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Maxwell keeps staring at Mom’s face as if he’s planning to carve a statue of her later. “Doing it with touch is the more conservative approach,” he responds absentmindedly.
Dr. Xipil opens the clamshell again, and Maxwell hesitantly reaches out, placing his hand on Mom’s wrist.
Closing his eyes, he stands there for a few seconds. Then he opens his eyes and gives me a regretful look. “I’m sorry. It didn’t work for me either.”
Puck. “Would it help if we did it together?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to try.”
I walk over and touch Mom’s other wrist.
This time, we both close our eyes and push.
Nope. Even with our joint effort, Mom doesn’t go into REM sleep.
I open my eyes. “I guess I’m going in as is.” Hopefully all that training with Pom will help.
Maxwell jerks his hand away, eyeing me like I’ve already been killed in the subdream and have gone homicidally crazy. “You can’t.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“It’s extremely dangerous. If you get—”
“I’ve done it many times,” I say curtly. “I know what to expect.”
“But—”
“I appreciate your concern. How about you wait behind Virgil… just in case.”
Taking it as his cue, Virgil strides over.
“If I try to kill you, you have my permission to restrain me,” I tell him.
Virgil grimaces. “How about you wait until Valerian is back? If I do have to restrain you, you could get hurt. I don’t want an awkward conversation with your lover.”
I flush.
I wish Valerian were really that.
Maxwell looks even more worried now. “Don’t do this, Bailey. Can’t Lidia get to REM sleep on her own?”
Dr. Xipil clears his throat. “That never happens.”
“I’m going in,” I say firmly. “Don’t distract me.”
Before anyone can stop me, I grasp Mom’s wrist and dive in.
Chapter Ten
Something is vaguely familiar about the black water under my feet and the magma sky.
A gang of creatures is attacking. Their bodies are semi-humanoid, but their heads don’t even try—with rows of shark teeth, small beady eyes, and a tentacle with a light on its tip, these heads look like they belong to anglerfish, or some other deep-water monstrosity.
Shouldn’t these guys live under this ocean? No time to figure it out. One of the anglers is almost upon me.
A furry appendage snakes from my wrist and turns into a katana.
Something feels right about the whole situation. The katana feels natural, like a best friend.
The closest angler screeches in a voice as ugly as its face, “You’re the one the master hates!”
I teach it the mistake of chatting during a battle. With a whirl of my katana, the fishy head is separated from the body.
“Your existence is a blight!” the next one screeches as it leaps at me.
Whoosh. Another head severed.
Without any further talking, the rest of them attack en masse. A claw scratches my cheek. I yelp in pain and behead the attacker almost on autopilot. Saber-like teeth tear into my left shoulder. Ignoring the pain, I swing my katana. The biter is no more.
The rest circle around me warily, no doubt biding time until I weaken from the blood loss, which sadly isn’t going to take long.
Desperate, I go on the offensive. With a leap, I behead the largest surviving angler and, landing on the ocean water, take a samurai stance.
The rest of the anglers back away. When I rush at one, it retreats faster. I don’t give it chase because I’m feeling more and more faint. My shoulder is bleeding too much. I have minutes, maybe seconds before I faint—which is when they’ll pounce.
Puck. I’m screwed, and they know it.
There’s got to be something I can do.
It’s on the tip of my tongue—or mind. Something about this scenario. Something about this sword. Something I trained myself to remember.
Wait. I trained with someone.
My eyes drop to my furry katana, and it finally clicks.
That’s Pom—and since he isn’t a bracelet on my wrist, I must be dreaming.
That’s it.
Not that this is a dream, exactly. It’s a subdream, and for the first time in my life, I’m aware of the fact that I’m here.
Giddily, I test out my usual powers by leaving my body.
It works!
I effortlessly heal myself, then jump back in.
The beady eyes of the anglers widen, and their retreat speeds up.
“Pom,” I say to the katana. “You know this is a dream, right?”
At first, nothing happens. Then the blade morphs into Pom’s usual dream form. His fur is black and his eyes wild as he takes in the anglers before poofing out of existence.
I can’t blame him. This is almost too scary for me.
Oh well. Now that I have my powers, I manifest another katana in my hands.
The anglers turn and flee.
Taking to the air, I torpedo at the nearest angler and turn it into mincemeat without breaking a sweat. Grinning, I point my hand at my next victim and simply wish him out of existence. Then I land and dispatch another one. And another.
