“My power . . . leaving me,” Bono rasped. The smoke thickened and the upir began to whisper in the language of power. His words made no sense to me. He chanted feverishly, trying to hold onto life or simply praying, I wasn’t sure which.

A shudder troubled his ruined body. His speech faltered. His heels dug into the ground. The blue smoke vanished, like the light of a candle snuffed out by someone’s breath. The upir’s unblinking eyes stared into the night. It was over.

I wished I could push myself farther and reach Curran. Maybe I’d have someone to fight with in the afterlife if we went together.

It was a hell of a kiss . . .

Darkness claimed me.

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

HELL LOOKED A LOT LIKE MY HOUSE.

I lay under what appeared to be one of my blankets on what appeared to be my bed. A dull gnawing pain chewed on my ribs. Do people still feel pain in the afterlife?

There was a glass of water sitting on the night table next to the bed. Suddenly I was very thirsty. I reached for the glass and discovered that both my hands were heavily bandaged. I stared stupidly at the bandages then at the glass.

A hand wearing a cutoff glove picked up the glass and offered it to me.

“For a second I thought I might actually be alive,” I said, looking at Nick’s unshaven face. “Now I know—I’ve gone to Hell and you’re my nursemaid.”

“You’re not as funny as you think,” he said. “Drink the water.”

I did. It hurt going down.

He took the glass away from me and got up, trenchcoat brushing the edge of my blanket.

“Careful with the germs there,” I said.

“My germs are the least of your problems,” he said. He reached over, swiped his fingers across my arm, and studied the glow. “Doesn’t usually shine this bright. Or last this long.” He turned slowly, surveying my place: the old, beat-up couch, the scratched night table, the ancient rug, the basket full of clean laundry, all threadbare jeans and faded T-shirts, and waved his shimmering fingers. “See? Still going.”

I raised my bandaged hand and put it on his fingers, smothering the glow. So many people died because of me. Every time I thought about it, my chest ached, and I wanted to grab onto someone and make them tell me it would be alright, the way I wanted to hear it at my father’s funeral. But there was nobody left. And if someone did reassure me, they would be lying.

I always went out looking for other people’s trouble. Strangers hired me to solve their problems. I’ve spent years making sure problems did not ram my door and tear my life apart. And it didn’t work. So much time wasted. And what did I have to show for it, except the body count?