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it was a far cry from the mansion I’d grown up in, I was comfortable in these cable-lined passageways and rough dirt rooms, all studded with stout candles, carved benches, and talismans cemented into the walls by the dozens of rogues who’d visited here. I had no idea what that said about me, but it was enough that I relaxed degree by degree as we descended into the hidey-hole.
    Next we made our way through a room containing a second sinkhole, this one covered by protective wiring and surrounded by blasted rubble. I trailed my hand along a charred scrap of metal that might once have been a car, one of many melted and mutilated objects left over from the atomic cities used to test nuclear survivability. As one might expect, not much survived.
    On the other side of this testament to humankind’s propensity for destruction was a simple iron door that led to our version of King Arthur’s round table. The sparse, circular room held sandy alcoves lined in hemp pillows, barrel tables, and flat-topped sawhorses, which currently contained heaps of beef, rice, and the best frijoles north of the border. Stomach growling, I practically dove into my usual alcove, the newly arrived men forgotten. Impending motherhood had lent my appetite an edge I didn’t remember from my first go-round a decade earlier. Of course, I was only sixteen that time, and a bit preoccupied with recovering from a life-threatening attack, so the finer physical details of pregnancy were a bit hazy. Still, I didn’t know I could be so hungry. These days I could medal in competitive eating.
    When I finally came up for air, it was because I was tugged by the room’s silence. Though the dog weighing more than a MINI Cooper was giving me a disgusted stare, every man in the room had his gaze politely averted, save Carlos. He gazed at me openly, and with amusement. He could hide his feelings when he had to, but one of his most striking characteristics was that he chose not to. He was vulnerable to each of the rogues in one way or another, giving them whatever they needed, whether a sympathetic ear or the shirt off his back. It had the odd effect of making them more vulnerable to him too.
    Carlos smiled, his teeth bright against his honeyed skin, reminding me of an old silent film star. “We were just talking about the Shadows’ odd behavior. They’ve obviously captured someone. Maybe even killed one of the Light.”
    I looked down so no one would see the worry in my gaze, and nodded as I poked at the last of my rice. “It would seem that way.”
    “There’s been nothing about it in the manuals yet,” Gareth pointed out. He had the best luck scoring the comic books. As the youngest of us—and with his lanky build and spiky blond hair—he fit right in with the mortal kids and teens hungriest for our stories.
    “Maybe it occurred in the last couple of weeks,” Vincent said, the Bronx in his voice barreling through the room.
    It took time for our actions to show themselves in comic book form. Once they did, the kids could imagine and believe in us, and we’d use that mental energy to fuel our battle against our enemies. Those in the troops could read only their own side’s manual, but I could read all—back issues, new ones, Shadow, and Light. So as weak as my return to humanity made me, I still had abilities that made me unique—the weapons, the manuals, the soul blade that had taken two fingers from the Tulpa, which never left my side. Without these things, I wasn’t sure even the staunchest gray would tolerate, much less follow, me.
    Except Carlos, I thought, refilling my plate and returning to my bench. His belief in me remained steady even when my own wavered.
    “Be nice if we could find out for sure,” Vincent went on. “It might help in our campaign against the Light.”
    “We’ll look into it,” Carlos told him, but his voice was soft and we traded a brief glance. He knew I didn’t feel the same way as Vincent, the other grays . . . or