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“Is his memory intact?” Ariel cuts in.
“I guess.” Rowan grimaces. “But there were other side effects that—”
Valerian’s hands begin trembling. Catching us looking, he balls them into fists. “We don’t have time for this. You said you’re no longer welcome on this world and want asylum on Earth. Do this, and I’ll see to it personally that you get it. I’m on the New York Council and have favors I can cash there. You know how much vampires despise your kind. I’m your only chance.”
Rowan lets out a defeated sigh and gingerly approaches Dylan’s body. “This can go apocalyptically bad. That’s a lot to have on my conscience.”
Valerian’s eyes glint coldly. “How about I help you deal with your conscience. Tell yourself you have no choice—because if you don’t do this willingly, I’ll be forced to use my power to make sure you do it.” He must show her a taste of what he means because she pales to a nearly translucent hue.
“Don’t do that again, please,” she says unsteadily. “And promise me this: If Dylan asks afterward, you tell her I didn’t have a choice. Also, whatever she does, it’s on you.”
“Done,” Valerian says, his tone gentling.
Rowan kneels next to Dylan’s body, and a blinding energy beam shoots out of her fingertips, just like when she did it to Frank in her dream memory.
I desperately need to lie down, but hope and curiosity keep me in a sitting position.
Dylan stirs. Rowan soothingly strokes Dylan’s hair as she opens her eyes. Her gaze is unfocused, but she’s clearly not dead anymore.
Beaming, Fabian rushes over to her. “Dylan. Are you okay?”
Dylan looks at the naked werewolf uncomprehendingly. “I… am Dylan.”
“Do you remember the cure?” Valerian asks her. “The virus?”
A hint of recognition sparks in Dylan’s eyes, and she rattles out a chemical formula, as well as what must be Earth-specific scientific words that don’t ring a bell for me, like Erlenmeyer flask.
“Can you walk?” Rowan asks her.
Dylan slowly stands up and makes a circle around the necromancer in halting, awkward steps.
Fabian looks at Ariel. “Can you carry Bailey? I can grab Valerian and the gnome, and Dylan can drag Felix.”
Felix sits up. “I don’t think I need to be dragged.”
“Me neither,” Itzel says, but without sitting up.
I ignore the rest of the logistical chatter and allow myself to lie down.
It’s a mistake. The mother of all post-adrenaline crashes allies with the weakness from the virus to make me woozier than a drunk hippopotamus on ice. My consciousness cuts in and out. At one point, I open my eyes long enough to see Ariel carrying me into the gate. The next time I have the strength to peek at the outside world, we’re in the hospital near the hub, the one that has a lab where Dylan can make the cure.
Assuming the resurrected Dylan can do it. She’s not exactly her usual self.
The next time I come to, my limbs are trembling, and no matter how much I want to know Valerian’s status, I don’t have enough strength to roll over and check on him.
Sometime later, someone gives me a gentle shake.
With a monumental effort of will, I open my eyes.
It’s Ariel. She’s got a beaker in her hand.
“Drink this,” she croons, placing it against my lips. “Dylan came through with the cure.”
“Valerian,” is what I try to say, but only a gasp comes out.
She must know what I mean because a smile touches the corners of her eyes. “Felix is giving Valerian his dose as we speak. Now drink.”
I painfully swallow the bitter substance she pours into my mouth.
“There’s something in there that should help you sleep,” Ariel says from a long distance away.
Whatever substance she meant was probably overkill.
As soon I close my eyes, I’m out.
I and a delegation of dwarves, elves, and other Cognizant from Gomorrah come through the gate and take in the world of Necronia. We’re all carrying jars labeled “The Cure,” but written in English for some reason.
That’s odd. Shouldn’t that have been written in Necronian? Also, shouldn’t we be wearing masks? Also, why—
I glance at my wrist.
Pom is missing.
Of course. This is just a dream.
I’m probably in a hospital bed right now, the cure hopefully eradicating the virus in my system. That is, if Dylan didn’t accidentally make a laxative drug instead. She did seem pretty loopy after her resurrection.
Still, in this dream I feel great, a positive sign.
When I teleport to the tower of sleepers, a multicolored Pom is already in Valerian’s nook.
“I knew you’d come here,” he says, ears flopping.
I pick him up and squeeze him in a hug. “How are you feeling? Do you think we’re getting cured?”
His voice is muffled against my chest. “I hope so. Hard to say.”
I set him back down. “As you so insightfully predicted, I’d like to talk to Valerian now. Want to join?”
