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Kit bursts in. “What’s going on here?”
“I release you,” Kain spits at me. He turns to Kit. “I used glamour to finally get some truth out of this useless blood bag.”
She frowns at me. “You’re susceptible to glamour?” Glancing back at Kain, she says, “If you knew you could get her to tell the truth that way, why didn’t you clear her of guilt at the hearing?”
Great question. I bet the answer is he needed me as bait to unmask the killer. Or maybe he’d hoped I’d actually solve the stupid case.
“Why are you here?” he asks Kit harshly.
“Isis woke me.” Her anime-like form ripples and becomes the healer’s. “She told me what happened to Albina, said Bailey mentioned a werewolf.”
My attention drifts back to Eduardo. Despite seeing me in his dream, despite my waking up, and despite everyone’s raised voices, the werewolf is not only still sleeping, he’s dreaming like a baby.
“We should take this conversation elsewhere,” I whisper, figuring that if they force me to go back into his dream—something I’d like to avoid at all costs—it’s better if he stays in REM sleep.
They both glance at the sleeping werewolf and head out, with Kit assuming her usual guise on the way.
As we exit the apartment, a soul-wrenching noise blasts through the castle. It sounds as if someone’s trying to replicate a bomb explosion with some infernal string instrument.
“What was that?” I exclaim when the noise stops.
My ears are still ringing.
Kit turns into a woman I’ve never seen. “Emergency meeting call for the Council.”
“That sound could wake the dead.” I sneak a glance at the werewolf’s quarters.
“It’s what happens when you let a siren onto the Council.” Kain grabs my wrist. “Let’s go.”
I blink at that. “Your siren is a siren?”
“Hey, the monks used trumpets before that,” Kit says, turning back into herself. “This is much better.”
Without comment, Kain herds me through the corridors until I see Filth standing next to a familiar door.
“If she leaves her quarters, kill her,” Kain tells him.
Filth gives me a look that seems to say, Please leave. Pretty please with a blood cherry on top.
“See you soon,” Kit says as Kain pushes me in and slams the door behind me.
Great. The Council is going to meet, and I’m not going to be there to speak for myself.
I’m so screwed.
Washing my hands in the sink soothes me a little; sanitizing them after calms me even more. Grabbing a banana, I pace the room as I chew. When I tire of pacing, I sit on the chair and eat four more bananas in a row.
It’s been at least an hour. How long does a stupid Council meeting take? I’ll go crazy if I keep waiting here.
I grab hold of Pom’s fur and enter the dream world.
“Doesn’t this make the wait even worse?” Pom asks when I apprise him of my situation. “Time feels like it passes much slower here.”
“But here, I have you.” I fluff the fur on top of his head. “Besides, I can also do something useful here.”
I teleport to the tower and float around a bit, looking at the sleepers available to dreamwalk in. There’s Felix, but I leave him alone. He deserves some sleep after that sleep deprivation marathon I put him through. I look for Nina but don’t find her, which is too bad. I want to discuss something important with her. It makes sense she’s not here, though; she’s at the Council meeting.
Interestingly, though, some other Councilors are sleeping—skipping the meeting to do so. This includes Eduardo the werewolf, the deep sleeper himself.
“Is that good for you or bad for you?” Pom asks when I point this out.
“Good, I guess. Most of the sleepers voted to kill me, so if there’s another vote taking place right now, their absence will help my cause.”
Pom gives the sleeping werewolf a pouty glare. “Do you plan to enter his dreams again?”
“No pucking way.” I fly past the werewolf’s room without a second thought. “I’ll just work on Bernard again.”
I approach the Mario/Wario doppelgänger.
Yep. He’s still got clouds indicative of a trauma loop—and I already saw his child get kidnapped and his wife leaving. How much worse can it get?
Bracing myself, I touch his forehead.
Bernard is sitting on the edge of his seat in a courtroom. His wife and daughter are in a separate section, and he gives them a longing look they don’t return. He turns to glare at the defendant, a wiry, balding middle-aged man with shifty eyes. As if he feels Bernard’s death stare, the man turns around and winks at him nastily, then looks back at the judge, who’s holding a paper in her hands.
“The bastard did it,” Bernard mutters under his breath. “He did it, and he’s mocking me.”
The judge begins to speak, commanding Bernard’s full attention. He looks like he’s holding his breath.
