Dream Walker (Bailey Spade 1)

The wait for the doctor is the longest twenty minutes of my life.

When he finally arrives, I feel a slight sense of relief. He’s a gnome, a rarity in the medical profession. Gnomes have a reputation of being the best in any scientific field, but they rarely choose medicine. Here, apparently, is the rare gnome who did—although it figures that the best of the best would be working in this paid facility.

“I’m Dr. Xipil,” the round-cheeked gnome says in a voice distorted by his breathing mask. “When your mother first got here, I thought we’d lose her. After five nanosurgeries and a vampire blood transfusion, we were able to heal most of the bodily trauma. Her brain, however, is a different story.”

He peppers me with a torrent of medical jargon that boils down to this: Mom is in a coma, and her brain isn’t running her body’s functions as it should.

“There isn’t much more we can do,” he says. “It’s possible that a healer might help, but given the expense of—”

I hold up a hand. “Assume money isn’t an obstacle.”

“Then you should try hiring a healer. In the meantime, you need to keep her on the machines.” He frowns. “Bear in mind, most hospitals would unplug her at this point, but here we can keep her hooked up until—”

I wake up drenched in cold sweat. Blinking my tear-swollen eyes open, I realize I’m still in the stinky cell.

I was right to fear falling asleep. Without being in control in the dream world, I can’t avoid the memories I’ve been trying to suppress—my own trauma loop. Though I’ve been telling myself that I’ve been taking vampire blood to have more waking moments in which to make money, avoiding these dreams was a big part of my motivation.

Well, I’ve faced them now.

If I were one of my clients, I would feel less intensely about what happened. But I don’t. Maybe I need another dreamwalker’s assistance in order to enjoy the healing effects of dreaming.

Still, at the very least, I’m no longer terrified of going to sleep. In fact, I can’t wait to sleep more. The drowsiness is like a heavy blanket cocooning me, dulling the impact of the painful memories.

I yawn, struggling to keep my eyes open. I don’t want to fall asleep again before I do what I recommend to my clients: examine my emotions with an open mind.

Guilt, of course, is the main one. I know Mom’s accident wasn’t really my fault. It was good advice to tell her to leave the apartment. Living as a shut-in, staying in VR for days on end, wasn’t healthy. But I was the reason she’d stormed out onto the street. It wasn’t just the driving algorithm that had failed; Mom must not have seen that car, either. That part’s my fault—and I’ll always carry that knowledge with me.

Underneath the guilt is anger. At her, at myself, at the pucking algorithm that didn’t stop the car in time. At the Council, for interfering with the Bernard job and tasking me with this impossible mystery, then punishing me for failing to solve it. And deeper still is the hollow ache that I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember… a longing for a father, for some family other than my moody, taciturn mom. A part of me has always hoped that one day, she’ll relent and tell me about our family, about where we came from and why she’s been unwilling to talk about them all these years. Now that hope is gone, extinguished as surely as my life is about to be. I’ll never learn about my past—or kiss a guy in real life.

I’m going to die a virgin.

I picture Valerian and his sensual lips, his ocean-blue eyes, the way his body looks in that bespoke suit… Puck, we should’ve done it at least in the dream world.

Speaking of—how much time has passed? Based on how sore my body is from lying on the stone floor, I must’ve snoozed for at least a few hours. Could my powers be back?

I touch Pom and try to go into the dream world that way.

Nope.

Despite the disappointment banding my chest, I yawn so loudly it fills the small room. Maybe the introspection can wait until I get more sleep—or better yet, until I’m in the afterlife.

Even the thought of the pending execution doesn’t suppress my next yawn.

Fine. Why fight it?

I close my eyes again and instantly fall asleep.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Isis and I are riding in a limo, and I’m giddy with excitement.

“Again, props to you,” Isis says. “I can’t believe Eduardo was behind it all—and you’re the only one who figured it out.”

Something about what she says feels wrong, but I let it go because what really matters is that we’re on the way to finally heal Mom. I look out at the city as Isis showers me with compliments. If Manhattan could pass for a small outskirt of Gomorrah, that’s not the case for Brooklyn.