Footsteps sound behind me, and the sack is wrenched off my head. I take a huge gulp of air, and it feels so fresh and satisfying it almost tastes sweet. I glance down at my feet and realize why they feel wet. They’re submerged in water. And what I thought were ropes tying my legs to the white wicker chair are ribbons of water. Wait, water?!

“Riley!” Emmett cries out.

I turn my head to discover him in a chair to the left of me. His is also made of wicker, which makes me feel like we should be on a porch drinking iced tea. Instead, Emmett’s legs are tied to the chair with the mysterious water ropes, and his wrists are bound in the same way. I’ve never seen magic like this.

“Riley, are you okay?” Emmett’s eyes are so full of terror that, in that moment, I know we’ve achieved our goal.

We’ve found the Horangi.

“Are you okay?” I ask. His eyes are bloodshot and his lips purple. I wish I could reach out and squeeze his hand. I can only imagine what he’s feeling right now.

He trembles a little, but he nods. “I’m okay.”

I scan his face and body to make sure he isn’t injured. And when I’m sure they haven’t hurt him, I take stock of our surroundings.

From what I can see in front of me, we are sitting smack-bang in the center of a windowless room that is flooded with water up to our ankles. I’m relieved to see Boris is propped up against the wall, next to the door, which is raised slightly above the water. The room isn’t big, and it’s devoid of any furnishings besides our two chairs. The walls and ceiling are completely white—so white, in fact, that it’s hard to see where the wall ends and the ceiling starts. It feels like we’re inside a picnic cooler.

A tall, lean woman my eomma’s age, with a long neck and intelligent eyes, reveals herself from behind us. “Who are you?” she asks, in a deep, authoritative voice. “And how did you know about the boba-tea portal?”

Her hair is swept up into a French twist, and she’s wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. She looks like a Korean female version of Steve Jobs, but with more hair. She’s the first Horangi I’ve ever met. Well, aside from my birth parents, that is, but they don’t count.

A man and boy walk out from behind us, too. The man is wearing jeans and a turtleneck like the woman, but he also has on a leather biker’s jacket studded with metal stars. The boy—who looks about my age—is dressed in bright-red chinos, an orange-checked shirt, and a red bow tie. He stands out like a beacon against the stark white walls.