It makes sense the more I think about it. A dreamscape of this magnitude could not have been formed and programmed by just one person. It must be a group of elite Draftsmen who formed it and now control it.

“How many Spores are there?” I saw four plus the child, but if there are enough to kidnap numerous children coming in and out of this place, they must have a hidden force.

“Too many. We kill them every chance we get.”

“At least they can be killed.” I stop myself short. These are real people we’re talking about. “Are they given a trial or something?”

“Their crimes are judgment enough. We see what they’re doing—you saw it. If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us first.”

“You came on the stingray.”

He nods.

“You saved us.”

“I do what I can.”

“If these Spores have that much control over the Nightmare, they could be the creators of this whole thing. Have you ever questioned one?”

“Never get a chance. We have to be careful not to get too close.” He looks at my feet. “If they touch you, they can twist your mind so you serve them. They plant Nightmare lies right into your subconscious. You might even become one of them—I’ve seen it before. Or they might kill your mind. They do it all the time. And if you die in Tenebra, you die in the Old World too.”

“Oh, I know.” That’s the one thing I do know about the Nightmare. The one thing that I can’t unknow or unsee.

Luc eyes me. “Your brother?”

“Nole.”

“How did he die?”

“I was in the Real World, and he was in the Nightmare. Second-to-last Sleep. For all I know, he never made it out of the Tunnel.”

“I doubt that.” Luc rises and walks to a wood-and-marble cabinet along the wall. “If you’re related, I’d expect him to get out of that Tunnel earlier than the others.”

I shake my head. “He would have told me.”

Luc opens a long thin drawer and pulls out a thick binder and places it on the table in front of me.

“I have records.” He sits back down.

The book rests closed with the weight of a thousand anvils. My throat turns dry. “Records?”

“If Nole made it out of the Tunnels and died here in the Nightmare, these records will tell us how.” His hand rests atop the notebook, the last barrier between me and answers. “Do you want to know?”

There’s no question. “Yes.”

He flips the book open. I want to tear it from his hands, flip the pages faster, read it myself.

“Nole Cross,” I say then spell it to make sure he finds the right name and that there are no mix-ups.

He stops on a page, runs his finger down its columns. I can hardly breathe. Then Luc looks up at me and simultaneously flips the book to face me. I pull it toward me.

I find my name first:

Cain Cross: Noxior, alive

Beneath it is Nole’s name—a beacon of black ink against a white backdrop.

Nole Cross: Deceased [A. N. 250]. SPORED.

“They got to him,” Luc says quietly.

I picture a ring of Spore people in their cloaks, their floating swords circling Nole. Stabbing him through the skull the same way they did to James. Him fighting them off with whatever he could find: fists, sticks, dust thrown in their eyes.

But in the end, Nole was overcome. Overwhelmed.

Murdered.

Not by the virus, but by dreamers within the virus. Real people for whom Nole was trying to find a cure.

Luc is talking, but he might as well be underwater for all the good it does. Nothing breaks through the spiral of my thoughts. I thought I’d find relief to learn Nole hadn’t died in the Tunnel, but this is worse.

He probably escaped the Tunnel in that final Sleep, maybe even anticipated waking up and telling me everything he’d discovered. He never got that chance.

I crush my fingers together, tensing against my emotions. Hatred becomes an anthem in my blood. Something clatters at my feet, and I startle.

A wicked dagger with a wavy blade rests at my boots. Half of it is shining steel, the other half is dark and misty. A dual blade. I glance at Luc. Did he toss it there?

Luc lifts his hands. “That wasn’t me.” He indicates my clenched fists. “You made that.”

I look at the dagger. Simple handle, but a serpentine blade, wavy and double-edged. Luc picks it up, examining it.

“A kris dagger. This is fine work for only your second time creating from nightmist.”

“I don’t even know what nightmist is,” I growl, but it’s not hard to put two and two together.

“Take a moment to cool down.” Luc presses the hilt of the dagger into my hands and walks past me to the door. One of his knees buckles, but he keeps his feet.

“I’ll be a few minutes.” He opens the door but turns toward me and flicks his hand. I feel nothing, but when I look down a leather belt with a masterful sheath rests at my side against my jeans—a clash of modern and Roman. The belt is black and smoky, like most things I’ve noticed in the Nightmare, but there are also shades of dark brown leather.

“That’ll hold you over until you can make your own.” He leaves.

I stare at my new weapon, sliding a thumbnail along the blade. A thin shaving of nail falls to the ground. Deadly sharp. I made this? Out of nightmist? I shake my head. How am I creating while inside the dreamscape?

I hardly know anything about this world, only that nothing seems to shake Luc. He has all the answers—including how Nole died.

Spores. Poisoned people wandering about and poisoning others. They can exit and enter the Nightmare at will. They must have some sort of cure and some deeper understanding of this place. Even if they’re murderers, I want answers. From Luc and from the Spores.

More than that. I want justice.