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“Can you enter someone’s dream by touching their hair?” he asks. “I’ve seen Gertrude zone out while one of the monks was giving her a trim, which tells me the hair should be safe to touch.”
“‘Should be’ doesn’t sound reassuring.”
His eyes turn into slits. “Can you or can you not use hair to do your job?”
“No idea. In theory, I don’t see why not. The body has hair all over, so I’ve probably done it inadvertently. But I’ve never tried it with the hair on someone’s head, because that’s a cesspool of dandruff, oil, mites, germs—”
Inside their slits, his eyes turn into mirrors again. “Bailey,” he says in that special voice, “you’ll touch the tips of Gertrude’s hair, far from her skin. Now.”
I attempt to fight the compulsion, but it overtakes me even faster than when he glamoured me before the Council meeting. My body moves forward on its own, my arm extends, and my finger lands on the strand of hair farthest away from Gertrude’s face.
If my face were under my control, it would be cringing.
To my relief, my finger doesn’t rot. Then again, maybe that’s still to come.
“Bailey, I release you from glamour,” Kain says ceremoniously. “Enter her dream now.”
The only reason I don’t explode into obscenities is that I’d wake Gertrude, and she’d rot me first, ask questions later.
“Stop it with the hesitation,” Kain growls. “I told you I’ll pull you away as soon as I see her eyelids move. Now do your job.”
Fine. I hope this works, else I’m fairly sure he’ll make me touch her where my finger would be in even more trouble.
Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw hurts, I will myself to enter Gertrude’s dreams.
The hair is a go. I catch a whiff of ozone and experience the sensation of falling as the room darkens around me, propelling me into the familiar trance.
Now I just hope the subdream doesn’t drive me insane.
Chapter Twenty
I’m standing on a calm black ocean with magma skies above. In the distance, two creatures ride toward me astride some other kind of creatures, hooting out horrific battle cries as they come.
Something snakes from my wrist to the ground and grows into a furry unicorn.
“We’d better get out of here,” I tell my new steed. “Whatever those things are, they don’t sound friendly.”
The unicorn snorts, and as soon as I clasp his neck, he gallops away so fast his hooves barely touch the water.
The battle cries, if that’s what they are, draw closer behind us. They’re terrifying. I imagine that’s how pucks’ teeth must sound scraping the bones of their victims. Still, for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a message embedded in those ugly shrieks, just in a language I don’t know.
Casting a glance over my shoulder, I take in the monstrosities. The mounts look like warthogs crossed with spiders, and their riders remind me of naked mole rats—only huge and with tentacles.
I speed up, but one of the pairs gains on us anyway. As it pulls up next to us, the second pair shrieks directly behind me.
A tentacle lassoes my neck. Before it gets the chance to rip me away, my mount veers sideways and spears the rider with his horn.
As the thing dies, the tentacle loosens its grip on my neck.
The riderless beast roars. With an angry flutter of nostrils, my unicorn rears, and I hold on to his furry mane for dear life as he smashes a hoof into its temple, killing it instantly before kicking the head of the warthog behind us. The beast staggers, mortally wounded, but its tentacled naked mole rat rider lands on its hind legs and bares its saber-like tusks at us.
My unicorn charges.
The mole rat dodges the horn and catches my wrist with a tentacle. Like a bungee cord, the tentacle contracts, pulling the vile creature toward me. I jerk my hand, but it’s useless. The thing is already on me, its tusk piercing my neck.
Blood gushes out of the wound, and I start to feel woozy.
Ignoring the pain, I headbutt my opponent in its maw, launching it back. Since it’s still attached to me by its tentacle, it doesn’t fly far—but it’s far enough.
With a twist of his neck, my unicorn shish-kebabs the creature, dealing it a deadly blow.
Panting and bleeding profusely, I look around at the reddish green walls and floating impossible objects.
Of course. This is my palace, and that bloody mess was another subdream.
Yet again, I didn’t have any clue that I was dreaming. Why does this happen? What will it take for me to get a clue—Unicorn Pom farting rainbows?
I zoom out of my body and heal the neck and forehead wounds.
It’s official: This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to dream death and the subsequent insanity.
Speaking of death, I’ve completely forgotten about Gertrude. Since I’ve just put her into REM sleep, she could touch me with her free hand at any moment.
