“Whoa,” Patrick said. “Simmer down there.”

“You said he wouldn’t let her die,” I spat. “But what happens if he figures out what she’s trying to do?”

“I told you he is in love with her,” said Rastin. “He will not harm her.”

“He is harming her,” I snapped.

“Lucas,” said Charlotte, her voice soft but chiding. “Rastin is trying to help.”

She was right. I knew she was. I just wanted his urgency to match ours—mine.

I retracted my step and, turning away, ran a hand through my hair.

Again, Charlotte spoke, though this time she addressed Rastin. “So, if you think the next step is talking to Stephanie, why haven’t you tried?”

“Because,” Rastin said, “she doesn’t know who I am. She will not be as apt to listen to me as she would, say, to him.”

I spun toward Rastin, who had his coffee cup raised in my direction.

“Me?” I asked. “But . . . I can’t astral project.”

“Which is why we”—Rastin gestured to himself and the others—“will be sending you into her dream. Why do you suppose I requested we meet so late?”

To increase the likelihood that she would be asleep. Of course.

“You can do that?” Charlotte whispered while I stood frozen, at once swayed to Rastin’s side just by the mere prospect of seeing Stephanie tonight.

“I am glad you all decided to come,” Rastin said. “After yesterday’s attack, I’ll need the extra psychic energy. Are you ready to try?”

I glanced first to Charlotte, then to Wes and Patrick, searching for one face that was, in fact, ready. None of them looked keen on this.

“Yeah,” I said anyway. “We are.”

SIXTY-THREE

Stephanie

Charlie was born in June, so it had been warm then. Now, though, a pall of snow covered everything, softening my steps as they carried me over a slim stone pathway that wound between gravestones and monuments.

White flecks poured from the sky. The moon, a brilliant silver disc, peered down at me, illuminating the way I shouldn’t have known. Because this place was huge, and I hadn’t been back here since the burial. I’d only been eleven at the time, staring out the window of the limousine, watching the trees and stones file past.

After walking for just a little while, I turned the corner of a shed-sized mausoleum. And there, surrounded by other stones like it, stood the same unassuming granite marker my broken family had abandoned six years ago.

In that moment, it was as if winter itself snuck into my veins to freeze my heart solid. My throat clenched tight, and I swallowed. But the emotion wouldn’t go down. Instead, it welled up inside of me, spilling out in the form of stinging tears.

I gripped the corner of the mausoleum, half hiding behind it as if the marker were an actual person and not just the reminder of one.

The tears fell as I pushed off from the sepulcher, staggering forward a step. My knees met with the frozen earth when I came to the foot of her grave.