Viola
Morgan wants absolutely nothing to do with this decent Below. He’s huffing, snarling low in the back of my mind, running circles. Our feet make muffled clicking sounds as we take the steps, down and down and down, further than I would have thought it was possible to go. But I feel a calm sense of security wash over me, a feeling of inevitability that probably has something to do with the big, warm hand holding mine.
“Remember what I’ve said,” Twist breathes in the dark.
That’s the only warning we get, when there’s a groaning sound, a flash of light, and then an explosion of sensory assaults. Sound and color and smell and sensation. I blink in the bright light, and as my eyes adjust, I gasp.
We walk through a low garden gate into the edge of a forest. Beyond the edge of the trees
