“Erik—” I tried to tug him back to me, but he continued his retreat, dispelling as he did the greenery-covered windows, the walls of vines, the cobblestone floor, the roses, and, with them, their scent.

“Wait,” I said, squeezing even harder the hand that dissipated from mine, suddenly as intangible as smoke. “Erik, please—”

But it was too late. He’d gone. Leaving me to the blackness that fast rushed up to consume everything and, along with it, me.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Zedok

Pain, unmistakable and wrenching, echoed through my empty chest, resonating inexplicably from the hollowed place where there was nothing—no heart from which such agony could derive.

The sensation, like an all-consuming rift had opened within me, came mere seconds after I had ended the dream with Stephanie.

I had only just risen from the armchair, and weakened by the onslaught, I staggered to the piano, which I leaned against for support. The keys, in response, uttered a discordant clangor.

God. What . . . was this? Lifting one trembling hand, the same one Stephanie had clenched with her own in the dream, I gripped at my waistcoat, wadding the material into my fist, as if the action might help to alleviate the feeling that, any moment, I would collapse into myself and implode as a dying star.

If only I could be so lucky. If only she could.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself upright.

This anguish. Was it meant to serve as some form of punishment?

Doubtless Lucifer himself would not have dared what I almost had. To touch lips with the purest of angels.

One moment longer with her, and I’d have done the unthinkable.

How could I have let this happen?

Fury overtook me, driving me to shove the lone standing lamp from the piano’s closed lid. It crashed with a horrible racket. The knowledge that my surroundings would not permanently sustain any damage only served to fuel my ire.

I stumbled to the mantel next, which I cleared with a sweep from both arms, sending the decimated artifacts toppling to shatter against the floor. Chief among them was my father’s clock. How many times, in a bid to win refuge from its incessant ticking, had I broken it?

Stephanie. How could I save her now that I had allowed her to become entangled in the strings of the heart I did not have?

I stilled. The remnants of the ache abating once again, ushered away this time by the realization that I was not alone.

I had a visitor. Not another mask, though.

Instead, I had company in a much truer sense.

And his presence. Should I not have sensed it the very moment he had encroached upon my domain? No doubt I would have had I not been with her.

“How long have you been there?” I asked him.

“Long enough,” answered the man.

“I thought I told you never to come back.”

“You did,” he said. “But I thought we also agreed that you would not give me reason to.”