Dream Chaser (Bailey Spade 3)

I tune the rest of it out. The villain in the game is the Rat King. I even tried fighting him in VR, though in that case he took on the guise of a spider with the head of a clown wearing a surgeon’s mask. The playable version would probably look more like Rattie himself—as that’s what his mischievous Bangalore team often makes their monsters’ faces look like.

“And we don’t need to involve another model,” Bernie says, echoing my thought process. “If needed, you can just pop into the motion capture lab and—”

At the mention of the motion capture lab, I vividly recall being there with Valerian and the way he attached those dots to my face. Also, the way he—

Wait, why am I fantasizing about that traitor?

“—and the best part is that the release date won’t change,” Bernie says.

Everyone nods approvingly.

That is indeed the best part. Depending on how far back in the past this meeting was, the game might come out very soon.

“Now, if that’s settled, we should talk about the feedback from the testers.” Bernie opens a folder. “The most recurrent note is: Too many clowns and spiders.”

The Bangalore team start laughing, and when Bernie gives them a questioning look, one of them explains that the clowns and spiders are Rattie’s fault. Apparently, he has them overuse those elements in all the projects they’ve created.

Not interested in hearing more, I exit the dream and find myself back in my office at the rehab facility.

Doesn’t seem like Valerian has halted the game design. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as I thought.

As if waiting for that moment, a message shows up in my VR inbox.

It’s from Valerian.

If you recall, I offered to take you out of the castle when we met.

What? He disappears for weeks, and his idea of groveling is that? Pom turning red on my wrist, I compose my reply:

You offered to rescue me out of self-interest. If you recall, the vampires kidnapped me before I finished that job with Bernard. I guess your seer miscalculated—or it was all part of the big plan. Your offer to rescue me was as hollow as your current apology, and you know it. The vampires had my DNA, so taking me out of the castle would’ve only delayed the inevitable.

I wait for him to prevaricate his way out of that, but he doesn’t reply.

Nor is there a reply on the next day, and the one after that.

Just as I figure he’s done talking to me forever, I find a bouquet of flowers in my office with a small note:

I’m sorry.

The gall of the guy. He thinks he can kill some plants and make everything okay?

Still, I put the flowers into a vase and catch myself smelling them for the rest of the day with a dumb grin on my face.

The next day, I get a box of candy with the same note.

Unlike its Earth cousins, Gomorran candy is actually good for one’s teeth, and is many times more delicious, which goes doubly so for the extremely expensive brand Valerian got for me.

Still. Just because I’m gobbling down the candy doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive and forget.

The next day, a box is waiting on my desk. There’s a bracelet inside.

I put it on. It’s pretty, even if it looks nothing like Pom’s furry body on my other wrist. And no, just because I’m wearing the bracelet doesn’t mean we’re okay now.

By gift number seven, my resolve wavers a bit. That is, until I get a new message from Valerian the next day:

Felix told me everything. Can you put aside your silly misconceptions long enough to talk to me?

Silly misconceptions?

I remove his bracelet and toss it into the garbage disposal.

The nerve of that man.

And what was Felix thinking, talking to the enemy? He’s lucky I’m not evil enough to sneak into his dreams and have him take a swim in a lake filled with blood. Or make him and Valerian screw themselves—and each other.

That last bit heavily inspires my reply, which, not surprisingly, is:

You and Felix can go puck yourselves.

Valerian doesn’t write back, and there’s no gift on my desk the next day.

Okay, so maybe I could’ve replied with something a bit more ladylike.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of therapy appointments. Finally, feeling like I should treat myself, I go for lunch at White Fang, a restaurant run by a werewolf that serves various meat tartar and has a nice ambiance. Today, it’s pretty much empty, which suits my mood just fine.

I’m halfway through my ri sashimi when someone sits down at my table.

It’s Valerian, looking as unrepentant as can be.

Chapter Five

Tall and broad-shouldered, he’s wearing a gnome-designed tunic that looks to have been tattooed on his muscled body. His expression is unreadable, the ocean-blue eyes serene, with not a twitch of emotion visible on those carved features.