Valerian’s hands turn into fists. “We should’ve made Isis or another healer join this expedition.”
Dylan backs away. “Isis refused, remember?”
“I could’ve dragged her by force,” he growls. Taking a deep breath, he says in a calmer tone, “Do you have any tips for slowing down the progression of the disease?”
Dylan looks uncertain. “One thing that might help is to take it easy. As we saw with Stanislav, exerting oneself lowers your body’s defenses.”
“Right,” he says, sounding even calmer now. “When will you be able to go to sleep again?”
“I just woke up,” she says. At the narrowing of his eyes, she quickly adds, “Bailey can use her powers to put me into REM sleep at any time, though.”
“Bailey is going to take it easy,” Valerian says firmly. “How about you do some exercises to tire yourself out, then eat a heavy meal and attempt a siesta?”
“Sure, I can do that,” Dylan says. “I warned Maxwell to—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Felix says, approaching with a grave expression. “There’s something you need to see.”
He motions toward Stanislav’s bed.
I look at it—and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Stanislav’s skin is a deep purple with just a touch of red. Eyes closed, he’s thrashing like a man possessed by a demon with ADHD. Under his breath, he’s mumbling something in Russian, but the only word I recognize is Murzik, the name of his kitten.
“How long has he been like this?” Valerian asks, his voice roughening as he walks over to the unfortunate chort.
On leaden legs, I follow.
“Don’t know,” Felix replies, joining us. “I just noticed it.”
Rowan, Ariel, Fabian, and Itzel rush over as well, and deny knowing anything when Valerian barks the same question at them.
Stanislav’s thrashing slows, and he begins whimpering something in Russian.
“It hurts,” Felix translates, his voice pained. “He can’t hold on anymore.”
Ariel grabs Stanislav’s wrist. “Fight it. You’re a chort. What’s a measly virus to you?”
“Can she get sick from touching him?” I whisper into Dylan’s ear.
“Not according to Gomorran experts,” Dylan whispers back. “Her mask will keep her safe.”
Stanislav stops thrashing. In a few seconds, he stops whimpering also.
“I’m sorry,” Rowan says, her expression solemn. “It’s over. I can feel it.”
Ariel doesn’t seem to accept that. She checks Stanislav’s pulse—only his dead body turns ghostly and disappears in her grasp, leaving behind nothing, not even the clothes.
She draws back, startled, and Felix puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Chorts phase one last time when they pass.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Valerian whirls on Dylan, his face a mask of fury. “It happened overnight. You said he’d make it to that nearby world!”
Dylan staggers back. “I hoped. I’m sorry.”
Fabian steps between Valerian and Dylan, his expression grim. “We’re all upset,” he growls. “Let’s remember it’s Icelus we’re upset with.”
Valerian unclenches his fists. “I didn’t mean… This is a lot to process.”
You can say that again. During our travels, I’d grown to like Stanislav quite a bit. He wasn’t at all how I’d expected the infamous chorts to be like—in a good way.
“Felix,” I say unsteadily, thinking back to when I dreamwalked in Stanislav. “You have to tell his girlfriend.”
“Of course,” Felix murmurs.
A droplet of something slides down my cheek—probably blood—but I don’t check. “Make sure to tell her to take care of the kitten. She’ll understand what that means.”
Felix nods somberly.
“She’ll be taken care of,” Valerian says. “Both of them will be.”
Ariel looks around. “Does anyone want to say anything?”
Fabian turns to the now-empty bed. “I’ll start. I’ve known Stanislav for…” And as he goes on, reality presses on me from all sides.
This is a eulogy.
Stanislav is gone.
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest, my emotions in turmoil. Grief is there, for sure, but also a good dose of guilt. There’s a selfish part of me that grieves Stanislav’s passing for the wrong reasons: Now we see how precarious Valerian’s situation is. And mine.
“You should rest,” Valerian’s voice intrudes into my mental fog.
He takes me by my elbow and leads me away from the makeshift funeral. As soon as my rear hovers over the edge of the bed, my knees give out. I end up hunched over in an awkward position, but I don’t care.
Valerian sits by me and gives me a bear hug.
His scent and warmth provide a tiny bit of relief—that is, until I allow myself to really assess my situation.
Despite a lifetime of obsessively using hygieia and hand sanitizer, of sacrificing touching, kissing, and even hugging, I got sick. And not just sick. Infected with a deadly virus for which there’s no cure yet.
Phobetor truly is the god of nightmares. He found a way to make my worst one a reality.
And what a nightmare it is. I can almost feel the virus releasing its unholy genetic instructions inside my cells, can sense my cells getting overpowered and starting to work for the enemy, creating enzymes that help the intruder make more copies of its disgusting self. I can picture new copies of the virus ripping out of the cells like nightmarish creatures from the Alien movie. Even as I’m thinking this, more cells are falling victim. And more. Until—