He sniffs. “At least I’m not on vampire blood, like some.”
“Well, technically, given our symbiotic relationship, you are on it. It just doesn’t work on you, but—”
“Whatever. I’m not going in, no matter how much you beg.” Pom lifts his chin and disappears like a Cheshire cat. Instead of his smile, it’s his furry chin that hovers in the air until he’s completely gone.
“I don’t need you there, anyway,” I say to the empty air. “I’m in a rush, and this will go faster without your yammering.”
He doesn’t take the bait.
I’m almost to Bernard when I smack myself on the forehead. Almost forgot to make myself invisible again.
Pointedly turning myself undetectable by sight, sound, or smell, I touch Bernard on the forearm the way I did in the waking world—except without any worry of contamination.
And then, unlike in reality, where I’m standing in a sleep-like trance, in the dream world I disappear from the palace and reappear inside Bernard’s trauma loop.
Chapter Four
I find myself on a playground, one of Earth’s most primitive anachronisms where children physically play. On Gomorrah, fully immersive virtual spaces replaced these long ago, which means no dirt, no germs, and a lot more entertainment options for the little ones.
This particular playground is creepy. Spiders and maggots crawl inside the sandbox, and the empty swing sways as though ridden by ghosts. Even the monkey bars look warped, and the trees remind me of an evil forest from a dark fairy tale.
I bet the original playground wasn’t like this. Bernard’s emotions are twisting the surroundings.
The man himself is strolling toward a see-saw, the hands of two cute children in his grip—a little girl who’s a toddler and a slightly older boy.
Hmm. There’d been no sign of a family when I broke into his apartment.
“Daddy, I need to wee-wee.” The girl is dancing from foot to foot.
“Me too,” the boy says. “And I go first.”
“No, me first.” She gives her brother an imperious look. “Princesses first.”
They bicker about it as Bernard herds them toward a park bathroom. A public bathroom. Gross. Private water-based plumbing is horrific enough.
I float a few feet behind them. Though this dream could easily be fiction—driven by, say, Bernard’s subconscious regret over never starting a family—my powers allow me to know the truth without a shadow of a doubt: This dream is based on a memory. All trauma loops I’ve encountered have been memories—though, in theory, one day I might come across a dream that twists the memory too much. Should that happen, I’d use my powers to pull out the truth and, hopefully, break the loop that way.
So it’s a memory—but from when? The scar on Bernard’s forehead is missing, so it’s safe to say this must’ve been a while ago.
“I can’t hold it anymore,” the boy says when they reach the bathroom.
The girl starts crying.
“You’re such a baby,” the boy says.
The girl stomps her foot and cries louder.
“Let’s go.” Bernard drags them into the men’s room.
Oh, the smell… the sights… the germs. Pom was right to disappear; this could traumatize someone for life.
The walls begin to close in.
Puck, I’m changing the dream without meaning to. That’s not good. If Bernard notices my influence, he could wake up.
I close my eyes. This is just a dream, and one colored by Bernard’s emotions at that. No germs can get me here. I should think of this as exposure therapy for myself—a bit like what I do with my clients who have phobias.
Yeah, that’s it.
The bathroom walls get back to normal, but just in case, I disable my sense of smell.
The siblings are still fighting. Visibly frustrated, Bernard helps the boy start his business at a low urinal and then drags the crying toddler into a stall. My nebulous presence follows them in, as this is Bernard’s dream/memory and I can only experience what he does.
Through the crying, I hear someone new enter the bathroom.
The boy yelps.
Bernard freezes for a moment, then kicks open the stall door—just in time to see the back of a man rushing out of the bathroom.
The boy is gone.
This time, the walls are closing in because of Bernard. He grabs the hysterical toddler like a sack and rushes out of the bathroom, looking frantically around the playground. He spots the man at the park entrance.
“Stop,” he yells. “Give him back!”
The kidnapper dives for a car parked by a hydrant, tosses the boy into the back seat, and jumps behind the wheel.
Bernard sprints after him, but the tires are already burning rubber. “What was that license plate?” Bernard shouts at the toddler in his grip.
The girl cries hysterically.
The agony on Bernard’s sheet-white face is painful to look at.
“Bailey,” a familiar voice says in my ear. “They’re there.”
Puck, I’m not done yet. There’s more to this, I can tell. But there’s a pressure on my arm that has nothing to do with the dream, and my cheek stings as if someone has slapped it.