Anders

She’s standing just a couple of steps behind me, holding her bike by the handlebars. Just enough starlight falls through the woods that I can recognize her outline. Even in the dimness, her hair looks white.

“Jesus,” I gasp. “It’s you. Goddamn. Maybe you could learn how to approach someone without giving them a heart attack.”

She looks down at me. I’m still crouched on the ground, a couple of feet from where Yvonne’s case leans against a tree. Her eyes move between us.

“This probably looks weird,” I say, because I feel like I need to say something.

She shakes her head. “No. I understand.”

I barely understand. I get to my feet. “You do?”

“You’re trying to give it back to them.”

Oh my God.

The things I’ve half imagined, half guessed, and felt like an idiot for thinking about at all become real.

She knows.

My knees buckle. I have to take a wobbly step to stay upright.

“That won’t work,” Thea goes on. “They won’t take it back. It’s not what they want.”

My phone is still in my hand, but now—maybe just because I’m not alone—I feel like I don’t need it anymore. I shove it into my pocket. My fingers are shaking.

“What do they want?” I ask.

Her face stays as calm and smooth as always. I realize what she reminds me of: one of those old porcelain dolls with little painted mouths and round cheeks and too-big, droopy eyes. Then she says, “They want you.” She moves a few steps closer to me, rolling her bike. “They want you to join them, so they can act through you. That’s what they do.”

My head’s tilting, or the ground is tilting. “Why me?”

“Because you’re special.” She looks into my eyes. She almost smiles. “You want big things. They can use that.” The wind shifts, lifting a tendril of her hair. “They gave you gifts. You took them. You used them. Now they think you owe them in return.”

“They think I owe them what?”

“I told you,” she says, calm as ever. “You.”

“Like . . .” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. I can’t believe that I believe it. “Like, they want my soul?”

Her eyes run over me, quickly, from my head to my feet. “They want all of you.”

I rake a hand through my hair. My fingers are freezing, but I can feel the sweat on my scalp. “If they want to act through me, or control me, or whatever . . . are they, like, demons?”

This sounds so ridiculous, I want to smack myself.

But she doesn’t laugh. “They’re creatures of darkness,” she says. “They exist to bring evil into being. You can call them demons, if you want.”

“And—you’re saying these things are real. They’re not just, like, metaphorical demons? They’re not normal, human people doing bad things?”

She shakes her head. “Not normal. No. They’re thick here, around this town. They’ve gotten a foothold.” She casts a quick glance over my head. “They’re all around us.”