“Those people who attacked our cart? You thought I was one of them?” I spread my hands out. “I don’t even have a magic sword.”
“There’s more to them than their swords.”
“Like what?” There’s a lot I still don’t know about this world and the people in it. They’re much harsher here than they are in the world my physical body currently inhabits. Is this my future? To transform into a hardened version of myself?
“When Spores escape the Tunnel, they’re able to enter and exit Tenebra at will. They’re not trapped here like the infected are.” He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth, diamond incisor catching the light.
“What? They can wake up in the Real World whenever they want?”
“So it seems.” Luc’s countenance darkens. “The only others able to do that are children. So the Spores kidnap our children to use them. Since the origin of the Nightmare, we’ve been trying to rescue the kids from the Spores. But they are vicious to a level no human with a soul should be.”
I think of the child Spore Luc lassoed from his stingray. Was that a kidnapped kid? Was that a rescue?
“You might think we, the citizens of Tenebra, are rough and unyielding, but we have to be if we’re going to survive against the Spores. And if we’re going to get our kids back.”
If the Spores can leave the Nightmare whenever they want, why do they attack people coming out of the Tunnels? Why kidnap children? Why not just live their own lives in the Real World?
“They must have a cure,” I conclude. How else could they come and go? My mind startles. They must be the Draftsmen. Somehow they created this world, and now they’re using both worlds to serve them and whatever they desire.
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.
