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This isn’t really helping.
No matter what I know rationally, the heavy pressure of guilt refuses to abate.
“Well, it should,” Pom says, clearly reading my mind again. “And by the way, you definitely didn’t cause the deaths of your friends.” Pom nods at the frozen explosion. “Keep in mind that if the bomb had really blown up in the waking world, we’d both be dead now, and thus not talking.”
Oh, puck. My friends. The bomb.
In my self-flagellation, I completely forgot about the real danger we’re in.
Pom huffs. “You think?”
“You’re right on so many levels.” I leap to my feet. “If I’m dreaming, that means I’m in REM sleep and thus it’s been around ninety minutes since the gas grenade exploded.”
The tips of Pom’s ears turn purple as I continue. “If Wrakar had woken up, I’d already be dead. That means he’s still sleeping. But, like me, he might be in REM sleep. That means a nightmare could wake him up—and then it’s game over for us.”
“Exactly.” Pom bounces from one furry paw to another. “It’s almost like you were trying to kill yourself as a punishment.”
Puck. Is he right? Did the guilt make me almost give up?
Well, no more. I’m done wallowing. I may never fully let go of the guilt, but I can’t let it paralyze me into inaction. If Mom wants to berate me when she wakes up, she has every right to do so, but I have to stop beating myself up. I can’t change the past. All I can do is stop this bomb, wake her up, and ask her to forgive me. And with time, maybe I’ll learn to forgive myself as well.
“Yes, much better.” Pom is fully purple as he hops into my arms. “Now you’re talking.”
Shaking my head in exasperation—I wasn’t talking, I was thinking—I squish him against my chest and take us to the tower of sleepers. I want to spare a precious second to see if my friends are all right.
Instantly, my relief fades, my chest tightening as I survey the nooks.
They’re not here.
Pom’s fur darkens. “This could mean they just haven’t reached their REM sleep cycle.”
I set him down. “Right. It’s also possible they were already knocked out when the gas hit them—unconscious people don’t dream.”
Suddenly, Kit shows up in her bed.
I almost scream in relief. Without thinking, I leap into her room and jump into her dream.
Naturally, Kit is dreaming of an orgy.
I make all her partners go away and explain that she’s asleep.
“Wake me up,” she says. “Then wake yourself so we can finish this.”
Grinning, I do so.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I wake with a start.
There’s a face above my head. A face of a giant—probably the worst way to wake up.
Seeing me blanch, the giant morphs into Kit.
I sit up. “Free Virgil and secure Wrakar,” I say urgently. “Don’t wake him, but if he wakes up on his own, chop off his right index finger. He still has the information we need, and we don’t want him committing suicide like that werewolf.”
Eyes gleaming with bloodthirst, Kit hurries to do as I asked, while I leap to my feet and examine my surroundings.
Finally freed, Virgil looks groggy. I shout some orders at him, and that seems to snap him out of his stupor. Rushing toward what’s left of Felix’s robot, he begins to dig.
Since Ariel is closest to me, I check her vitals, preparing for the worst.
Whew. She’s got a pulse.
I sprint over to Itzel.
Another ton off my shoulders. Though Itzel is in even worse shape than Ariel, she will clearly live.
I turn toward Virgil. He’s looming over Felix, who looks like one giant bruise under the wreckage of his suit.
“He’s going to make it,” the vampire tells me, much to my relief.
And now for the check I dread the most.
Sprinting to where Valerian fell, I feel his pulse.
It’s faint, but it’s there.
I exhale, my knees weakening from relief. He’s going to live. I didn’t lose him.
Nor am I going to.
Swiping my finger over the vampire blood that’s still on my face, I stick it into Valerian’s mouth. I know I warned him against this very thing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Like me, he can go cold turkey starting today.
His breathing improves instantaneously. A second later, his eyes blink open and widen at the sight of me covered in blood.
“It’s not mine,” I say quickly as he sits up. “There was a battle. Ariel beheaded a vampire. Promise me you’ll never drink their blood after—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts, and ripping off a sleeve, he wipes the blood from my face.
“There’s no time for this,” I mutter, pushing him away. “The others—”
“No blood,” the now-awake Ariel barks at Virgil. “I’ll heal on my own.”
The vampire looks insulted. “I wasn’t going to give you any. Enforcers don’t break the law.”
Good points all around. She shouldn’t risk the kind of healing Valerian and I have gotten—not after all the rehab. Virgil is right as well: Giving someone his blood is highly illegal. When used in medicinal settings, vampire blood comes from an anonymous donor, and doctors know how to handle it to minimize addiction.
