They sprinted for the metro, switched lines twice, and finally surfaced at Termini. Skirting the station building, they vaulted a fence and dashed across the tracks just as two trains clattered in opposite directions. Beyond lay a desolate waste: fragments of an ancient Roman wall and abandoned warehouses looming like a rotten backdrop. They headed for a cluster of derelict industrial structures until they reached a concrete block sunk into the ground. Through a service duct they slipped inside.

  At the bottom, a young guard leveled a weapon at them, suspicion hardening his face.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, chin jerking at the stranger.

  “He wants to see Alya. He’s with me,” Wang-Kei said.

  “You don’t have clearance to bring people in, Wang. You know that.”

  “We’ve got a situation.”

  The guard glanced from Wang to the unfamiliar teen, one brow creeping up. “Where’s Huliak?”

  Wang lowered his head and shook it. “Dead. The Kurkis ambushed us.”

  The guard understood and unlatched the inner hatch. A narrow tunnel stretched ahead, lit at intervals by lamps that dangled from the wall.

  “Where are we supposed to be?” Tofi whispered.

  “Our bunker,” Wang said.

  As they went, more boys emerged, drawn by the novelty of an outsider. They trailed behind, a growing tail of curiosity snaking through the corridor. At last they reached a bulkhead watched by a tall, broad-shouldered sentry cradling an AK-47.

  “What’s this crap?” the sentry asked, meaning Tofi.

  “I need to talk to Alya,” Wang replied. “We had an incident at the Piazza della Porta Antiqua—and if it wasn’t for Tofi here, I wouldn’t be breathing.”

  The sentry rapped twice on the hatch. It swung inward, and a freckled redhead with glasses poked her head out.

  “What the hell, Bruz?” she said. “Prince Alya’s playing Assassin’s Creed, and you know how he gets if you interrupt him.”

  “Juno,” Bruz said to the redhead, “they brought in a stray. The op went bad.”

  Juno sized up Tofi. “What happened?”

  “Betrayal,” Wang said.

  Her eyes went wide. “That’s a problem. You’re in trouble, Wang.” She flicked a look at Tofi. “And the stray?”

  “This is Tofi. He saved my life,” Wang-Kei said.

  “What, you want us to pin a medal on him?” Juno drawled.

  “I want in,” Tofi blurted. “Let me join the crew.”

  She looked him up and down. “Prince Alya’s not going to like this. And what makes you special? Toss him on the tracks and put a round in him.”

  The guard’s hand clamped on Tofi’s shoulder. He flinched. From deeper in the room erupted a stream of invective:

  “F***ing hell! I swear to—JUNO! Where the hell are you? Damn it all!”

  Juno rolled her eyes. “He’s in a mood. Prince Alya can’t get past a set piece.”

  “What level?” Tofi asked, quick as a spark.

  She gave him a haughty, dismissive look. “What do you even know about Assassin’s Creed, you little stray?”

  “More than you think,” Wang said, bristling at her tone. “He knows games.”

  “What level is it?” Tofi repeated.

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  “Komrades,” Juno said, skeptical.

  “Which episode?”

  “He’s in some Russian cathedral… Nazis… I don’t know.”

  “Sebastopol,” Tofi said at once. “He’s chasing Saint Sergius’s Holy Chalice. He can’t clear the Chamber of the Damned—Nazis on overwatch.”

  Juno stared at him, half doubtful, half intrigued, then glanced at Wang, who shrugged.

  “Fine. Miss once, and he’ll put a bullet through your skull,” she warned.

  She swung the hatch wider and ushered them into Prince Alya’s quarters. The leader’s lair was a broad concrete chamber with pipes slung from the ceiling. Posters of movies and games wallpapered the walls; shelves sagged under DVDs, game cases, and toy collections—Star Wars figures, LEGO, Playmobil. At the far end, a massive flatscreen blazed with Komrades: Assassin’s Creed. Onscreen, a shadowed hall erupted in muzzle flashes as Nazi soldiers shredded the player-character. On a black leather sofa sat Prince Alya.

  The character died. Alya hurled the controller—plastic exploded against the wall—and loosed a fresh volley of curses in his native tongue. Juno cleared her throat. Alya turned. He was shorter than most of the boys, slight, with milk-pale skin and dark chestnut hair. His eyes were that vivid blue common among the crew—only his gaze was colder.

  “What is it? What’s with the audience?” he asked. “Come to watch me get wrecked at Komrades?”

  Juno swallowed. “Alya, we’ve got a situation. Wang’s here.”

  “Oh? Wang.” Alya folded his arms. “How’d the op go?”

  Wang cleared his throat, swallowed, shook his head.

  “‘No’ what?” Alya asked.

  “We had a—”

  “They were ambushed by the Kurkis,” Juno cut in—she was used to steering the conversation. “Huliak’s dead, and Wang only got out because of this stray.”

  Alya looked at Wang and inhaled slowly. Everyone held their breath.

  “Tell me, Wang,” Alya said, walking toward the narrow-eyed boy. “Didn’t I give you a mission? Didn’t I order a transaction?”

  Wang bobbed his head nervously. Alya stopped in front of him. Though smaller, his authority filled the space between them.

  “I’m talking to you, idiot!” he shouted. The boys lingering at the edges slipped out and the hatch slid shut. “Do you understand me or not?”

  “Answer, idiot,” Juno snapped.

  “Shut it, ostrich-egg,” Alya sneered at her freckles. “I’m sure Wang-Kei here can speak.”

  Tofi watched Wang freeze. “They were burned by the vagrant they used as a go-between at the Mission,” Tofi said evenly. “After they left, he called the Kurkis. The rest you know.”

  Heads swung toward the newcomer. Alya arched a brow at the boy and, for the first time, really looked. Juno’s disbelief faltered; the few who’d stayed leaned in.

  “So the damned hedo sold us out,” Alya said. “That it, Wang?”

  Wang nodded. Alya turned away, thinking, then snapped, “I want that hedo here. I want him here. I’ll slit his throat myself.”

  “Better to use him,” Tofi said.

  Gasps popped around the room—even the hard-nosed sentry twitched. Alya pivoted, surprised, and finally gave Tofi his full attention.

  “What did you just say?” he asked.

  Tofi opened his mouth, but Wang rushed in: “He means—maybe interrogate him. See what we can squeeze out.”

  Juno shot Tofi a look, jerked her chin; the guard stepped forward, raising his rifle butt to crack against Tofi’s neck.

  “Hold,” Alya said. He stepped up to Tofi—shorter again—and studied him. “Who are you?”

  “Tofi of Carpatos,” he answered, without a flicker of fear.

  “I don’t care about that,” Alya said. “I mean, who are you to be giving opinions here?”

  Tofi smiled thinly and swallowed. “I was at Blessed Serafina’s Mission when I overheard the setup,” he said. “I met Wang on the metro—he kept me from getting dragged off for riding without a ticket. When I heard the plot, I went to warn him. Too late—but I did pull him out.”

  Alya looked him up and down, then rested a hand on Wang’s shoulder, smiled—then drove his fist into Wang’s gut. The boy folded; Alya’s knee smashed up into his face and sent him sprawling. Tofi stared, startled.

  “He’s just giving him a thrashing,” a boy murmured in Tofi’s ear. “That means he’s spared him.”

  While Wang curled on the floor, Alya set to kicking him. Juno joined in; a few others added boots. At last Alya seemed satisfied and they backed off.

  “Get him out of here,” Alya ordered, dropping back onto his sofa and grabbing a fresh controller.

  Wang lay there in a fetal huddle, hands over his head. Tofi knelt, took his hand. At least he was breathing. Now came the little sadist’s plan for him.

  “Bring me the stray,” Alya said.

  The sentry yanked Tofi up and shoved him beside the sofa. Alya fired up the episode again. Onscreen, the character stood before a Russian Orthodox church, then sprinted across a rubble-strewn square, dodging patrols, vaulting debris.

  “So—why should I trust you?” Alya asked as the loading bar filled.

  “I’m hungry, and I’ve got nowhere else to go,” Tofi said.

  “Which is exactly why you might have gone to the other side,” Juno said, poison-sweet.

  Alya raised an eyebrow and focused on the screen. The game started; the avatar dashed for the church’s onion domes, slaloming through wreckage, slipping from cover to cover.

  “I’d never join the Kurkis,” Tofi said.

  “And what makes you so virtuous?” Juno shot back. “You’re starving. Anyone can buy you with a crust. Alya, we should get rid of him. He smells like a double.”

  A hail of bullets ripped the avatar apart.

  “IMPOSSIBLE!” Alya snarled, winding up to pitch the controller again.

  “It isn’t,” Tofi said. “You’re mistiming the approach. Go around the far side of the square. Climb the building behind the church.”

  “Impossible,” Alya said. “Tried it.”

  “There’s a hidden handhold on the rear corner.”

  Alya stared at him, then shoved the controller into his hands. Tofi took it, dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor, and set the character moving.

  “Alya,” Juno hissed, “I’m telling you we can’t trust—”

  “Shut up,” Alya said without looking away. “Show me your magic,” he told Tofi.