She waited as he lost the fight with sleep.

And then, ah yes, such strange visions.

Drake. That was his name. She could hear the echo of that sound in her head.

Drake Merwin.

Whip Hand.

For what felt like a very long time she wandered through dreams of pain and rage. She had to shield herself from the physical agony, memories of which kept flooding the boy’s dreams.

In Drake’s dream Orsay saw a different boy, a boy with piercing eyes, a boy who made things fly through the air.

And she saw a boy with fire coming from his hands.

Then she saw the girl, the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty. And the angry, resentful visions took a turn to something worse still.

Far worse.

For weeks before the great disappearance Orsay had been tortured by dreams she couldn’t shut out, many of them the dreams of adults filled with disturbingly adult imagery.

But she had never entered a dream like this.

She was shaking. Feeling as if she couldn’t breathe.

She wanted to look away, spare herself from witnessing the sick boy’s vile nightmares. But it was the curse of her condition: She had no power to block the dreams out. It was like she was strapped into a chair, eyes pried open, forced to look at images that made her sick.

Only distance would protect her. Sobbing, Orsay crawled away, crawled toward the desert, indifferent to the stones that cut her knees and palms.

The dreams faded. Gradually, Orsay steadied her breathing. This had been a mistake, coming down from the forest, a terrible mistake.

She had told herself she was going in search of food. But in her heart she knew there was a deeper reason for leaving the forest. She missed the sound of a human voice.

No, that wasn’t the whole truth, either.

She missed the dreams. The good ones, the bad ones. She found herself longing for them. Needing them. Addicted.

But not this. Not this.

She sat with eyes closed tight, rocking slowly back and forth in the sand, trying to—

The tentacle was around her, squeezing her tight, squeezing the air out of her lungs before she could even scream.

He was behind her. Her movement had awakened him, and he’d found her and now, now . . . Oh, God . . .

He lifted her up and turned her around to face him. His face would have been handsome if she had not known what lurked behind those icy eyes.

“You,” he whispered, his breath in her face. “You were in my head.”

Duck had found the cause of the ocean sounds. It was, in fact, the ocean.

At least that’s what it seemed like. He couldn’t see it. It was as black as everything else. But it smelled of salt. And it moved like a heaving body of water should, rolling up to his toes and receding. But he could see nothing.

He told himself it was dark outside, out beyond the mouth of the cave. That’s why he couldn’t see anything. It was obvious now that this had to be a sea cave, a cave cut into the land by the constant motion of water over a long, long period of time. Which meant there had to be a way out.

In his mind he pictured it opening onto the beach below Clifftop. Or somewhere near there. Anyway, the important word was: opening.

Had to be.

“You keep saying ‘had to be’ like that makes it so,” he said.

“No, I don’t,” he argued. “I was thinking it, I didn’t say it out loud.”

“Great. Now I’m arguing with myself.”

“Not really, I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Well, try thinking more and arguing less.”

“Hey, I’ve been down here for, like, a hundred hours! I don’t even know what time it is. It could be three days from now!”

He bent down and touched wet sand. Water surged over his fingers. It was cold. But then, everything was cold. Duck had been cold for a long time now. It was slow work walking when you couldn’t see where you were going.

He raised wet fingers to his tongue. Definitely salt. So yes, it was the ocean. Which meant that yes, this cave opened onto the ocean. Which meant there was a pretty good mystery as to why he couldn’t see any light at all.

He shivered. He was so cold. He was so hungry. He was so thirsty. He was so scared.

And suddenly, he realized, he was not alone.

The rustling sound was different from the water-sloshing sound. Very different. It was a distinctly dry sound. Like someone rubbing crinkly leaves together.

“Hello?” he called.

“No answer,” he whispered.

“I know: I heard. I mean, I didn’t hear,” he said. “Is someone there?”

The rustling sound again. It was coming from overhead. Then a chitter-chitter-chitter noise, soft but definite. He didn’t miss many sounds now, not with his eyes useless. Hearing was all he had. If something made a sound, he heard it. And something had made a sound.

“Are you bats?” he asked.

“Because if they were bats, they would totally answer.”

“Bats. Bats are not a problem.” He chattered.

“Bats have to have a way out, right? They can’t live in a cave all the time. They have to be able to fly out and . . . and drink blood.”

Duck stood frozen, awaiting the bat attack. He would never see it coming. If they came after him, he would jump into the water. Yes. Or . . . or he could get mad and maybe sink through the ground and be safe in the dirt.

“Yeah, that’s a great plan: bury yourself alive.”

The bats—if that’s what they were—demonstrated no interest in attacking him and drinking his blood. So Duck returned to the question of what exactly he should do next. In theory he could jump into the water and swim out into the ocean.