was going to reveal things best left hidden. That betrayer was no longer my son."

Sharp pain exploded in my throat when my windpipe collapsed. My head throbbed and sparks appeared before my eyes as my body cried out for oxygen. A dizzying panic came over me and my vision narrowed as if falling into a deep hole.

"No one will mourn your death, weaver," he hissed as my life drained away.

*****

But I didn't die.

I awoke in my special dream world. Reflexively, my hands went to my throat, but there was no evidence of injury. This refuge of my making became shelter to my spirit, my true self.

With but a directed thought, I peered back into the real world. Lord Aleyn, with Kane beside him, gazed down upon my lifeless body, my former broken shell. "She tried to kill me in my sleep," he explained, shaking his head. "I had no choice."

But he had been right about one thing: no one would mourn my passing. Yet, here in the realm of dreams, I flourished.

Tonight, I shall become Lord Aleyn's worst nightmare. An old adage shall be tested — that if you died in a dream, then you also died in real life.

The physical world no longer constrained me.

Now I was, fully and truly, Dreamweaver.