Dream Hunter (Bailey Spade 2)

“Whose subconscious, yours or the dreamer’s?”

“Great question.” I conjure up the creatures from the subdream I experienced when I invaded Bernard’s non-REM sleep—the ones that look like oversized bacteria and viruses. “Theoretically, these could be my fears of contamination made flesh.”

Pom peers at them as I recreate the creatures I encountered in Gertrude’s subdream—tentacled giant naked mole rats riding warthog-spider hybrids. “Nothing about these riders fits that pattern,” I say, studying them, “so they might be something Gertrude dreamed up.”

Pom floats in front of my face. “So you think it was your mom who created the monsters we just defeated?”

“Could be. Though I don’t like the implications.”

He blinks at me.

“The monsters said their master hated me,” I explain. “If Mom created them, she’d be their master, right?” Reaching the glass-walled tower of sleepers, I locate the nook where Mom’s form resides now that I’ve forced her into REM sleep. “I know we had that fight before her accident,” I continue as I fly toward it, “but I hope she doesn’t really feel that my existence is a blight—whatever that means.”

Pom flies next to me. “You feel bad about that fight, don’t you?”

“Of course. I made Mom think I might invade her dreams, something she made me promise never to do. That’s why she got so upset and stormed out. Her accident wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for my big mouth.”

Pom turns gray, a color rare for him. “You didn’t know what would happen.”

“True.” I take a breath to suppress the heavy swell of emotions thinking about Mom’s accident always generates. “In any case, it doesn’t matter now. I am breaking my promise.”

“To save her life.”

“Yes.” Outside, in the waking world, Mom is in a strange coma-like sleep, one that neither Isis, a powerful healer, nor Dr. Xipil, a rare gnome doctor, could get her out of. The only thing left to try was for me to go into her dreams and wake her from within.

Hopefully she’ll understand and forgive me.

Entering her nook, I land next to the bed. To my surprise, there’s no trauma loop cloud above her head—something I always suspected I’d find if I dreamwalked in her. Before the accident, she’d displayed all the symptoms I’ve seen in my most troubled clients.

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” Pom says sagely, landing behind me. “What’s more important is that you forgive yourself. From my experience, that’s harder.”

I turn to see if he’s kidding, but he’s still that depressing gray color. “What experience are you talking about? What did you ever need to forgive yourself for?”

His cute face twists into a miserable expression, and his ears droop. “I permanently attached myself to you without asking your permission.”

So he had. I certainly hadn’t expected to end up with a symbiont when I petted a mooft—a cow-like creature loofts normally live on—at a Gomorran zoo. But now I can’t imagine my life without him.

“Sweetie.” I snatch him up, bringing him up to my eye level. “I already told you, I wouldn’t want to take you off even if I could.”

The tips of his ears turn a light shade of purple. “You told me that when you thought you’d be executed. Now that you know you’ll live, do you still mean it?”

“We’re symbionts for life,” I say solemnly. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

The rest of Pom turns purple, and he grins. “We make a good pair of symbionts, don’t we?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I kiss his furry forehead and set him down. “Now how about I do what I came here to do?”

We both look over at Mom. Her beautiful features appear so peaceful in her slumber.

“Do you want some privacy?” Pom asks.

“Please.” It’s been four months since Mom entered her coma. The chances that I’ll cry when we finally speak are pretty high, and seeing that might upset Pom.

He obligingly disappears.

I place my hand on Mom’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “If I could save you without breaking my promise, I would.”

Steeling myself, I dive into her dream.

Chapter Two

Mom is chopping something in an unfamiliar kitchen, while a child version of me is opening a packet of manna.

My younger self looks to be about five and must be filtered through Mom’s memories. I doubt I was that adorable, and I’m skeptical of that innocence in my eyes. Though I don’t remember anything from when I was younger than seven, I couldn’t have changed this much.

A part of me is disappointed. My dreamwalker powers allow me to tell if a dream is based on a memory, and that’s not the case here. It would’ve been a chance to learn something of my early years—one of Mom’s many taboo subjects.

Mom starts chopping with greater intensity.

Something prevents me from clearing my throat to inform her of my presence. As much as I yearn to speak with her, curiosity and a certain intuition lead me to observe for now. I turn invisible—and just in time.