“Might as well.” I head over to her nook.
“Good,” Pom states. “I like Ariel.”
Of course he likes Ariel. Pom’s male, after all. Sort of. Maybe.
On Gomorrah, we call Ariel’s kind of Cognizant ubers. That’s not because they chauffeur everyone around—our cars drive themselves—but because they’re uber strong and uber attractive. The term among Earth Cognizant is strongmen, which is dumb because female ubers are just as strong as males, and because the label doesn’t begin to cover their extraordinary looks.
Reaching Ariel’s bed, I look her over. With her glossy dark hair and lightly bronzed skin, she’s striking even for an uber. Her face, with its strong nose and finely defined jaw, is so symmetrical you’d think a video game designer had toiled for years to craft such perfection, and her body is what humans on Earth label “an impossible standard of beauty.”
I’m actually glad Felix noticed her here. This might be my last chance to provide therapy for anyone, and Ariel isn’t just a patient anymore. She’s become a friend.
“Stay invisible,” I tell Pom.
He nods disappointedly.
I touch Ariel’s melted-candy-smooth forehead and sink into her dreams.
Chapter Nine
Dressed in an army uniform, Ariel is running effortlessly with a hundred-pound pack on her back. She looks stunning, as usual, despite being sweaty, barefaced, and covered in grime.
I’ve been in a version of this dream before. This is an echo of Ariel’s Army training.
“Ariel,” I call gently.
She stops short and pulls out her gun, panic in her dark brown eyes.
Just in case, I turn the bullets into cotton. “I’m Bailey. You know me.”
“I do,” she says, still obviously disoriented. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re dreaming,” I tell her.
She looks confused for another moment, then a grin slowly spreads across her face. “I’m at the rehab facility?”
“Not sure. I’m doing remote therapy right now, so I have no idea where your body is.”
I take us to my therapy space in the clouds above the ocean, and before she asks me to do so, I change her clothes into her favorite little black dress.
Instead of sitting down on the couch, she shifts from foot to foot. “So… what did you want to do today?”
I give her a soothing smile. “That’s a question for you. Did you want to experiment with memory or—”
“No!” She tenses like a cobra ready to strike. Then she deliberately relaxes and, in a calmer tone, asks, “Can we do some more of that exposure therapy? I feel like I’m almost ready to be around vampires without freaking out.”
As I thought—Ariel has deep trauma she’s not ready to deal with. A terrible thing happened to her during her service, an event I witnessed in a trauma loop when I first started working with her. She’s blocked her waking memories of it. I’ve been coaxing her to go there again, but she’s clearly not ready. At least she’s up for some forms of dream therapy. Not like some other patients of mine… and definitely not like Mom.
I’ve always suspected that Mom has been through something traumatic, but I have no idea what it is, as she’s never let me treat her in any capacity. Quite the opposite: The mere idea of my dreamwalking in her sends her into a fit. When I was a kid, she made me swear never to enter her dreams, and I’ve kept my oath to this day. I sometimes wonder if she came to Gomorrah—a place without humans and their power-boosting beliefs—to lose her dreamwalking abilities completely. Maybe our powers are somehow tied to whatever traumatized her.
Familiar guilt floods me at the thought. The morning of Mom’s accident, we argued about this very topic. I said things I regret and wish—
Ariel clears her throat.
“Sorry,” I say, “what kind of exposure should we start with?”
“Blood,” she says, her gaze downcast. “I feel brave today.”
She doesn’t need to say more. Vampire blood addiction is the reason she checked herself into rehab. She got hooked after she was healed by the substance and then started using it recreationally, probably as a form of self-medicating.
“Blood it is.” I take us to a room I’ve used a few times, one modeled on a club in Gomorrah frequented by vampire blood aficionados. There are so many toys and instruments of sexy torture you’d think a BDSM dungeon threw up in here. Chained to a cross in the middle of it all is a vampire, who I make look like Filth—a small token of spite.
Ariel picks up a big knife and approaches Filth. I get out of her way and observe.
“You know you want it,” Filth says in a tone much friendlier than I think the real version of him is capable of. “Drink from me.”
With small, careful steps, Ariel draws near enough to cut a deep gash on his forearm. I try to make sure the blood pours slowly and, for lack of a better word, temptingly.
Ariel stares at it, hypnotized. I do as well. I sometimes worry I’ll become addicted myself, thanks to my use of vampire blood to banish sleep, but so far, I seem to be okay. Then again, even if I were a blood addict, I doubt I’d be tempted by Filth’s blood.
Ariel’s face shows her mental turmoil. I hold my breath. She’s either going to lean in and greedily gulp from the wound, as she’s done during most of our sessions, or she’s going to turn away, as she’s managed to do only a couple of times.
Sweat beading on her forehead, she turns away from the blood and walks toward me.
“Great job.” I pat her shoulder and usher us back to the clouds.
Ariel still looks doubtful. “This is all well and good, but I don’t know if I’d be able to resist such temptation in the real world.”
She doesn’t give herself enough credit. “I think you’d be able to. You’re—”
The whole world quakes.
“Open your eyes, bitch,” booms a voice that sounds like Filth’s.
Ugh, not now.
A slap wrenches me from the dream world, and I find myself back in the limo, Filth looming over me.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re not supposed to dream,” he hisses.
“I wasn’t. That was a meditative trance.”
“Don’t do that, either.”
I slather hand sanitizer on my stinging cheek and glare at Kain accusingly.
The head of the Enforcers shrugs. “We know you can communicate with people in your sleep.”
“So what? Even the police allow an arrested person a phone call.”
“We don’t.” Filth settles back into his seat with a sneer. “Close your eyes again, and I’ll cut your lids off.”
“Don’t talk back,” Felix urges in my ear. He sounds on the verge of fainting. “He looks like he means that.”
It’s true. Filth looks eager to mutilate me.
What a puckwad.
“Firth,” Kain says, “she’s not to be harmed.” He turns his glare on me. “Do stay awake until we arrive at our destination.”
“Fine.” I stare at Filth for a few miles straight, doing my best not to blink. The bastard doesn’t seem to care, though. He just sits there with a smirk on his weaselly face.