First one drop of condensation formed on the inside wall of the glass.

Then a second.

I became keenly aware of a car behind us driving slowly through the lot, and the song playing on its radio. The weird sound bubble around us seemed to be fading away, and the world was returning to its normal volume.

Mischa gasped sharply as if she’d been stabbed, and stood straight up with raised eyebrows. For just a fraction of a second, she looked completely shocked—as if she didn’t recognize her surroundings. But then she blinked and relaxed her posture as her coach fussed over her. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Did it work?” Violet asked with enormous eyes.

Relief flooded over me with such power that I stumbled backward and caught myself before falling over. I really and truly believed we’d been successful. Overhead, fat clouds rolled across a bright blue sky. Everything seemed normal. For the first time since Trey and I had thrown Violet’s locket into White Ridge Lake, I was confident that we’d finally freed ourselves from the Simmonses’ evil.

“I don’t know what you guys were doing, but that was really not cool,” Dan told me before turning and yanking Cheryl’s wrist to make her follow him. She lingered for a moment, frowning at me as if I’d just deeply betrayed her.

Feeling guilty, I called after her, “I’ll explain later!” She didn’t reply, though; she and Dan were already stepping off the curb and marching back across the parking lot.

Mischa’s coach glared at the three of us and pointed his meaty index finger at us. “You should be ashamed, playing games on a sad day like this.”

For once, Henry didn’t try to assuage the situation. I took a step back to be closer to him and Violet, all of us watching for any sort of change in Mischa. But instead of announcing that she felt weak or unburdened, or that the curse was broken, her lips curled into a slow, mischievous smile. She raised one eyebrow as she asked me, “What’s in the jar?”

As Mischa smiled at me over her shoulder while her coach ushered her back toward the entrance of the funeral home, muttering Russian curses under his breath, the raging fire on the top of my head gave way to a cold sweat. A strong shiver rippled through my body from my head to my toes, strong enough to make my teeth chatter. Because although there had always been a sparkle in Mischa’s eye, a little hint of ferocity, what I just saw was something new. Unfamiliar.

“What… the hell…,” Henry said.

“Didn’t she sound weird? Just now?” Violet asked, looking at me and then over at Henry. “That didn’t sound like Mischa.”

With a trembling lower lip and a sharp lump in my throat, I raised the mason jar in my hand and looked at the two small drops of liquid clinging to the inside of the glass. My breath was so shallow that I was becoming light-headed as I found my voice despite my fear. This couldn’t have happened. It was too horrible to believe. My mouth could barely form the words, “I don’t think that was Mischa.”