“Stephanie,” I said, taking one halting step toward her, afraid that this could be a trap.

“Lucas,” she said again, blinking in the brightening sunlight. “What are you doing here?”

I started at her response, my steps taking me to the base of the stairs. “I . . . I told you I would come for you. But . . . how did you get back?”

Her hands went to cover her mouth. Pain etched itself on her too-pale features. And then tears appeared on her cheek. Tears of relief and . . . torment.

A huge silver ring gleamed on her left hand—a skull with glistening ruby eyes.

I knew whose ring that had to be. But . . . what was it doing there on her left ring finger?

While Rastin and my friends watched on, I began to climb the stairs toward her. As I did, Stephanie’s tears began to fall more readily.

“Lucas,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . so sorry.”

“Why?” I asked, scarcely able to believe it could really be her. I took another step toward her but paused, utterly shocked when she took a sharp step back from me. I scowled, confused.

“No, I’ve . . . I’m,” she stammered, but her words wouldn’t come.

“Stephanie,” came Rastin’s voice next. He approached the base of the stairs, peering up at her. “What has become of Erik?”

“He . . .” Trailing off, she glanced down at herself, shaking her head again, like there was something about her being here she couldn’t understand. Almost like she thought it couldn’t be true. Or even . . . like she didn’t want it to be.

I glanced back at both Rastin and the members of SPOoKy, searching their faces for an answer. Wes’s eyes darted between me and Stephanie and back again. Charlotte frowned, uncertainty knitting her whole frame. Patrick shook his head, his gaze roving the foyer, the parlor, and the hall, like he expected an ambush.

“Erik,” Rastin prompted again, his voice breathy, almost desperate. “Where is he?”

“He . . .” Stephanie began. “He brought me back while I was sleeping. I didn’t know it. I didn’t expect . . . He left. He told me to leave. He’s on the other side. I . . . I can feel him there.”

“What do you mean, you can feel him?” Patrick asked, giving voice to the question we all had to be thinking.

“It’s the heart,” she said, her delicate fingers trailing over her chest. “I gave him a heart. Somehow . . . that connected us.”

“Wait,” I said, my scowl deepening. “You gave him a heart?”

“What kind of heart?” asked Rastin.

“A rose,” Stephanie answered, her voice shaking, fingers twisting and twining themselves with one another. “He says it will break, though. And that . . . something awful will happen. That’s why . . . it’s why he brought me back.”

My eyes met with Rastin’s and with that look, we exchanged all we needed to say.