When Dorothy finally fell asleep, she dreamed up a world of perfect dark. There were no stars to illuminate the ghostly white tree trunks, no distant oil lamps flickering through the black like fireflies, no far-off buzz of electricity, no moon.

And then a light cut through the darkness like a knife, revealing that the sky was dark as oil and the city was gone. In its place, a single jagged structure rose from the waters, covered in layers of craggy black rock and ash.

It was the Fairmont, only it no longer had a roof, and a gaping hole had opened up in the middle of its walls. It had been beautiful, once. Now, it was only a ruin of burnt bricks, broken glass—

Dorothy awoke, gasping, memories of the terrible future still flickering through her head.

That was what awaited her if she didn’t stop Mac. That blackened, burned-up city. It was getting harder and harder to tell herself that there was an alternative to Roman’s plan. Mac wouldn’t stop, and now that he had the entire city on his side, it was seeming less and less likely that he would fail. She was going to have to destroy the remaining EM.

All of it.

Cursing under her breath, she crawled out of bed. She wouldn’t sleep again after that.

She needed a drink.

The city was black as pitch. The dock rocked beneath Dorothy’s feet, following the gentle rise and fall of the waves.

She wouldn’t go to the Dead Rabbit, she decided. There was too much of a chance of being recognized by some Cirkus Freak out for a late drink. Instead, she hurried deeper into the heart of the city, toward Dante’s. She was only a few doors down when she heard voices.

“You’re wrong, anyway . . . went through an anil . . . a time machine . . . survived . . .”

Ash, Dorothy thought, grinning. It was only now, hearing his voice, that she realized she’d hoped she would find him here, that it was the reason she’d chosen Dante’s out of the dozens of bars in the city.

She took a step closer—

“True,” said a second voice. Zora.

Dorothy stopped hard, her grin faltering. She wished she knew whether Zora would be happy to see her, but, if Ash was already aware of her role in his death, she had little doubt that Zora would be, too.

Don’t think of her, she told herself. Think of Ash.

The fog was thick, but Dorothy’s eyesight was beginning to adjust. She could make out the shape of Ash kneeling on the edge of the dock, his body barely more than an outline in the darkness. Zora appeared to be hovering over him, helping him up, but Dorothy could see little else. She took a step forward, intending to call out to them—