“I’m sorry you’ve been alone,” I whisper, remembering how hard it was to be by myself in The Fire Swamp and then in Tenebra.
“I’m not alone . . . now.” He gives my wrist a faint squeeze.
Then he’s gone.
The Adelphoi house is a scene straight out of the Lost Boys’ secret hideaway. Kids sliding down the banister, a messy feast of vegetables strewn on the table and kitchen floor, a blanket-and-pillow fort out in the garden.
While my initial response is that they’re destroying their own food supply, I’m grateful they’ve been able to find joy and be carefree after what happened in Tenebra.
Most of these children are awake because they fled the battle scene in the wheat field or the Arena. Fled for their lives.
And now they’re here just being kids.
“It’s Cain!” one of them yells. Like one giant creature, they swarm my knees and waist—even those who don’t really know me. “Cain’s back! Cain’s back!” It’s such a different response than I’ve received, well, ever.
Heidi wiggles in between the mass of limbs and hugs me the tightest before looking up. “Did you defeat the bad guys?”
“Heidi!” My heart leaps. “You’re here!” Erik got her to safety. He did what I couldn’t. Her eyes are so hopeful. I want to say that yes, we defeated them. I want to tell her I saw her mom in Tenebra. But I can’t. I don’t know if her mom is still alive.
“We’re putting up a fight, kid. That’s actually why I’m here.”
I look around the house and assess what needs to be done. My eyes flit to the second-story landing, hoping Stranna will emerge from her room. I need her advice. But there’s no movement. There doesn’t seem to be an adult awake in this house.
So responsibility for these kids is up to me. Instead of focusing on the Tenebran battle, it’s up to me to do what Stranna and the other Adelphoi have been doing since they first got infected: caring for others.
Mom would get to cleaning and organizing right away, but I’d like to save the garden from the kids’ shenanigans.
It’s been almost three hours since I met death in Tenebra, and that was fifteen hours in Tenebran time. By now, Luc might have already attacked. But what was going on with his dad? Why—how—had Galilei woken up? Did someone kill him? Was he part of a battle?
My heart fails for a moment, and I peel the children’s arms off me.
“I’ll be right back.” I run up the stairs and into the room that hosts Stranna’s body. She lays in bed, completely still and unusually pale. I press two fingers against the side of her throat. My head pounds so hard I don’t feel anything for a long moment. But then I feel a pulse.
She’s still alive.
I check Erik and Jules, too, and I exhale a relieved breath. James is in a bunkbed and breathing fine. Someone new lies in the bottom bunk—Helene. And she’s still breathing. The extra pillow beside her head tells me Heidi’s been sleeping with her. I can’t help but smile a little.
I check the sleeping children downstairs who are still scattered around on the carpet. Everett first. He has a pulse. Most of the others do, too, and their pulses are quickening. Their breathing picks up too.
Something is happening in the Nightmare.
“Kids!” I shout to the young ones who are awake. They stampede into the room. “Nap time!”
“No!” Several flee the room.
That probably wasn’t my best move. I need to get to Tenebra, but I can’t leave the kids going wild like this. Then again, do I really want to haul them back to the Nightmare?
There’s no telling how long all of us adults will be in Tenebra. It could be days. I have to do what I have to do.
I take a deep breath and force myself to go about this a different way. I go to the back yard and milk the cow. Afterward, I let her calf back into her pen to nurse and give the dairy cow relief. That way if we don’t return for several days, the mother won’t be in pain.
I frown. I hope that’s how that works.
I warm the milk on the stove, then find apples wrapped in old paper inside the fridge. I slice up half a dozen, then spread peanut butter on them. I check the freezers and fridge for hot dogs but discover a pile of frozen cooked turkey breasts next to several frozen loafs of sourdough bread instead. Even better. Everyone knows Thanksgiving food puts people to sleep.
I pull a turkey breast out of the freezer and pop it in the microwave, but it doesn’t work. I could run it under hot water. Well, not the bread, of course.
I sigh.
I’m not a parent. I’m a loner. I’ve never even babysat. I try to think of what my mom would do, what she did do when our electricity was cut off because of late payments. I turn the gas oven on low and pop both bread and meat in to thaw.
Then I go to the basement. It’s a pigsty. Blankets, pillows, toys, old crusts of bread. I tidy it up quickly, creating a dozen individual sleeping areas—each one with a pillow and nicely folded blanket. I manage to find a stuffed animal to go with each pillow. Even I know that whether the kids are tired or not, a neat space is more desirable to hang out in.
And they need to stay in here until they fall asleep.
All the awake kids are playing tag outside when I go back upstairs, but their energy is fading. They’ve been awake for hours, and even now, I see a few of them lolling in what remains of the evening sun.
Perfect.
I lower the blinds so the lighting inside the house is more conducive to sleep. Then I slice enough turkey off the cooked breast and call the kids inside.
They hold to their Lost Boys temperaments and swarm the kitchen at the mention of food.
“Everyone, sit at the table!” I order.
They climb on chairs, on the table, and wiggle themselves up on the barstools until finally I raise my hands and shout. “Everyone, quiet or you get no food!”
