He prowls the room, checking behind my desk, opening the closet, even lifting up my mood lamp, as though he’s searching for a false bottom.

“Why do you think someone’s here?” I rub my arms. Now that my heart rate is slowing, the sweat is drying on my neck, chilling me.

“I heard you scream.” He drops to his knees to check under the bed, sweeping the rod in a wide arc. “I thought you were being attacked.”

I shiver. If all goes according to plan, the only person who will be doing the attacking is me. And yet, nothing has proceeded like I hoped. Is Archie’s concern an omen? Maybe the Maker’s allies are organizing a strike on me, right at this very moment.

Archie collapses at the foot of my bed, and the wooden rod bounces harmlessly on the carpet. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.” He hunches his shoulders, his breath weird and hitching.

I freeze. My brother is actually…crying.

“Archie!” I fly across the bed, throwing my arms around him.

“I have these dreams,” he mumbles. “Demons chase me. Every night. No matter how fast I run, no matter where I hide, they always catch me. That’s why I hate sleeping.” He pulls away from our hug, his eyes blurry behind his glasses. “Tonight, they found you. They ate you up, crunching on your bones, spitting out your organs, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to save you.”

The shiver turns into a full-body tremble, and it’s all I can do not to dive under the covers and take my brother with me. Dreams. Nothing but the unconscious mind processing the events of the day.

And yet, I know better than anyone else that dreams aren’t quite so benign. Hell, I just had proof of that.

“I’m right here,” I say, ignoring the prickles on my skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true. Just a few hours ago, I contemplated flinging myself off a mountain road alongside Bandit.

Archie must’ve sensed I was in jeopardy. Somehow, he knows that I might be ripped away from him. It’s this strange connection we’ve always had, being born eleven months apart. Not quite twins but closer than regular siblings.

“Listen, Arch,” I say. “About Maggie. I don’t think we can trust what Lee says—”

“Don’t.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Even if Lee was lying to me, Maggie is sincere. I know it.”

I twist the comforter into knots. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m not happy,” he says, so softly I have to lean forward to hear him above the whir of my mood lamp. “I’ve never been happy.”