But then she slips once more, and I grab her again. “Stranna! Land!”
“I know what I’m doing,” she argues, but in a weak, desperate voice. I manage to haul her back so she is secure against my chest. She squirms away. I grip the phoenix with my legs and the blindfold sends my equilibrium spinning. I release Stranna with one hand and tear off the cloth.
Wind hits my eyes, and they immediately water. I spy the phoenix harness in Stranna’s hands and take it in my own, careful not to pull one way or another. She doesn’t protest. I don’t have to do much—the phoenix seems to know its route. It falls into a dive, and I yell, trying to grip both Stranna and the bird. Just before the ground the phoenix slows, then flaps wildly moments before landing. I topple off its back and land on hard ground.
Goodbye pride, hello Spore base.
Stranna’s body seems to slip in slow motion from the shoulders of the phoenix. She clings to the harness at the last moment and lands on her knees.
I try to help her sit up, but she shrugs me off.
“Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
“Your physical body is in distress,” I tell her. “That’s what’s happening.”
Her gaze lands on me and she frowns. “Where’s your blindfold?”
Really? That’s her first thought. “Can you stand?”
“Of course I can.” Is she so prideful she can’t admit she nearly fell off the phoenix? She takes it slow, pausing between movements. Then gets her feet. “Close your eyes then.”
“Are you serious?”
She mutters something and pulls another wrap of cloth from around her ankle. “Rags aren’t easy to come by here. Don’t lose this one.” She cinches it around my eyes so tight it sends an instant headache to my temple.
I want to say something snarky like, “You’re welcome for saving you again,” but truthfully, I’m mainly relieved she’s functioning enough to guide me. The sooner we get help to our abandoned Jeep the better. I think she gets the urgency now.
Her hand takes mine. “This way.” She tugs me one direction, and I stumble after her. She drops my hand and grips my sleeve instead. It sends all the message I need. A small pang hits me in the chest, and I almost laugh at myself for wanting her hand in mine. For a moment, the brief intimacy felt like it could be forgiveness. I know she bought my cure, and I know it didn’t work for her. She saved me in The Fire Swamp. In return I risked everything—my tiny house, my food, my life—to keep her safe from the idiots at the storage unit and the warehouse.
Hand in hand implies trust. I want to be trusted.
But I’m not sure I’m trustworthy.
Maybe it’s because I miss Nole. Or maybe it’s because life is lonely in the Real World. And in Tenebra. But a part of me cares about Stranna, and I want her safe. Which means she should stay away from me, and I should stay away from her.
Is this the Spore infection talking? Making me care more about her life than mine? I still want a LifeSuPod. Luc’s current terms are to tell him about the Spore base, plus save Galilei, whom the Spores ambushed.
I’m their enemy.
“Watch your head.” Stranna’s voice is gentle, and she leads slower. I duck, but not far enough because my scalp clips what feels like a rough stone frame. Sound changes, and our footsteps turn loud and lonely as they scrape uneven ground.
We take a few turns, and even though Stranna holds only my sleeve, I’ve unintentionally reached out with my other hand to grip her wrist for a more secure lead.
I hear the strike of a match, then smell burning oil.
“Okay.”
She unties the blindfold.
I’m met with darkness. I blink several times, and a small oil lamp comes into focus, held in Stranna’s unsteady hand. An old clay one you might see in a museum. All around me are tunnels, carved-out alcoves in stone, shadows . . .
“Catacombs,” Stranna fills in. “Not what you thought, I imagine.”
My distaste must show on my face. I don’t know what I expected. She defeated nightbeasts with a single match. She has a magic sword. Her phoenix shines with color instead of shadow.
“I guess I expected . . . light.” Maybe it’s my hunger for the sun that’s speaking, but for some reason I thought the Spores would have it. Something more than the 7A sky over the coliseum or the pressing darkness of the abandoned world outside.
Instead . . . they live in catacombs.
Tombs.
It’s worse than the coliseum. Here, there’s not even sky.
“Light?” Stranna almost laughs. “That’s long dead.”
For the first time I question her knowledge. Prior to now I was accepting her words—accepting that she’s been here longer than I have, knows more than I do. But now I see something else that taints her words. Bitterness, or maybe fear.
“You can’t kill light,” I retort. All this time I thought the Spores had some secret hideaway filled with control and life and secret creation powers beyond even Luc.
Stranna turns her back on me and lifts the oil lamp high enough to illuminate the path. “Well then, since you’re so sure, I’ll leave it up to you to find it.”
“You have it!” I gesture to her, though she’s not looking at me. “You exploded lightning in the Macella Quarter! What do you mean it’s dead? You and your kind caused panic and mobs in the coliseum because of a single spark.” I recall my first hours out of the Tunnel. When I saw a brief spark after clasping Erik’s hand.
It scared James. Then the Spores stabbed him and dragged Erik away. Erik must have been Spore-infected and not known it.
Stranna stops but doesn’t turn. The oil lamp in her hand trembles more fiercely, and she transfers it to her other hand. “You . . . you can see those lights?” she asks, raising her head.
“It’s hard to miss light in the darkness of this Nightmare.” Only now do I realize how inaccurate the term Spore is. Spore makes me think of green toxic gas. Not lightning. Is Stranna implying that some people can’t see it?
