by Dima Zales
“I’ll pay whatever’s necessary to continue her care,” I say to the elf. “Let me know what I need to sign.”
She looks relieved. “I’ll have a doctor speak with you shortly.”
The wait for the doctor is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
When he finally arrives, I feel a slight sense of relief. He’s a gnome, a rarity in the medical profession. Gnomes have a reputation of being the best in any scientific field, but they rarely choose medicine. Here, apparently, is the rare gnome who did—although it figures that the best of the best would be working in this paid facility.
“I’m Dr. Xipil,” the round-cheeked gnome says in a voice distorted by his breathing mask. “When your mother first got here, I thought we’d lose her. After five nanosurgeries and a vampire blood transfusion, we were able to heal most of the bodily trauma. Her brain, however, is a different story.”
He peppers me with a torrent of medical jargon that boils down to this: Mom is in a coma, and her brain isn’t running her body’s functions as it should.
“There isn’t much more we can do,” he says. “It’s possible that a healer might help, but given the expense of—”
I hold up a hand. “Assume money isn’t an obstacle.”
“Then you should try hiring a healer. In the meantime, you need to keep her on the machines.” He frowns. “Bear in mind, most hospitals would unplug her at this point, but here we can keep her hooked up until—”
I wake up drenched in cold sweat. Blinking my tear-swollen eyes open, I realize I’m still in the stinky cell.
I was right to fear falling asleep. Without being in control in the dream world, I can’t avoid the memories I’ve been trying to suppress—my own trauma loop. Though I’ve been telling myself that I’ve been taking vampire blood to have more waking moments in which to make money, avoiding these dreams was a big part of my motivation.
Well, I’ve faced them now.
If I were one of my clients, I would feel less intensely about what happened. But I don’t. Maybe I need another dreamwalker’s assistance in order to enjoy the healing effects of dreaming.
Still, at the very least, I’m no longer terrified of going to sleep. In fact, I can’t wait to sleep more. The drowsiness is like a heavy blanket cocooning me, dulling the impact of the painful memories.
I yawn, struggling to keep my eyes open. I don’t want to fall asleep again before I do what I recommend to my clients: examine my emotions with an open mind.
Guilt, of course, is the main one. I know Mom’s accident wasn’t really my fault. It was good advice to tell her to leave the apartment. Living as a shut-in, staying in VR for days on end, wasn’t healthy. But I was the reason she’d stormed out onto the street. It wasn’t just the driving algorithm that had failed; Mom must not have seen that car, either. That part’s my fault—and I’ll always carry that knowledge with me.
Underneath the guilt is anger. At her, at myself, at the pucking algorithm that didn’t stop the car in time. At the Council, for interfering with the Bernard job and tasking me with this impossible mystery, then punishing me for failing to solve it. And deeper still is the hollow ache that I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember… a longing for a father, for some family other than my moody, taciturn mom. A part of me has always hoped that one day, she’ll relent and tell me about our family, about where we came from and why she’s been unwilling to talk about them all these years. Now that hope is gone, extinguished as surely as my life is about to be. I’ll never learn about my past—or kiss a guy in real life.
I’m going to die a virgin.
I picture Valerian and his sensual lips, his ocean-blue eyes, the way his body looks in that bespoke suit… Puck, we should’ve done it at least in the dream world.
Speaking of—how much time has passed? Based on how sore my body is from lying on the stone floor, I must’ve snoozed for at least a few hours. Could my powers be back?
I touch Pom and try to go into the dream world that way.
Nope.
Despite the disappointment banding my chest, I yawn so loudly it fills the small room. Maybe the introspection can wait until I get more sleep—or better yet, until I’m in the afterlife.
Even the thought of the pending execution doesn’t suppress my next yawn.
Fine. Why fight it?
I close my eyes again and instantly fall asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Isis and I are riding in a limo, and I’m giddy with excitement.
“Again, props to you,” Isis says. “I can’t believe Eduardo was behind it all—and you’re the only one who figured it out.”
Something about what she says feels wrong, but I let it go because what really matters is that we’re on the way to finally heal Mom. I look out at the city as Isis showers me with compliments. If Manhattan could pass for a small outskirt of Gomorrah, that’s not the case for Brooklyn.
We get stuck in traffic twice, but eventually, the limo reaches JFK airport and drops us off among the hordes of people rushing to their flights. We navigate our way to a secret door guarded by wards; no human could ever go this way. Opening it, we slip into an underground labyrinth of corridors leading to the hub—an enormous circular room with reflective floors, a fairly typical setup as far as these things go. The circumference of the hub is peppered with gates, each colorful plasma warp point leading to a different Otherland. Hubs like this give the Cognizant access to countless universes, each as different from each other as Earth is from Gomorrah.
“My world is this way.” I point at the turquoise gate opposite us.
“I’ve been to Gomorrah,” Isis says. “Who hasn’t?”
“Let me guess.” I head for the gate. “Earth Club?”
“Hey, everyone goes there,” she says defensively.
Sure, everybody from this backward place. There are much better clubs for us natives.
Catching up with me, Isis sashays into the gate first. I follow, as usual finding it fascinating how the front of me disappears into the shimmer of the gate as I walk into it.
We cross the gate’s threshold, and we’re not underground anymore, nor are we on Earth.
We’re on top of a proper-sized skyscraper on Gomorrah.
I inhale the familiar ozone-scented air and smile. Isis looks at me like I’m crazy. I shrug and head for the elevator. As usual, the time here doesn’t match New York on Earth. It was daytime there, yet here it’s night, a time when the differences between the two worlds are the most telling.
I look up. There’s no moon on Gomorrah, and I’m glad. That thing always looks ready to crash into Earth in some horrible cataclysm. Instead, we have a majestic nebula. The yellows and reds of its interstellar dust and gases form long trails that look like fire falling from the sky.
“I wonder if ancient Cognizant blabbed to humans about this sky,” Isis says, falling into step next to me. “It looks exactly like fire and brimstone about to rain down on us.”
“Who knows,” I say, glancing down at the city sprawled below us.
The world of Gomorrah has only one city, a mega-metropolis that shares its name. It’s larger than the entirety of the North American continent. The tallest building on Earth would look like a one-story suburban house here. The scale is staggering, even for those of us who grew up here. On a cloudy day, there’s no skyline at all, as the tops of most buildings disappear into the clouds.
We take the elevator down to ground level and exit through the lobby onto the street. Immediately, I spot an orc, an elf, and a dwarf staggering drunkenly from some bar.
“Ahhh.” I exhale. “Home sweet home.”
Isis grins. “No place like it.”
“I still haven’t gotten acclimated to the homogenous human crowds in New York,” I say.
She nods at a life-sized hologram of a supermodel beamed toward us by the nearest storefront. “Do you miss that also?”
“That’s propaganda I could do without,” I say and lead the w
ay to a parking lot on the corner.
“Finally, normal-looking cars,” I say as we approach. “The cars on Earth remind me of horse-drawn buggies.”
“Yeah, these look like sleek spaceships.” Isis looks around. “Hey, I smell food.”
She’s right. And this isn’t just food—it’s safe food. There’s no such thing as foodborne illness here. I sniff the air, salivating at the thought of eating something that’s not a banana, and the mouthwatering aroma of manna fills my nostrils.
I point at a vehicle Earth humans would probably describe as a flying saucer. “It’s the Gomorrah version of a food truck. You’ve got to try it.”
I get us each two packets of manna and rip into mine on the spot, moaning in pleasure as the flavor explodes over my starved taste buds.
After the first bite, Isis digs in with equal gusto. “If it were possible to have an orgasm from eating, this would do it,” she says with her mouth full. “How many calories are in this thing?”
I hand her the second packet. “Don’t worry. You can’t gain weight from manna.”
After I’ve had my fill, I remember our very important mission and get us a car. As we ride to the hospital, Isis gapes at our surroundings like the tourist she is.
“Everything looks like a set from Ghost in the Shell,” she says, “or Blade Runner.”
I grin. “Don’t you think the orcs and elves break the cyberpunk vibe?”
She laughs, and we chatter the rest of the way about Felix’s favorite topic, the cross-Otherland “borrowing” of creative ideas, including movies, video games, and books. Isis finds it as amusing as I do that there’s Pac-Man and Mary Poppins on both Gomorrah and Earth—only in the Gomorran version, Mary Poppins is a vampire.
When the car stops at the hospital, we hurry into the intensive care unit.
“Miss Spade,” calls a voice so high it borders on ultrasonic. “I need to talk to you.”
I will myself to slow down and smile at the billing administrator—or Horseshoe Bat as I call her, in part because she seems batty and in part because her face reminds me of the Earth creature.
“I’ll pay whatever I owe,” I tell her preemptively.
“Good.” She looks disappointed not to have to give me a lecture. “If you could step into my office—”
“Look, lady, my time is valuable,” Isis says. “Get out of our way or I’ll heal all your patients, and there go your profits.”
“You’re a healer?” Horseshoe Bat bats her eyelashes at Isis. “Maybe we—”
“Out of the way,” Isis growls.
Horseshoe Bat retreats.
I locate Dr. Xipil in the unit and apprise him of what Isis is here to do. He grabs a few colleagues, and we meet in Mom’s room.
Mom looks the same. Machines maintain all her basic bodily functions, and her brain activity is flat.
Dr. Xipil shifts his weight uneasily. “Do you want us to unplug her first?”
“Too risky,” Isis says. “Let me do my thing first.”
He glances at her hands and shuffles back a step or two. “Go ahead.”
Isis shoots Mom with an arc of golden energy.
I hold my breath.
Mom’s brain activity goes from flat to frantic.
My breath whooshes out. It’s all I can do to not rush over to her as she gasps and flails, clearly bothered by the breathing apparatus.
Maintaining her focus, Isis speaks over her shoulder. “Now you take your crap out. Quick.”
The medical staff scurry to comply as Isis keeps a steady stream of healing energy directed at Mom.
When the last machine is disconnected, Mom’s eyes blink open, and she gives me a tender smile.
“Mom,” I say, my voice choked. “How are you doing?”
“I feel great,” she says, looking around. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the hospital,” I say, wiping a tear with my sleeve. I tug more fabric discreetly into my palm so I can make another pass at my nose. “There’s been an accident and—”
That’s when I notice it.
Pom.
Or, more precisely, the lack of Pom on my wrist.
Hold on. Pom is never missing from my wrist. Not unless I’m dreaming.
The world around me freezes.
Of course. This isn’t actually happening. It’s a fantasy. It’s what might’ve happened if Eduardo had turned out to be the killer, as I thought.
Unable to stand the disappointment, I shut out Mom’s beatific face and will myself to my dream palace.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Pom appears at my elbow. “Hey! How’re things going?”
Usually I wouldn’t worry the little guy, but since his fate is tied to mine, I give him the bad news—and as I speak, he turns ever-darker shades of black.
“It’s so unfair,” he says when I finish. “You did your best for them.”
My hair goes fiery without my conscious direction. “Don’t get me started.”
Pom’s huge, lavender eyes turn overly bright, his fur lightening to gray—a rare color signifying deep sadness. “I don’t want them to hurt you. Can you take me to their dreams? Maybe if I beg, they’ll change their minds.”
My chest tightens. My looft is clearly more worried about me than himself. I fluff his fur. “I don’t think that would work, but you just gave me an idea. Before they execute me, I’ll tell them about you, mention that you’re a protected species on Gomorrah. Maybe they can attach you to someone or something else. They’ve got goats, for example, or maybe they could—”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” His ears turn a deep beet color. “I was still early in my development when I attached to you at the zoo. Once I got to know you, I let myself grow something like your circulatory and nervous systems—and now they’re irreversibly interlinked with yours.”
He can’t mean—
“I can’t be removed without killing us both,” he confirms, reading my face. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to call me a parasite again. Or a tumor.”
“A tumor? Come on, what kind of a monster do you think I am?” I give him a hug, my eyes watering. “Sweetie, I never would’ve wanted to take you off my wrist in either case. We’re symbionts for life. I’m just sorry I screwed up so badly, because now that life is going to be very short.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says. His ears fade to gray again. “It’s the stupid Council.”
I sigh in silent agreement and take to the air, floating among the impossible shapes decorating my palace’s lobby.
Pom loops around me. “I wonder who the killer actually is. That’s ultimately who’s to blame.”
I flick the tip of one of his ears. “That’s a great question. Everyone on the Council seems to be not guilty.”
His ears turn light orange. “Could it be someone not on the Council?”
I stare at him. It’s unlikely, but… “Maybe, Pom, maybe. Access to the castle is restricted, but people do get in. For instance, Felix and Ariel will be at a Mandate ceremony.”
The rest of Pom turns light orange. “Could someone have hidden in the castle after such an event? Maybe that’s who’s killing the victims.”
Huh. It’s possible. I sink both hands into his fur as my mind flips through the alternatives. “What about the monks? One of them could’ve done it. They’re the closest to something like a butler—and in Earth mysteries, it’s always the butler who’s done it.”
Pom wriggles out of my hold and circles around me. “I thought the monks didn’t have any powers.”
“They don’t. That’s why no one suspects them. Killing the most powerful Cognizant isn’t easy.”
“Then who else could it have been?”
I have no idea. I rub my forehead. “Someone good at sneaking?”
With no answers to give him, I can’t face the hope and trust in his eyes. Floating over to a prism mirror, I stare blankly at my iridescent reflection. It has to be someone from outside the cas
tle, someone from outside the Council’s domain entirely. As busy as they’ve kept me, I’ve had no time to notice who might be—
The mirror reflects a dream manifestation of a lightbulb above my head as the idea hits me.
There is someone who’s able to get in and out of the castle on a whim. He did it the very first day I was there.
“Valerian!” I exclaim, whirling around. “Valerian uses his illusionist powers to make himself invisible.”
Pom’s lavender eyes widen, his pupils transforming into red hearts. “But don’t you want him?”
I’m not going to dignify that with a response. “Think about it. His power is uniquely useful against powerful Cognizant.”
“How so?”
“An illusionist can make you see anything.” I change our surroundings to illustrate my point, creating a room where the ceiling is the floor and the floor is the ceiling, with pucks scampering across the walls. “An illusionist can use his powers to make others do the dirty work for him, so Valerian could’ve made Ryan see an enemy where his wife stood, causing him to shoot her with his own arrow.” I change our surroundings to the scene of Tatum’s death, the arrow protruding cruelly from her chest before conjuring up a translucent Valerian, who sends an arc of his mojo at the elf.
Then I show Pom what happens from Ryan’s point of view: Tatum becomes Eduardo and begins screaming at the elf, telling Ryan what he’s done with his wife, calling him a cuckold and worse. Eventually, Ryan snaps and, raising his bow, shoots the “werewolf” in the chest.
Except, of course, it wasn’t the werewolf. It was Tatum.
“Huh,” Pom says. “Go on.”
I dispel the crime scene and make a cliff appear. “Valerian could also have made it so that Ryan walked off the cliff on his own—no push needed. Or he could’ve made himself invisible and simply pushed.” I make that scenario play out in front of Pom. “Or maybe both. Maybe Ryan realized he’d shot his own wife instead of an illusion, so he committed suicide.”