“Like I said, neurogenesis—”
“And like I said, I’d rather not know the details. How about we play a game instead?”
When I see how quickly he turns a happy purple, I feel a pang of guilt that I haven’t offered this to him more often.
Better late than never.
We play every game I’ve ever heard of, then invent some of our own and play those.
“I’m tired,” he says after I beat him thrice at our latest invention: tic-tac-toe but on a three-dimensional array of cells, using kittens and puppies instead of naughts and crosses.
“How about you rest?” I say. “I was thinking I’d give a free therapy session to all my clients.”
“Smart,” Pom says sagely. “They say helping others can make you feel better.”
“Nice. So altruism is selfish.”
He grins and does his Cheshire cat disappearance.
“I could use feeling better, that’s for sure,” I mutter and teleport to the tower of sleepers.
Of course. Just as I’m in a giving mood, not a single one of my patients is asleep.
Fine.
I go to the memory gallery and recreate my first kiss in every juicy detail. If I do survive the virus, this is an experience I’ll want to enjoy again and again.
Since I’m here, I replay some of my other favorite memories—especially those with Mom.
Poor Mom. Bad luck has a sense of irony. Just as I’ve hopefully gotten the power to bring her out of her comatose state, a virus is going to stop me from doing so.
Nope, not going there. Dwelling on bad outcomes isn’t part of “taking things easy.”
For Mom’s sake, I create the most soothing environment around myself that I can muster, then meditate for what feels like days. Eventually, I grow very, very bored of taking things easy. At least the dream-world kind of easy.
In any case, I should check on how Valerian is doing.
To that end, I jolt myself awake.
Before I even open my eyes, I realize this was a bad idea.
Out here, in the real world, my heart is hammering irregularly in my chest.
There’s no doubt now.
It’s a symptom of the virus.
Opening my eyes, I see Valerian stretched out on his bed. Someone dragged it over to be next to mine.
Valerian notices me looking and sits up with a grunt.
I look at his chest area. “Is your heart—”
“Yours too?” he asks worriedly.
I nod. “Also, I think I’m starving.”
His face darkens further. “Are you sure it’s hunger?”
I examine the gnawing sensation in my belly.
Puck. It might well be the third symptom. If so, purple skin will be next, and after that is the end.
“There’s good news,” Valerian says, gesturing in the direction we’re moving toward. “We’re almost there.”
I sit up.
Yep. I recognize the mountain ridge in the far distance.
Still, given how quickly the virus has been progressing with that insane viral load we got, we might not make it to the gates. And even if we did make it, last I checked, Dylan doesn’t have the cure.
Speak of the devil. Dylan walks over, an excited expression on her face. “I just woke up. Maxwell explained how to make the cure. It’s simple. I can do it at that lab at the hospital on the nearby world.”
Okay. Now we have a chance. A small one but still.
“What do you think are the odds we’ll last that long?” Valerian asks, echoing my concerns.
“It’s hard to say for sure,” Dylan says. “My hope is that you make it.”
She also hoped Stanislav would make it, and that didn’t turn out so well.
“I want more than hope,” Valerian says. “Rowan,” he yells. “Can you come here?”
Rowan hurries over, a curious expression on her face.
“Is there any way we can speed up this ride some more?” Valerian asks.
“I’ve stolen all the helpers from the fields we’ve passed,” Rowan says. “Short of helping them carry this thing myself, I’m not sure what else I could do.”
“Shouldn’t there be some zombies by the gate?” I ask.
Rowan rubs her forehead. “Sleeping beauty has a point. Let me check.”
The dead bird Rowan found earlier takes flight and zooms ahead of us.
As I wait, I carefully examine Valerian’s skin.
There’s the slightest tinge of purple there—though it could be the stress playing tricks with my vision.
Looking at the back of my hand yields the same result. I think my hue is a little purple, but I’m not certain.
Rowan frowns, her gaze distant.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks.
Rowan’s tone is grim. “Let me make the bird dive down to be sure.”
She concentrates for the next minute, then turns a pained gaze on us. “It’s Icelus. They’re blocking our way to the hub.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We start peppering her with questions, but she winces and exclaims something in Necronian.
“Mor blast them,” she growls in English. “Apparently, pre-vamps are expert jumpers. The helper bird was caught.”
“Back up,” Valerian says. “Are you sure this is Icelus we’re talking about?”
“It’s the pre-vamp Percival who did the jumping,” Rowan says. “The others are also from Exozar’s dream. I’ve never been surer.”