—Hate this song—hate that song even more—there’s never a good station—and this song’s even worse—

She took control, floored the accelerator, and headed toward the highway. Once she was sure she had lost Milos, she took a moment to consider her next move. There was really only one place she could go. Nick was here in Memphis and he was in danger. She had to help him. She let the driver surface just long enough to scan his mind for directions to Graceland.

—what’s happening—what’s going on—who—who are you—

—oh shut up!—

Allie found what she needed, and put him back to sleep.

She was already heading in the right direction. Traffic was moving, and the Graceland exit came up in just a few minutes. Once she was on Elvis Presley Boulevard, traffic slowed, and it was faster to surf than drive. She launched out of Mr. Mustang, to another driver, and another, jumping two and three cars at a time when she could. Milos would know where she was going—but if she was lucky, maybe she could get there first.

She surfed her way down the boulevard, until there, between convenience stores and gas stations, stood a mansion on a hill, completely out of place on the ugly urban street. Allie could tell there was something very odd about the place. It seemed to shift in and out of phase. It shimmered like a mirage in unsteady double vision, as if she were seeing two Gracelands—one in Everlost, and one in the living world, both competing for dominance.

Was this a vortex? She had heard about them, but had never actually seen one.

All at once she realized that there were Afterlights standing in front of the Graceland mansion. If they were Mary’s children, then she was already too late!

There was no way in without alerting those Afterlights to her presence, which meant she would have to skinjack her way in. She hurried into the nearby visitor’s center, looking for a suitable fleshie. Tourists meandered around, fingering gift-shop trinkets. It was a quarter to five, and the last tourist tram of the day was about to ride up the short path to the mansion. She launched forward, surfing every fleshie in her path, building momentum. The tour bus door had closed, but that didn’t matter, she could launch right through the door, into the driver. She reached the last person between her and the bus, then bounded forward in a high arc toward it—but halfway there she smashed into another Afterlight, and he brought her down to the ground.

She was sure it was Milos—it had to be! Yet it wasn’t. It was someone else—something else.

“Gotcha!” it said.