He goes to slam the door in my face, but I manage to wedge my foot between it and the frame just in time. I wince at the pain, grateful for my boots taking the brunt of the impact.

“Move your foot,” Smith says through clenched teeth.

“Not until you help me.”

I don’t wait for him to respond; I just push on the door and force my way into his room. He can hate me all he wants—I know I’m being incredibly rude and I wish there were another way, but I can’t wait until morning. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep, not without learning the truth.

“You can’t just barge in here and—”

“Please, Smith,” I beg him, my voice breaking on the word. “Please hear me out before you throw me out.”

I’m not sure what did it—whether it was because I begged, or because he heard the genuine anguish in my plea. Either way, he lets out a deep sigh and moves through the darkness of his room. Seconds later, three torches come to life, their flames lighting the space so we can see each other better.

It takes everything in me not to comment on his Batman pajamas. I instead manage to keep my expression blank as I turn from him to look around his room. Like his hair, the space is messy and chaotic, and there’s a strong smell of corn chips in the air—the result of the half-eaten packet lying open on the top of his disorganized desk. I wrinkle my nose as I take in the clothes and papers strewn everywhere, but then my eyes alight on the bookshelves spanning one entire limestone wall. There are so many volumes stacked with perfect precision, their neatness at odds with everything else around me. I’m drawn to the armchair beside one of the bookshelves, buried right in the corner. If this were another time, another place, I would walk straight over and curl up in it, content to spend hours reading right here, even with the smell.

Tonight, however, is not the time to do so.

“This had better be important,” Smith grumbles, pulling my attention back to him. He’s collected his glasses and is pushing them up his nose—the gesture again oddly familiar—but his gaze remains narrowed and his face stormy.

“I’d like to know how your ability works.”

His brows arch nearly to his hairline. “And that couldn’t have waited until a more humane time?”

“I know you can project people into other places, including into other people’s dreams, as you did with Kael and me, but … is that all you can do?”

“I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Alyssa,” he all but growls. “What do you really want to know?”