I scan the ground below us and then see my destination: the wheat field. It glows like a patch of gold to the right. Then I look behind us again to see Luc still in pursuit.

“Faster!” I yell to the cardinals. “To the field!” They speed past and the dragon, now acting like a true beast, adjust its course with a snap of its jaws.

Food.

“Stop that!” I smack the dragon on the head, but it only growls. This does no good if it’s going to eat the children right out of the claws of the cardinals.

But the dragon has adjusted its course, and that’s what I needed. It gives a flap to gain speed, but falters from its injury, and the cardinals barely stay ahead of him.

Faster. Faster, please, I pray.

The first cardinal swoops low over the field and drops the little boy into the wheat.

I hope this works.

Cardinal after cardinal makes it to the destination. As they descend, so does the dragon. It’s right on the tail of the final cardinal.

“Get ready!” I holler to the kids behind me. We fly parallel to the ground by mere feet. I don’t trust the dragon to stop or land gracefully. Or to leave us alone if it does land. “We’ll need to jump!”

Only a few yards from the field do I see the nightbeasts surrounding its three accessible edges. Growling and snapping at the children already in the wheat. We pass over them, and I fill my lungs to tell the kids when to jump, but right as its nose enters the air above the wheat field the dragon is thrown backward by an invisible source and we all fly forward into the wheat field as if by a bike whose brakes suddenly lock. I tuck my head and manage a roll, but the bangs and bruises send a flash of white-hot pain through my mind.

I tumble to a stop and give myself a few seconds before gaining—and keeping—my feet.

The dragon collapses to the ground on the edge of the wheat field. I berate myself. Of course it can’t fly over the field. It’s a nightbeast. Unlike Stranna’s phoenix or my cardinals, which are made from color or whatever.

Nightbeasts attack the dragon, frenzied over its blood and the smell of us still on its back. The dragon fights back, but there are too many. Like ants swarming an injured bird.

The kids find their feet, and Stranna darts from one to the next, checking on them. A few hold their arms or heads. One has a bloody nose. Erik is the last to get up, and he’s pale and bleeding from the arm the lion attacked. He still does a head count of the kids, then catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up.

He’s okay. We’re all okay. For now.

Many of the children switch from pained whimpering to excited babbling over the dragon ride.

“Did you see me fall off the dragon when it went upside down? But then I grabbed its spike again . . . while I was falling!”

“Well I was carried by a bird!”

It doesn’t take long for the traumatic experience to turn into the greatest adventure of all time. Stranna makes her way over to me, her face expressionless. My heart leaps as she approaches until I remember our last interaction in the Real World. How I abandoned her, stole her truck, and never came back.

“Why did you bring us here?” she asks when she reaches me. Her tone is not accusing, but there’s warning in it.

I brush a hand over the tall sun-warmed wheat stalks, soaking in the light.

“It’s the only place that felt . . . good.” Right.

“We’re not safe, Cain.”

I survey the three sides of the wheat field that keep the nightbeasts back. “But they can’t get through.”

“They can’t. But people can.” Her eyes lift to the sky.

It’s empty, but I catch her meaning. “Luc. He’ll come back.”

“With soldiers. And now we’re trapped. The nightbeasts can’t get in, but neither can we get out.”

She’s right. I hadn’t noticed until now that the nightbeasts have doubled—tripled—in number now that the wheat field is filled with fresh meat. A dozen kids and three adults. There’ll be no way to fight our way through them.

“Got any matches?” I joke.

She frowns, confused. “Matches?”

“What can we do?” Erik asks in a low voice, joining us.

Stranna slowly shakes her head. “It’s going to be a massacre. There’s nothing we can do except pray that we all wake up in the Real World again.”

“That’s not enough,” I grind out. I knew this wouldn’t be a permanent safe harbor, but I viewed it as a bit of a thinking place. I couldn’t have led the dragon back to the catacombs. This, at least, bought us some time. But not as much as I’d thought.

She looks at me. “Prayer is always enough if you’re willing to stop seeing it as a last resort.”

“No, I mean . . .” What did I mean? I wasn’t trying to knock prayer. If anything, I’m starting to believe more in it. And in God’s involvement in my life. But I felt led to this field. Something about it feels like it’s mine. Alive. I brought us here for a reason, not just to be fish in a barrel.

But what is it?

I go up to the translucent wall from which I first saw Heidi. The Nightmare’s edge. A golden rift had let her through. How did that happen? Is there a way for us to get through from this side? The wasteland of rubble beyond doesn’t look welcoming, but if we could get through, I have a feeling Luc wouldn’t be able to follow.

A child cries out and I swivel, thinking a nightbeast must have breached the edge of the field. But the little girl points to the sky.

The stingray is here with Luc on its back, shoulder quiver filled with crackling black-lightning shards as well as a crossbow. With him are a half dozen tirones flying nightbeast crows and armed with javelins, spears, and crossbows.

Seven grown men with weapons against a dozen unarmed children and three weak adults.

“Gather together!” Erik hollers to the kids.

“No!” Stranna shouts. “Spread out and drop low in the grass. Make yourself as small as possible!” The sword at her side unsheathes itself as she spins toward the oncoming attack, not watching to see if the kids obey.

But they do. A couple of them still group together, driven more by fear than survival instincts. I know what it’s like to not want to die alone. But she’s right—if they spread out, they’ll be harder to hit.

I pull out my kris dagger. It’s not going to accomplish anything. I can’t even deflect a spear with it. So I channel my focus inward, willing up emotions, trying to convince them to overwhelm me. But I’m strangely collected. Calm. In an eerie way. I’ve accepted that I’ll deteriorate and die within the next couple days, and there’s a freedom in having chosen which side I’m on.

The nightmist doesn’t come. I can’t even sense it. If nightbeasts can’t enter here, then I certainly can’t create one in here. How did I make those cardinals? They were a complete accident, but they were also different, solid.

I don’t have time to find out.

The first tiro spear flies our way. It lands within two feet of a little boy. He stares at it with wide eyes but doesn’t make a peep. There’s no telling if the tiro knew this boy was there or not. But that’s too close.

The kids need to get to safety. I’ve brought them to a graveyard.

More spears fly and stick in the ground. Some children hold their place, while others jump up and run in circles. Nowhere to go. I spin, scanning for something—anything. And then I see the flash of red. Another. First I think they’re arrows, but then I see wings. They’re my cardinals.