If I could summon the will to speak, I’d tell him it pucking isn’t going to be okay.
He may be infected.
I may be infected.
Those two thoughts buzz around my head like angry bees.
Valerian murmurs more reassuring words that I ignore. At some point, he must tire of talking and lies next to me, wrapping his arms around me.
Eventually, I pull myself together enough to get up and force myself to eat a couple of pieces of fruit. I think I’m still numb, and I hope to stay that way.
As I trudge back to my chair, I see Stanislav. Clutching his stomach, he tosses a piece of dried meat off the platform.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Necromancer food not good for my digestion.”
Before I can press further, he turns his back to me and stomps over to the other side of the platform.
I let him go, though I don’t buy what he said. Not after I saw him clutching his chest before. The virus symptoms in order are tears of blood, heart palpitations, upset stomach, and purplish-red skin.
He seems to have had three out of the four.
In fact, is it my imagination or is his skin already a smidge purple?
I hurry over to Valerian. “Can you use your powers to give us privacy?”
“Sit in your chair,” he says, and I oblige.
He tells Itzel to stay far away from us, then plops in his own chair. Suddenly, our surroundings change. I find myself in the same chair but in the middle of a gorgeous garden filled with plants from both Gomorrah and Earth.
“Now the others can’t hear us,” he says. “Not unless you want me to pull someone in, that is.”
I take in a calming breath. “Does Stanislav look purplish-red to you?”
Valerian peers in the direction of the cherry blossom tree, his forehead creasing. “Maybe.”
“Can you pull in Dylan?” I bend down and pick up a daffodil. The flower has the texture and scent of the real thing. Sometimes I forget how impressive Valerian’s power really is. If I were to make this flower in a dream, I’m not sure I’d be able to give it as much detail.
A second later, Dylan appears in the garden with us, her chair right next to me even though in the real world, it’s about twelve feet away.
I tell Dylan about my observations of Stanislav, and she looks progressively gloomier as I list all the symptoms I’ve observed.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” she says. “His infection seems to have progressed.”
Valerian’s hands squeeze the arms of his chair. “How long does he have?”
“Depends on the chort immune system in general and his in particular,” she says. “I’m sure the exertion of our recent fight didn’t help.”
“Are we talking hours, days, or weeks?” Valerian presses.
Dylan fiddles with her mask. “I don’t think he’ll make it to Gomorrah. My hope is that the cure is simple to make, so I can do it on the world where we met Maxwell. The hospital next to the hub there has a rudimentary lab.”
Pom’s fur is pitch black on my wrist as I pet him in order to self-soothe. “I thought the cure hasn’t been developed yet,” I say quietly, trying not to give in to the panic beating in my chest.
She sighs. “They’ve made progress. The best minds are on it. Hopefully they’ll have it by the time we need it.”
That’s a lot of life-critical outcomes riding on mere hope.
Though on some level I’d rather not know, my mouth forms the words. “What about us?”
Valerian glances at me sharply. “You sure you want to talk about it?”
“I’d rather know,” I lie.
“Then tell it to us straight,” Valerian says to Dylan. “I saw the look on your face when you told Rowan we may be infected. Your poker face is crap.”
Dylan flushes. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want anyone to panic. The sad truth is that you received a massive viral load. Unless your immune system is like that of a pre-vamp, you’re going to show symptoms soon.”
I cover my face with my hands as my carefully nourished numbness gives way to unbridled existential dread.
I’m not ready to die.
And I’m even less ready for Valerian to die.
“Thanks, Dylan,” he says, his voice coming as if from a distance. “Go to sleep now, okay? We don’t want to miss the moment when Maxwell tries to dreamwalk in you.”
“On it,” she replies, and when I lower my hands, Dylan is gone and Valerian is standing next to me with an unreadable expression on his face.
Anger, sharp and irrational, surges through me. “How are you so okay?” I demand, jumping up. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”
He gives me a crooked grin. “I’m obviously freaking out too. Having the power of illusion helps when you’re trying to look cool, though.” As if to highlight his words, stylish sunglasses appear on his face, and his nondescript traveling outfit transforms into a skintight bodysuit.