I lie awake, listening to the murmur of the Veil, and the very real noise of people in the streets, and the distant sound of the party still going somewhere, faint and far away as wind. I pull the evil eye from my pajama pocket and think through the banishing spell again, turning the glass charm between my fingers until the pattern of black, blue, white, blue becomes abstract, just streaks of colored glass, until I can’t keep my own eyes open any longer.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but one second I’m in bed, and the next, I’m in the cemetery.

I scramble backward as the Emissary appears, making its slow, steady way toward me between the crypts. I call for Jacob, for Lara, but I have no voice. I turn and run, until I reach a dead end, a crypt that stretches as far and wide as I can see. I burst through the door and into the tomb. There’s no casket, only a statue of the blindfolded girl from the Two of Swords, the blades crossed in front of her.

The girl is made of stone, but the swords are metal—heavy and real.

The door rattles and shakes behind me as I pull the swords out of the statue’s hands.

I turn to face the Emissary as it bursts through the door, but I wake right before it reaches me.

My heart is racing and the room is dark, my hand aching where it grips the evil eye. But when I force my fingers open, the charm is unbroken, and Lara is asleep, and Jacob is right there, in front of the bed. He glances over his shoulder and makes a silly face. My heart slows, and I smile and sink back into the sheets.

The rest of the night is restless, dreamless, and I’m relieved when light slips through the window curtains. I get up and shower, wrangle my messy curls back and up, reach for my mirror pendant before remembering it’s broken.

I comb through Mom’s toiletry bag and find a compact, a disc of blush on one side and a smudged mirror on the other. It’ll do for now.

One of the first things Lara taught me was that in-betweeners should never be without a mirror.

Look and listen. See and know. This is what you are.

The words reserved for a ghost.

But they hold true for the living, too.

I meet my gaze in the compact mirror’s reflection. “My name is Cassidy Blake,” I say softly. “I’m twelve years old. Last year, I stole from Death. I lived when I should have died. I stayed when I should have gone. I survived once, and I’ll survive again. My name is Cassidy Blake,” I say again. “And I will not be dragged into the dark.”

Part Four: The Emissary of Death

Chapter Eighteen