Doug ignores me, flipping through station after station of static.

I hunch into Gaia’s sopping coat, crammed against the passenger-side door of the boy’s car, as far from Doug as possible. The shiver fighting its way to my surface has nothing to do with the cold. Remnants of Gaia’s magic are still warm inside me, like embers waiting to die. Like they could reignite and burn me alive if they’re allowed enough air, and I hate myself for it.

What Doug did to that boy—and the small part I played in it—was nothing Gaia would ever have done. She would never have taken an innocent life. Would never have forced anyone’s hand. Live or die—she always gave us the choice.

And I took that boy’s choice. Because Doug had taken mine.

The crackle of static breaks. . . . wind speeds more than one hundred fifty kilometers per hour off the Isle of Wight . . . Man died in Hampshire when a tree fell on his car . . . Several critically injured after lightning strikes in Winchester . . . Flights now also grounded at Gatwick and Heathrow . . . More than four hundred thousand without power . . .

I reach and switch off the radio.

“You didn’t have to steal his car,” I snap, angry that there’s no punishment I can inflict on Doug without suffering it myself. Maybe I deserve it. “His family might have needed it.”

He looks over at me, his mouth twisted with disgust. “Don’t be such a hypocrite, Fleur. Since when have you or your friends ever cared about taking things that don’t belong to you?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. It’s not. I gave the kid a transmitter and sent him home. Which is more than I can say about you.” A fleeting image of Denver darts through his thoughts, and I turn toward the window. Doug turns south, taking us back toward the park.

“If we’re going back to the Observatory, we could have walked,” I argue. “We didn’t need a car.”

“You’re cold and wet and tired. You and I have a lot of work to do, and you’re no good to me if you’re passed out.” He switches on the heater, manhandling the dials and shoving the fins on the vents so they’re pointed toward me. But I don’t need his charity. Or his attitude. I don’t want to think about what kind of work Doug means. I just want to get back down to the Observatory. Back to Jack.

The car slows. Doug eases to a stop along the brick perimeter fence around Greenwich Park. The wipers slap back and forth, ticking off seconds as we sit in the middle of the empty road, rain and sleet bouncing off the hood. I glance up, eyes narrowed through the windshield to see why we’ve stopped.