“Got roped by the Emperor and his stingray.” So she was the Spore child who got lassoed when I first arrived. Luc thought he was rescuing her.

The farther along we go, the more chatter and giggles and bickering I hear. Every now and then there’s a carved-out space, lit with oil lamps, where kids play games or wrestle. One is even reading a book, but I don’t catch the title.

There are books in this world?

The boy who’s following us must determine that I’m not a threat anymore and ditches us to play a game of marbles with two other kids. Marbles. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time. No video games, no theme parks, no Legos.

Two kids try playing some sort of ball game, but the only ball they have is a crudely knitted cloth sphere filled with what sounds like beans or rocks. It aches to watch them. I remember when Dad first left and Mom was trying to foot the bills, find us a new place to live, and garden so we wouldn’t survive solely off boxed pasta. As a teenager I see now how much she sacrificed and strove for us, but the main things I remember from that time are how Nole and I would have given anything for a skateboard, baseball and bat, basketball, or anything beyond the big pile of nothing we had. Stick swords and tree climbing took us only so far.

Perhaps that’s why we have such vivid imaginations.

Eventually we turned to books, spending the majority of our days in the public library while Mom worked. Narnia and Hobbiton and Hogwarts and all such places sent us adventuring and living stories so epic that once ImagiSerum took over the world we knew we had to create fantasy worlds for ourselves.

Still . . . I’ll always have that little longing for a soccer ball or basketball that’s all mine.

The thud of rubber on stone breaks my reverie. Thud . . . thud, thud. Something bumps my foot. I look down. A basketball, black and still smoking.

Half the kids stop their playing and stare at me and the new sound.

While it may not look like a regular basketball, when I pick it up the weight is right. It’s filled with air, and when I toss it into their group it bounces with so much energy the kids scream as one.

It’s like they’ve never seen a basketball before, even though they lived in the Real World only a few months ago. Well . . . months ago in Real World time. In Tenebra time, it’s been much longer.

They fight over it for a moment, but the excitement brings an extra level of patience as the quickest boy secures it first. He dribbles clumsily, then bounces it to another kid. They form a circle within seconds, and it doesn’t matter what game they’re playing or if it makes sense or has rules.

They squeal and clap and laugh. Tiny sparks of light blink amid their play—like blanket static. Too sudden to identify the source. The bag of rocks lies abandoned in a corner. I grin so wide I almost forget where I am.

Stranna stares at me. If she doesn’t like that I handed them a nightmist creation, too bad. I’m not about to take it away.

She looks like she wants to say something, but then clamps her lips shut and walks away from the scene. I follow. She turns two more corners, and things grow quieter, despite the sounds from the children behind us. She holds a finger to her lips. Only then do I hear dim voices. Stranna lets out a low hissing sound with three short bursts. The voices go quiet.

“Wait here,” she says to me, then continues through an arched doorway.

I’m not really the obedient type. After she’s been gone for a few seconds, I inch toward the arch and peer through into a broader space that looks like the closest thing to a home I’ve seen in Tenebra. Beds with actual frames and mattresses that are not in the Roman style. They look like they were taken out of a modern house in the Real World. There are at least six beds littered with a myriad of belongings. Clothes hang over the metal footboard of one with a mussed flower comforter. Another has a blue-plaid bedspread with no less than six pillows propped along the head. Tied packs, boots, and cloaks are all shoved partway under the bed or propped against the legs.

Only one bed is occupied, and that’s where the voices come from. Stranna whispers urgently to three other people who currently block my view of the person on the bed. All I can see are feet, bare and covered in blood.

The room smells of flowers that have sat in a vase too long—I know that scent because Mom always wanted flowers in her room, but I was too lazy to change them out once they wilted. Not a bad smell, not a good one. Is that Spore fumes or death scents from the body on the bed?

Their whispers grow incensed, and they don’t sound happy. Stranna gestures toward the archway opening and looks my way before I can duck out of view. Another Spore spots me and glowers.

“I’m here to help,” I say and they all hush me. I move to enter, wanting to get to the bedside of the injured person even though there’s nothing I can do.

Stranna strides over. “I told you to wait.”

“Sorry.” But I’m not.

“You’ve seen what you demanded to see. Now tell me the location of our bodies.”

I’m still staring past her at the bed. One of the bloodied feet twitches. A tortured groan rises from the bed, followed by soothing shushes from the people around. Stranna looks pale.

“Can I help?” I ask in a choked voice.

“You can tell me our location.” She looks over her shoulder at the small group. “Now.”

“It’s a landfill.” I tell her the mile marker and highway.

“Thank you.” She relays the information to the other three, then grabs my arm to haul me back out, but her knees buckle.

“Stranna!” I cry and catch her before she hits the ground.

One of the other Spores rushes over. It’s Erik. The guy from the Tunnel cart who got dragged away. I falter back, still holding Stranna.

Erik looks like them, cloak, toga, and all. Sword at his side. They got to him. They got to his mind, and now he’s trapped in their wiles.

“I can take her,” he says without a single acknowledgment of what we went through.

Stranna manages to find her feet but takes a while to catch her breath. “I’m fine.”

“You’re alive,” I marvel to Erik.

“Alive and well.” He actually smiles.

“What did they do to you?”

“Saved me from a lot, it sounds like.” He takes in my Roman garb. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “I wish I could say the same for James.”

“He’s with us too,” Erik says. “Well, another group.” He closes his mouth like he’s afraid to say too much.

Another group exists. James is with them. Somehow I’m not surprised. I hadn’t let myself think too deeply about it, but James was stabbed with a Spore sword. So was I. I know from experience it doesn’t kill.

“Well, what about the other people who got crushed beneath the cart when these Spores attacked us?”

Erik stands in front of me acting all rescued and happy in this new life hiding underground and kidnapping children, like he and I didn’t witness death together, didn’t fight together, didn’t fear for our lives as the Spores wreaked havoc.

“Their deaths weren’t intended,” he replies.

“Well then, you and your Spores need to think of a different way to stop a Tunnel cart.” I don’t know why I’m so angry. It feels like months ago, but seeing Erik not seeming to care for those who were killed in the attack eats at me.

“Adelphoi,” he says.

“What?”

“We call ourselves Adelphoi. Not Spores.”

I roll my eyes. “Just another Roman word to keep track of in this place.”