He bends down toward Ash, a small blue bottle in his hand. Poison, I think, and I yell for him to stop, but my words don’t come out right, twisting into a sob.

“You mean, what did we do, November,” the old man says without turning around. His voice is like the purr of a big cat.

He holds the bottle to Ash’s mouth, but Ash isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at my hand in horror. I follow his gaze, and there in my palm is a small matching blue bottle.

The old man pours the liquid from his bottle into Ash’s mouth and I scream.

“November?”

I shoot straight up, my arms flying out to steady myself, and I end up grabbing a handful of gray velvet cushion. The end of a scream escapes my lips, muted and unsure.

Ash grips my shoulders, steadying me.

“I didn’t—” I say, and stop short, disoriented and tense, my heart still racing like I was running in that room.

“Look around you, November. Breathe,” Ash says calmly, and I cling to his voice.

I do a fast scan of my surroundings to find a lit fireplace, a breakfast table by the window, maroon blackout curtains, and Ash—alive and sitting next to me on the couch in the common room I share with Layla. Everything looks normal, but the feeling of dread is still there. And even though I’m not sure how, the one thing I know—the one thing I’m certain of—is that whatever happened in that dream was my fault.

“You were…,” I start, my tone unsettled, my voice shaky. “And it was my…” But I trail off there, not able to put words to the awfulness I just witnessed. It felt so real, so very real.

Ash gives me a sympathetic look, like he knows all too well the type of thing I might be dreaming about. I take a breath, my shoulders dropping an inch. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. No one is dead, I reassure myself, but my unease lingers like a bad taste.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” I say, and rub at my face, only to discover that I’m sweating.

Ash studies me, letting go of my shoulders but remaining close. His straight black hair falls perfectly around his temples and his eyes are insistent under his long eyelashes. Even though he’s got his fair share of cuts and bruises from being attacked yesterday, he looks more poised and elegant than I do on my best days. The longer I look at him, the guiltier I feel. Maybe the dream wasn’t real, but what is real is that Ash and I narrowly escaped with our lives—and it was all because of me.